Chapter Six-teen: Silk and Storms
(Ria's POV)
The school courtyard looked like color had spilled from the sky.
Banners half-taped to walls, posters flapping in the wind, the scent of glue and fried snacks mixing with the sound of laughter — Alderbridge High's Cultural Festival prep was absolute chaos.
And somehow, I had volunteered to run the Bangladeshi fashion booth.
Maya squinted at a pile of glittery fabric. "Are we sure this is our table and not, like, a wedding stage?"
Emma laughed from behind a rack of sarees. "Ria, these are gorgeous. Did you bring them from home?"
I nodded, adjusting a bright maroon one. "Ma insisted. Said people should know our colors aren't just red and green — they're stories."
"Your mom sounds awesome."
"She is," I said, voice soft. "And bossy."
Before I could say more, something thudded against our banner — hard.
A football.
Red paint splattered across my sleeve.
"Miles Patel!" I yelled.
The boy in question turned around mid-laugh, his expression freezing when he saw me — and the streak of paint dripping down my arm.
"Uh… technical foul?"
I crossed my arms. "Try public nuisance."
Ethan jogged up, shaking his head. "Sorry, Ria. Practice got out of control."
"Practice outside next time!"
Miles smirked. "Hey, you picked the middle of the field."
"This is the festival zone!"
He held up his hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. Didn't mean to ruin your… glitter empire."
I narrowed my eyes. "You're impossible."
"Thanks. I try."
By the time the argument ended, my sleeve was ruined, but the booth still stood — fairy lights wrapped around bamboo poles, mannequins dressed in sarees and panjabis, and a hand-painted banner that now read Bangladesh: Threads of Home.
When we finally stepped back, Maya sighed. "We actually did it."
"Barely," I muttered — right before thunder cracked overhead.
The first drop hit my nose. Then another. Then the sky opened up.
Within seconds, the entire field turned to chaos again — students screaming, grabbing their projects, running for shelter.
"Quick, the fabrics!" Emma yelled.
We scrambled to save what we could, but the rain was merciless. It soaked everything — our clothes, our papers, our pride.
Ethan came running from the gym. "Teachers said buses are delayed! Power lines are down."
"Fantastic," I groaned. "We're stranded."
Miles pushed wet hair out of his face. "My house is five minutes away. You can wait it out there."
I blinked. "Your house?"
"Unless you'd prefer hypothermia."
So that's how five drenched teenagers ended up sprinting through sheets of rain toward Miles's place — laughing, slipping, shouting.
By the time we reached his front porch, I was freezing and breathless.
The house was warm, smelling faintly of cinnamon and detergent. Miles handed out towels. "Shoes off, unless you want my mom to actually end me."
"Your mom's home?" Maya asked.
He shook his head. "Nope. She's away for work. It's just me and my tragic cooking skills."
We laughed, grateful for the dry air. Emma and Maya curled up on the couch, Ethan raided the kitchen, and I sat by the window, watching the storm swallow Alderbridge whole.
Miles walked over quietly. "You good?"
"Yeah." I wasn't.
He sat down across from me. "You miss home a lot, huh?"
I looked up, caught off guard. "What makes you think that?"
He shrugged. "You talk about it — like it's not just a place, it's a person you miss."
I hesitated, then nodded. "It is. Back home, everything had… meaning. The noise, the food, even the dust. Here, everything's clean, quiet, perfect — and somehow, it feels lonelier."
Miles was quiet for a moment. "I get that. I mean… I was born here, but sometimes it still doesn't feel like home either."
"You?" I asked, surprised. "Why?"
He smiled a little. "When your family moves every few years, nothing sticks. New towns, new schools, new people — it's like starting over on loop. Sometimes I envy people who have one place that's theirs."
I studied him — messy curls, rain-damp hoodie, blue-gray eyes that didn't look smug for once. "That actually makes sense."
He grinned. "Wow. Did you just admit I made sense?"
"Don't push it."
Outside, the rain kept hammering the glass, steady and wild. Inside, laughter slowly filled the room again. Maya tried to teach Emma a Bangla phrase and failed miserably. Ethan put on some music — something soft, nostalgic.
Miles handed me a mug of hot chocolate. "Peace offering. For the paint incident."
I raised an eyebrow. "We'll see if you're forgiven."
He chuckled. "You're really something, Ria."
The way he said my name — soft, not teasing — made my heart stutter for half a second. I looked away, pretending to be fascinated by the rain.
When the storm finally quieted, the world outside looked washed clean.
I stood at the doorway, towel still around my shoulders. "Thanks. For… you know. Not letting us drown."
He smirked. "Anytime, fashion girl."
"Stop calling me that."
"Make me."
I rolled my eyes, stepping out into the wet, shining street. Maya linked arms with me, Emma giggling behind us.
And as thunder rumbled in the distance, I caught one last look at Miles — standing in the doorway, hair falling into his eyes, a grin tugging at his lips.
Something shifted — small, invisible, but real.
Maybe storms didn't just break things.
Maybe they revealed them.