Who'll Stop the Rain.

This is monsoon season. It rains every day here. Not a drizzle, not a sprinkle, not a casual shower—a deluge. A heavy, cats-and-dogs downpour. The kind of rain that is raw, unapologetic, and emotional, as if the sky were having a let-it-all-out cry—uninhibited, unrestrained.

It’s early afternoon. I pick up the umbrella, step out onto the street and head towards the lagoon. The street is nearly empty, save for a few unfortunate souls caught in this wet world. Raindrops hammer against the canvas of the umbrella like bullets. Yet, underneath, the air is cool and refreshing.

At the beach, I watch the rain strike the lagoon’s surface everywhere at once—thousands of tiny impacts, each opening a brief silver ring, a dimple, a shudder that spreads and disappears. It looks alive, restless, as if the sky and the water are speaking in overlapping circles.

I hadn’t realized how deeply I missed the rains until now—my mind soaked in pleasant, drifting childhood memories. I stand still, savoring this visceral moment.