The rain had not let up for days. Monsoon had cast a silver curtain across the school grounds of St. Agnes High, turning the playground into a muddy swamp and the corridors into echo chambers of dripping umbrellas and wet shoes. Meera and Tara had fallen into an easy rhythm by now—always the last ones to get off the bus, always the first to exchange books in secret under their desks.
On Wednesday, a surprise math test knocked the wind out of Class 8-B. Pencils scratched desperately, and the air buzzed with silent panic. Meera, who had been good with words but not numbers, stared at the second page until the numbers blurred.
Tara noticed. She gently nudged her pencil toward Meera's page, tracing a silent tip along the first problem, offering help without breaking any rules.
It was enough. Meera smiled.
By the time the bell rang, thunder had started rolling like a drum above the school building. Students scattered into groups, huddling under awnings, waiting for the rain to stop. Tara and Meera lingered near the entrance, their shared umbrella nowhere to be found.
"I left it in the classroom," Meera groaned.
Tara didn't say anything. She just looked out at the sheet of rain. Then, without another word, she ran back into the building.
Minutes passed. Lightning zigzagged across the sky. Meera felt her stomach twist—what if Tara slipped? What if—
"There," came a breathless voice. Tara, dripping and triumphant, held the umbrella high.
Meera burst out laughing. "You're insane."
Tara shrugged. "It's just water."
As they stepped into the street under the small canopy of the rescued umbrella, their shoulders brushed again. Meera noticed Tara didn't shift away. Again.
They walked slowly, the rain dancing off the edges of the umbrella. Around them, the world glistened like it had been freshly painted. Tara talked about how she'd once caught a frog in the school garden and named it Samosa. Meera laughed so hard, she nearly dropped her bag in a puddle.
Then, Tara grew quiet. "Hey," she said. "If you ever want help with math or anything… I don't mind. Just so you know."
Meera nodded. "And if you ever want me to write your essays—"
"Oh, thank God," Tara sighed in mock relief. "Because I hate essays."
They giggled their way through the rain, soaked to their knees by the time they reached the colony gate. But something in Meera had shifted—something light and warm had settled inside her chest. The kind of feeling that stayed long after the rain.
That night, she dried the rescued umbrella and placed it carefully by the door. Then she sat down and wrote a short story about a girl who runs through a storm just to make sure her friend doesn't walk home alone.
She titled it The Brave One.
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Moral:
Friendship isn't always about saying the right thing—it's about showing up when it matters, even if it means getting a little wet in the storm.