Saigon Rain, and Twenty Minutes Nobody Rushed

5:30 on a Tuesday. He had just wheeled his bike out of the garage when the sky opened. Not a drizzle — the usual Saigon kind, the kind that arrives all at once and turns the street white in thirty seconds. He made it two hundred metres before pulling under the nearest awning. Shirt soaked to the back, shoes full of water, every step making a small wet sound.

A dozen people were already standing there. Nobody knew anybody. His bike sat out in the rain, seat glossy with water running down to the wheel — something he'd have to wipe down later. The strange part was that nobody seemed annoyed. No complaining, nobody making a dash for it just to get wetter. The whole awning stood still, facing the street, waiting. He was the only one who felt restless, who felt like he was wasting something — as if standing still were a mistake he ought to be fixing.

After a few minutes his hand pulled out his phone on its own. He opened it. No notifications. Nothing to look at, honestly. He glanced around: the man beside him had just done the same, and so had the one further down — the whole line of them spaced exactly one step apart, everyone bent over a screen with nothing on it. None of them were reading anything. The phone was just somewhere to put two hands that didn't know what to do, and a way to avoid meeting a stranger's eyes.

Then it stopped. Nobody noticed when — the noise just thinned out, a few people started wheeling their bikes away, and behind the dark cloud the sky had already cleared. The whole thing lasted twenty minutes, though standing inside it he'd been sure it would never end. He thought about the days he feels worn down: they arrive without warning too, they convince him they'll last forever, and then they leave without announcing it either. Not because he endured them well. They just end.

Rain doesn't ask anyone's permission. Neither do I, to be tired.

He didn't rush for his bike. He stood a while longer, letting his shirt drip dry, letting the rain finish leaving at its own pace.

When was the last time you felt guilty just for being tired?