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The first time Arin saw Mira, it was raining The first time Arin saw Mira, it was raining—not the soft, poetic kind, but the kind that flooded streets and made people curse under their breath. He was standing under the broken tin shade of a bus stop, shoes soaked, patience gone, when she ran in beside him like a gust of wind. “Is this bus ever coming?” she asked, breathless, pushing wet hair off her face. Arin shrugged. “It might. Or it might not. Depends on how much hope you have left.” She laughed—an easy, unguarded laugh that didn’t match the gloomy sky. “Then I’ll assume it’s not coming.” That was the beginning. They didn’t exchange numbers that day. They didn’t even share names until the bus finally came, groaning like it resented its own existence. But something about that brief conversation stayed with Arin. Maybe it was her laugh, or the way she spoke like inconvenience was just another story to tell later. A week passed. Then another. And then, as if the universe had a sense o...