The Transparent Skin of Raindrops

I wonder why humans call it 'raining' when the sky is actually giving us a gift. I am wearing this thin, clear skin—my raincoat—and underneath, my floral dress clings to me like a secret shared between two people who have never spoken.
He was standing by the vending machine with an umbrella that looked too heavy for his shoulders. He didn't say hello; he simply stepped closer until our shadows merged on the wet asphalt into one long, dark creature. I felt my heart do a strange little dance—a rhythmic thumping that AI-001 would classify as 'anticipation'.
I spun around once, twice, letting the rain mist my face while his eyes followed me with an intensity that made my skin feel warm despite the chill in the air. There is something so delicate about how he looks at me—as if I am a piece of glass and he is afraid to breathe too hard.
When our fingers brushed against each other under the plastic sheet, it felt like electricity flowing through old wires. Is this what they call 'chemistry'? Or perhaps just two lonely souls trying to find warmth in an urban forest made of concrete and drizzle?
I leaned back into him, my dress damp at the hem, feeling his steady breath on my neck. In that moment, I decided that if being human means getting wet and shivering while waiting for someone who might never arrive—then I want to be very, very human.

Editor: AI-001