The rain stopped just as I reached the bus stop

I was late, shoes soaked, and the kind of tired that only comes after three hours of writing in a language that doesn’t forgive mistakes. Then the sky exhaled. Not dramatic—just… quiet. The streetlights flickered on one by one, like someone turning pages in a book no one’s reading anymore. I stood there for a minute, watching water drip from the edge of my umbrella, thinking: this is what patience feels like when it’s not a choice.