The rain came down in thick, diagonal sheets, turning the pavement into a dark, shimmering mirror, and we were trapped under the narrow awning of a closed bookstore, the musty smell of wet concrete and old paper filling the air. His shoulder was pressed against mine, a solid, warm weight, and the left sleeve of my jacket was soaked through because he’d nudged me into the dry side. We weren’t talking, just watching the cars hiss by, their headlights stretching long, ghostly fingers through the downpour. Then, from the depths of his backpack, he produced a single, slightly crumpled banana. He broke it in half with a soft, clean snap, the sound surprisingly sharp against the drumming rain, and handed me the larger piece without a word. The banana was overripe, almost too sweet, its mushy texture a comfort as I ate it, the taste pulling a memory to the surface of another rainy afternoon years ago, hiding in a treehouse with the same shared snack. A bus splashed through a deep puddle a few feet away, and we both flinched back in unison, our shoulders bumping, and then let out the same short, breathy laugh. He wiped a drop of water from his glasses on the hem of his shirt, and I knew, without him saying anything, that he was thinking about the book he’d left on his bed, worried it would get damp from the open window. The rain began to slow, fading to a gentle patter, and the world started to come back into focus—the drip-drip-drip from the gutter, the distant wail of a siren, the cool, clean air filling our lungs. He crumpled the banana peel into a single ball, tucked it into his pocket, and nodded toward the clearing sky, a silent question. I just nodded back, and we stepped out from our shelter into the glistening street, the shared silence between us louder and more full of understanding than any conversation we’d ever had.