A sudden burst of wind claws the monsoon dark— rain shatters sleep at 2 a.m., drags its nails down the tin roof. Water stings my cheeks, a cold baptism as the fan’s breath hums through damp sheets, carrying the weight of soil and storm.
My bag bloats like a lung beside the bed; I pull it closer, anchor in the chaos. The room yawns with shadows, body begging to sink, but my skull hums with static— each raindrop a spark.
I scroll through the glow of borrowed worlds, pixels dissolving into the ache of night, until the rain exhales. Silence swells—now the AC groans its metallic hymn, frogs croak their wet-throated psalms.
The air hums with petrichor’s musk, the fan’s blade carving a chill that settles like a ghost on my ribs. Even darkness grows heavy. I write this down to quiet the charge of lightning still trapped in my veins—
let the monsoon drink it back.
