It always begins with a faint patter on the glass—an almost whispered arrival. I was caught in the usual evening traffic when the rain came. Not a downpour, not quite gentle either—just enough to blur the world outside, to turn brake lights into soft crimson halos and headlights into fleeting comets. Through the windshield, the city transformed.
There’s a rhythm to rain that cars understand. Wipers sweep like dancers keeping time, red lights pulse with a heartbeat, and the road—slick and glistening—becomes a river of reflections. From my seat, the mundane was made magical. The world outside became a painting, and I, a quiet observer behind the glass.
I watched a biker ahead struggle against the slick tar, their figure hazy through the droplets. Everything looked like memory—half-formed, emotional, fleeting. That’s what rain does, I think. It doesn’t just wet the streets; it soaks into our senses.
As night fell, city lights took over the narrative. Neon blue, amber gold, traffic red—each one rippled and refracted on the window. A metro pillar bathed in purple loomed large, both majestic and melancholic. I remember pausing for a long signal, just staring at it, the lens of my phone capturing more than a scene—it caught a mood.
Some photos came out blurred, but they felt right. The streaks, the smudges—they weren’t mistakes. They were movement. They were the city exhaling.
What struck me most that evening was how differently everything looked once framed by raindrops. Things I pass every day—the flyover pillars, taxis whizzing by, even street signs—suddenly felt cinematic. As if rain had dipped them in significance.
In these moments, I wasn’t just a commuter in a traffic jam. I was part of a story unfolding in real time—one stitched together by wet roads, waiting horns, and water tracing lazy lines down the glass.
Sometimes, all it takes to rediscover a city you think you know is a quiet rain and a window seat. The world outside doesn’t have to change. Just your view of it does.
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