Present.

She likes the rain.

That's the first thing she ever said to me.

I remember the exact date that she said it.

***

March 27

Last year

Cold hands grip an even colder thermos as I try my best to distract myself from the chill creeping into my body through my jeans.

The bus stop bench was wet when I got there, but I had no choice. It was either sit down on the soaked seat or stand in the only place that the rain doesn't reach and get spat on by the torrents of rainwater flying from the tires of the cars rushing past.

It's days like these that make me wish that I didn't need routine in my life to feel stable. Even the fact that I forgot to pour in new tea into my thermos is bothering me more than my wet jeans.

I decide right then and there that I don't like the rain. Rain ruins routines.

And just as I think that, someone says, "I like the rain."

I hadn't even heard the person take a seat, and I marvel for a second at just how quiet seat-taking is. Write that in your notebook when you get back, Luhan, I tell myself. You can't forget this revelation.

Then when I'm finished thinking that, I realise I'm being awfully rude and turn to acknowledge her presence.

That's when I catch my first glimpse of her face.

Words fail me, even though they never really worked for me in the first place, anyway.

She's like a doe, I think. People always used that word to describe me ('doe' is a noun, I'd tell them. 'Doe-like' is the word you want to use) but I've never truly seen someone who actually fit the description.

I change my original thought. She's doe-like. Not 'like a doe'. Really, Luhan, what's wrong with you.

Actually, no, maybe it does make sense. She's like a doe and doe-like.

Doe. Dough. Doughnuts.

I shake my head to clear it because I'm going on a mind tangent again, and blink a couple of times. "Pardon?"

"The rain," she repeats, smiling graciously and ignoring the fact that I took longer than what is probably socially acceptable to respond to her intelligibly. "I like it. Something about it reminds me of sunshine."

I frown a little, staring out at the downpour. Sunshine is the last thing I'm reminded of when looking at the bleak sky. "I don't get how that works," I tell her.

She lets out a tinkling laugh. "I don't, either," she says. "But that's how it is sometimes. You think something and you don't know how to explain it, but that's okay."

"I know exactly how you feel," I blurt out before I can stop myself. My fingers are itching for my pen and notebook so I can write down what she just said. "I can't explain myself half the time. I think I'm probably insane."

She laughs again, and this time, I'm in enough control of myself to smile.

"You know the bus doesn't come for another forty five minutes, right?"

"It doesn't?" She looks down at her watch. "Well, I haven't taken this bus before, so I wouldn't know."

I know you haven't taken this bus before, I think. Because I take this bus everyday and if you had, I would have remembered you. "Yeah," is all I say. "It comes at 7:00."

She's quiet for a moment and I turn to see her looking at me curiously.

 "What?" My fingers move instinctively towards my mouth, in case some part of my breakfast is still there.

"Why are you here so early?"

I find myself shrugging. "I usually get here early. I like routines," I add.

"Is that why you don't like the rain?" she asks. "Because it messes up your routine?"

Wow. Does she read minds? "I don't dislike the rain," I say.

"You don't seem to like it, either," she observes.

I incline my head once in a nod. "It's just there."

There's silence for a moment, filled with the patter of raindrops against the metal roof.

She breaks the silence again. "There's still a lot of time till the bus comes," she says, as if she'd known that before she'd arrived at the bus stop. She points to the cafe across the street, which has its lights on in an attempt to compete with the blinding sheets of rain. "Let's go in there. A cup of coffee would be nice."

"But it's raining."

She turns back to me with a smile, half of her body already out in the rain. "I like the rain," she says again.

I open my mouth to tell her that I don't like the rain, but then I remember that I just told her otherwise. I don't dislike the rain. It's just there. Telling her that I'd somewhat lied to her would be rude and a bad first impression to make.

 I realise just then that she's still a stranger. I don't know her name, therefore I am obligated to be polite to her until she says that I can stop. That's one of the rules of society, isn't it?

 I sigh. She seems to know what I'm thinking and smirks as I step out into the rain with her.