At the end of the street, under a single umbrella, they stood together as the rain fell around them. A sudden shower at just 2 p.m. — autumn coldness, fallen leaves, unexpected rain, and the quiet sadness that followed.
Safa had come to see Kamil for the last time before he left for the city.
“I don’t think it’s going to stop,” Kamil said, stretching his hand out to catch the raindrops.
“I don’t think so either…” Safa murmured, though her gaze wasn’t on the rain. It was on him.
The rain didn’t worry her. What worried her was the moment he would walk away. Because once he was gone, he was gone. And she would be left behind, like always.
She had met Kamil when she was fifteen. After months of construction on the empty patch of land beside her home, the Bhatt family arrived — Mr. and Mrs. Bhatt, Kamil, his younger sister Maria, and, most importantly, Dadi.
Safa had watched them settle in, but it wasn’t Kamil or Maria who caught her attention first. It was Dadi.
She had always been drawn to the elderly — their wrinkled hands, their soft, knowing smiles. Maybe because she had once clung to her own grandmother the same way. Maybe because even after all these years, the ache of losing her never truly faded.
Safa was an only child, raised in a quiet house with busy parents. Her grandmother had been her world. When she passed away, Safa hadn’t cried. Not because it didn’t hurt, but because grief sat in her throat like an unfinished thought, one she couldn’t put into words.
So when she saw Kamil’s grandmother laughing, holding Maria’s hands, telling stories in a voice full of warmth, something in Safa’s chest tightened.
“Mama, aren’t we going to welcome the new family?” she had asked.
Her mother had smiled knowingly. “We’ll go on Sunday.”
And just like that, Safa had started visiting their home. First for Maria and Dadi. She would sit beside the old woman, listening to her stories, imagining — just for a moment — what it would be like if her own grandmother were still here. If the two old women could have sat together, drinking chai and sharing secrets.
Then, at some point, it became Kamil too.
Their friendship had formed quietly, effortlessly. The three of them — Safa, Kamil, and Maria — became inseparable, a small world of their own.
Years slipped by, and suddenly, they were eighteen.
On his birthday, January 1st, Kamil had told her, “We’re moving. Dad wants me to study at Kashmir University.”
Safa had only nodded at the time. But that night, in the quiet of her room, she had let the anger settle in.
Why do people come into your life if they’re only going to leave? Why can’t they just stay?
She had been angry at all of them — at the Bhatt family, at Dadi, at Maria, at Kamil. At herself.
But anger never lasted long with her. In the end, it had softened into something quieter. Something heavier.
And now here they were, standing under the rain, time running out.
Kamil fumbled in his pocket with one hand, the other still holding the umbrella.
“What are you looking for?” Safa asked quietly.
“My snack,” he replied.
She already knew what it was. He had been eating the same thing for as long as she could remember.
Finally, he pulled out a small piece of cinnamon, popped it into his mouth, and started chewing. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his lips.
“How can you eat that? Doesn’t it taste weird?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“They taste better than your favorite lemon cake,” he teased.
Safa narrowed her eyes, but for once, she didn’t argue.
Kamil looked at her, puzzled. “No comeback?”
She simply held out her hand. “Can I have one?”
His brows lifted. “Really? But you can’t spit it out.”
“I won’t,” she promised. “I just want to see how it tastes.”
He hesitated for a second before placing a piece in her palm. She popped it into her mouth and started chewing. The bitterness hit first, then the sharp spice. It curled around her tongue, strange and overwhelming. She wanted to spit it out, but she didn’t.
Kamil bent slightly, leaning in to watch her expression. He was taller, or maybe she was just small. His face was close, too close. She could smell cinnamon — not just in her mouth, but on his breath, in the air between them.
The rain surrounded them, cold and endless, but in that moment, all she felt was warmth.
It tasted like cinnamon — sour and sweet, familiar and unfamiliar. Just like this. Just like them.
Funny and sad.
She loved and hated the fact that Kamil was here. That tomorrow, he wouldn’t be.
A single tear slipped from her eye, and Kamil saw it.
But he didn’t say anything.
The rain had stopped. Kamil closed his umbrella.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Safa swallowed, gathering courage. “Will we meet again?”
Kamil didn’t answer immediately. Then, simply, he said, “I don’t know. But let’s not be sad.”
Kamil never made promises. He would never lie. But just this once, Safa wished he would. She wished he would say something — anything — to make it easier.
But he didn’t.
That night, Safa crawled into bed, wrapping herself in a warm blanket. She lay awake, thinking, thinking, thinking — until she drifted off.
And then he was there. Sitting beside her, his hand resting gently on her head.
Safa opened her eyes. He was crying.
“Why are you crying?” she murmured sleepily.
“I know you can’t,” Kamil whispered.
Safa never cried properly. She always felt a lump in her throat, a few tears in her eyes, but never enough. Even when someone she loved was gone.
“Thank you for doing that,” she said.
“If you can’t be sad, I can be for you,” Kamil replied, wiping his tears.
Safa closed her eyes again.
She woke to the sound of movement outside. Morning light filtered through her window. It was 8 a.m. In two hours, the Bhatt family would leave.
Was last night real? Or just a dream?
She hurried to their house. The big truck was already there, Mr. Bhatt giving instructions. Dadi sat in her chair, arms open. Safa walked straight into her embrace.
“My sweet Safa,” Dadi whispered, pressing a kiss to her head. “May Allah bless you and keep you safe from all harm.”
A lump formed in Safa’s throat. Again.
One by one, she hugged them all. Maria. Mrs. Bhatt. Mr. Bhatt.
Kamil stood last.
“Did you come to my room last night?” she asked softly.
Kamil looked surprised. “Me? No. Why would I?”
“Oh… I just thought…” She trailed off. Maybe it really was just a dream.
“Give me your hand,” Kamil said suddenly.
She held it out. He placed a small red tin box in her palm.
“What is it?”
“Something you like,” he said. “So keep it.”
And then he was gone.
Safa stood there, watching the car disappear. She looked down and opened the box.
Inside, a single piece of cinnamon.
The scent of cinnamon filled the air. It smelled like rain, childhood, memories — like Kamil’s existence.
Safa brought the cinnamon to her lips, closing her eyes. She could almost feel Kamil leaning in close, watching her reaction.
She pressed the cinnamon to her lips — just for a moment — before tucking it back into the little box.
A kiss, wrapped in the scent of cinnamon.
A kiss that would stay with her, long after Kamil was gone.
