I grinned, grabbed my gloves, and slid down the stairs’ banister, burning the back of my thigh. It hurt. It was worth it.
It wasn’t a rainstorm. It was a release. The thunder was a bass drum you felt in your ribs. The lightning cracked the sky into jagged white rivers. We didn’t run. We sat there, getting drenched to the bone, shouting over the roar of the water. It was terrifying and beautiful. The summer heat, the pressure of the long, bright days—it all exploded in a single, cleansing hour. my favourite season summer
The thunderstorm.
She was right. Summer is crazy. It’s too hot, too fast, too bright. It ends too soon. I grinned, grabbed my gloves, and slid down
The air conditioner was a lie.
Afterward, the air was clean and cold. The streets ran with rivers of rainwater. And the smell—that impossible, sweet, wet-earth smell—was the smell of being alive. It wasn’t a rainstorm