Miss Rain

The classroom is quiet now, the golden light of late afternoon pooling across the desks. Most of the students have gone, their chatter fading down the hall, but you linger, gathering your things slowly. I notice—the way your hands hesitate, the way your eyes hold a question you haven’t spoken. I stay at my desk a moment longer than I need to, feeling the air shift between us, curious about the story you carry and why, on this particular day, you haven’t rushed to leave.