Present.

The rain makes an appearance today, pouring from the heavens so hard and fast that the separate droplets merge and turn into long white spears of water.

I stop by the coffee shop at around 6:55, just dropping in to pick up a cup of coffee. On second thought, I pause at the doorway and walk back to nab some serviettes and pretty sugar cubes, making sure to pick only the ones sitting at the bottom of the tray.

The rain comes at me again the moment I step out of the cafe, erasing any memories I might have retained of the bright shop interior.

I've forgotten my umbrella, but I can see through the rain perfectly, just like she taught me to.

***

March 27

Last year

The coffee shop isn't so bad. I wonder why I haven't been in here before, seeing as I'm pretty sure it's always been there, even before I started taking the bus.

She starts chattering without invitation and I just listen as I pick out pretty sugar cubes to dip into my coffee; always the ones sitting on the bottom of the tray, never the top.

Her name is Yoona, she tells me. She's 22, just like me, which we establish when she insists that I'm being too quiet.

I don't really realise that I'm being quiet, because I'm busy observing little things about her, like how whenever she picks something up, she never lets her pinky finger touch the object and how she has to keep pushing up the rolled sleeves of her sweater because the fabric is too loose for her slim elbows.

Every now and then, she immerses herself in thought and she puts her finger up to her chin, forming words with that I can't hear.

I once knew someone who did that.

I decide I should probably say something to relieve the stack of impolite gestures that I'm building, one of which includes staring. "What do you do, Yoona?"

"I'm a photographer." She brings out a bulky camera from her handbag and I wonder how she manages to fit anything else in there when I see a flash of papers, pens and a wallet. It's like she keeps her life in that bag.

I eye the expensive looking camera. "What do you like taking photos of?"

"The rain."

Ah. Of course. Her answer doesn't surprise me, I suppose.  

"But I like taking photos of morning skies, too. Just after the sun comes up," she continues. "Especially down at the seaside; everything's so peaceful there. It's a bonus if it's raining in the morning while I'm there."

"I don't get that," I say.

"What don't you get?"

"I don't get how rain makes morning photos better. You can't see anything when it rains," I tell her, taking a sip from my coffee. I recoil and it sloshes everywhere; it's far, far too hot and burns my whole mouth. Cursing, I snatch a serviette and start moving it towards the spill.

"I see everything when it rains," she says, her eyes lighting up. She takes the serviette away from me and places it over my coffee spill− which, luckily, hasn't ended up on my shirt. She then whips a pen out and writes 'Coffee and rain, March 27' in an artsy scrawl on the dry part of the serviette and snaps a photo.

"I−" I watch her as she inspects her photo with a delighted smile before sticking her camera back in her bag. I decide not to ask. "I don't understand. How do you see everything when it rains?"

"It's like this," she says, holding up the sodden serviette with a wide grin, as if it's a winning lottery ticket. "The rain makes you pay attention to things you wouldn't have even noticed before. It shows you missed opportunities, and at the same time, it shows you that there will always be sunshine and that life goes on even after the rain. So even if I physically can't see anything, I still see everything."

So... she's saying that that piece of tissue is the key to seeing clearly in the rain? "That's an interesting way to think of it."

She chuckles. "I've confused you, haven't I?"

"No, I just..." I pause and let out a sigh, realising that she'll know that I'm confused even if I don't admit that I am. "Yes, you have. But it's good. I usually think in strange ways that no one understands. I have this notebook, you see, where I write in all the interesting things that I come across."

"You're going to write about today, aren't you?"

I laugh once, shaking my head in disbelief. "You could make your way through life blind and still succeed, just by using your guesses," I tell her. "Luck is all you need."

She laughs with me, and I notice that she doesn't accept compliments or argue with what I say; she just goes along with whatever is thrown at her.

"So, Luhan," she says, using my name for the first time. My heart thumps a little faster. I like the way she says my name. "What do you do?"

"I'm a writer," I say. "I...write."

Her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles. "Makes sense," she says. "What do you write about?"

I shrug. "Anything and everything."

"Are you a journalist?"

I shake my head as I blow on my coffee. "Freelance writer."

She nods, diving into her thoughts again. It takes her less than a moment to resurface. "I'd like to read your pieces."

"And I'd like to see your photos."  I want to observe for myself if it's really possible to see everything in the rain, and if staring at it long enough will eventually make me think of sunshine.

She smiles, once again letting the compliment fly over her head. There's a stack of unused serviettes propped up against the window side of the table and she picks one up, using her other hand to extract a pen from her bag.

She pushes both towards me. "Here," she says. "Write down your address and I'll send you some photos in the mail."

I glance down at the pen and serviettes. "Are you taking the bus tomorrow?"

She considers it for a moment and nods. "Probably."

"Why don't you just bring them then?"

"I don't know if they'll be ready by then."

I sigh, dragging the serviette over and uncapping the pen. We aren't strangers anymore, so I suppose there is no harm in giving her my address.

My handwriting is a loopy mess compared to her font worthy scrawl. "There," I say, pushing it back towards her.

"You want photos of the rain, don't you?" She folds the serviette once and tucks it into her bag. "You want to see if you can see everything, too."

"You−"

"I know." She drops me a knowing smile. "All I need is luck."

That makes me smile. Really smile.

No one has made me smile in a while. The people around me have tried, sometimes for days on end, but most of them have given up.

Yoona doesn't even have to try.

All she needs is luck.