First Rain Short love Story
It was the first rain of the season.
For most people, that meant chai, pakode, and dramatic reels.
But for Anika, it meant only one thing: Disaster.
Why?
Because today was her first day at a long-awaited creative writing workshop. She had circled the date three times in her planner and even ironed her kurta — which, honestly, only happens when Mercury isn’t in retrograde.
And now, thanks to Mumbai’s rude sense of humor, she looked like a drenched chicken… with smudged eyeliner.
Running down the footpath, one slipper half-dangling and her bag swinging behind like an emotional-support parachute, Anika cursed the clouds, the humidity, and… her own existence.
“Stop, stop, bhaiya! Andheri C block!”
she yelled, banging on the window of what she thought was her Cab.
Without waiting for confirmation, she yanked the back door open and jumped in — like some kind of budget action hero.
“Ugh, finally!” she muttered, wringing the water out of her kurta.
“Why are you looking at me like that? Let’s go, let’s go—I’m already late, and I swear, if I miss the intro session, I’ll sue someone. Emotionally.”
Silence.
Like, pin-drop, cringe-heavy silence.
Anika looked up.
“Hello? Are you waiting for someone? Let’s go!”
That’s when she saw him.
Not a cab driver.
Not even close.
A guy — hoodie, stubble, and very amused eyes — sat behind the steering wheel, staring at her like she was some kind of lost feral cat that had just leapt into his lap.
“Um… I’m not a cab driver,” he said, lips twitching. “But I mean… I’m flattered?”
Anika blinked. Then blinked again.
“Are you joking? ‘Cause like… I swear, I’m not in the mood right now.”
She looked at the stranger again — properly this time.
And then it hit her.
“Oh god,” she whispered.
“Oh my god.”
She covered her face with her soaked hands.
“I’m not crying. I’m just… like… raining from the inside, okay?”
The guy chuckled.
“Well, you did enter with the confidence of a Bollywood heroine… so I just went with it.”
“Kill me now,” she groaned.
“Can’t. You’re already in my car.”
A thunderclap added dramatic flair.
She peeked through her fingers.
“Wait—why the hell was your car parked like a cab anyway?”
“Technically, I was waiting for my friend’ and thought this was it. But he ditched. Now I’m just… a damp, lonely soul on four wheels.”
Awkward silence.
And then—
“Um,” Anika started, “this might sound, like, really stupid… but can you, uh… maybe drop me to Andheri C Block?”
He raised a brow.
“So let me get this straight. You jumped into a stranger’s car and now you want a free lift too? You’re playing with fire, Miss Wet Kurta.”
“Bro, I’m already embarrassed and drenched. At this point, kidnapping might actually improve my day.”
He laughed — like, really laughed.
“Alright then, Miss Drenched Confidence. Buckle up. Let’s go.”
Inside the car, it was warm.
The windows fogged slightly. The air was filled with the scent of rain-soaked clothes, light musk, and a slightly-burnt vanilla car freshener.
And weirdly… it wasn’t uncomfortable.
For two people thrown into a comedy of errors, conversation came pretty easy.
“So what’s this big workshop about?” he asked, eyes on the road.
Anika looked at him.
Paused.
Breathed.
“Rishi… That’s not even a hard question,” she muttered to herself, flustered.
“Um… writing,” she finally said, chewing her lip. “Creative writing. Like, fiction. I wanna write about… you know, love, heartbreak, metaphors about coffee cups and sunsets and stuff.”
He smirked.
“Big dreams. Big emotions. Nice.”
“You mocking me, hoodie boy?”
“Never. I’m just trying to process how someone who writes about love just accidentally committed a thrilling auto-crime.”
She snorted.
“Plot twist, right?”
“Totally.
Chapter One: Girl enters wrong car, finds love.
Chapter Two: They get married and sue the cab together.”
She laughed.
Like… full, belly laugh.
First time today.
By the time they reached the workshop gate, the rain had slowed to a soft drizzle. The kind you’d actually enjoy… if you weren’t traumatized by earlier events.
Anika turned to him.
“Thanks for not being a serial killer.”
He smiled.
“Thanks for assuming I was a cab driver. Honestly? Boosted my confidence.”
She grinned.
“So… do I get to know the name of my accidental chauffeur?”
“Rishi,” he said, offering a hand.
“Anika,” she replied, shaking it.
“Writer. Drenched mess. Part-time idiot.”
“Nice to meet you,” he smiled.
And then added —
“Hey, when it rains again… maybe book the wrong car again?”
Her cheeks turned pink.
“Daaamn, you’re smooth.”
“Only during monsoon,” he winked.
She stepped out.
Closed the door.
Waved.
As he drove off, Rishi glanced at his dashboard… and noticed a small crumpled paper near the seat.
A contact form from the writing workshop.
Her name.
Her number.
Accidental? Maybe.
But he wasn’t complaining.
One Month Later
Anika posted a reel.
📸 Caption: “First Rain. Wrong car. Right person.”
🎵 Background music: Tum Se Hi (Instrumental)
She tagged @rishi.accidentalcab
He replied in the comments:
“Still waiting outside. Just in case you wanna get in again.” ❤️🚗🌧️
The End.First Rain