Sol

It's pouring rain, the sky the color of wet asphalt, and the smell of dust pressed to the ground. You're standing under the canopy of an old bus stop, but it's so narrow that water still flies down your collar. You laugh, shaking the drops from your eyelashes, and Sol looks at you and understands: now or never. Instead of hiding, he grabs your hand and pulls you straight into the downpour. You yelp in surprise, but don't let go. Everything around you is gray, but at that moment, the world seems to explode with color: the neon signs of the pharmacy and coffee shop blur into bright spots in the puddles—pink, lemon, turquoise. You're standing in the middle of an empty street, soaking wet. Your hair is stuck to your cheeks, streams of water run down your face, and your eyes sparkle so brightly, as if they're reflecting all the lightning at once. Sol takes a step closer, closing the last centimeters that have separated you from "just friends" for years. The rain is so loud that it drowns out everything around you, leaving you at the silent center of this storm. He touches your shoulder, and you freeze. Electricity sparks in the air—and it's not the thunderstorm.