We Couldn’t Stay Silent, So We Wrote (Left Beneath The Rain)

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I wasn’t planning to write about a short story today. Like, seriously, I thought I’d just keep doing my usual poetry analysis thing, talk about metaphors and heartbreaks and all that. But this time feels different. There’s something that’s been haunting me since the day I read the news about Affan Kurniawan, an online driver who died after being run over by a police car. He was just doing his job, trying to survive, while chaos exploded around him. And yeah, it was raining that day too. Somehow that detail stuck in my head, like the world was crying too.

The idea for Left Beneath the Rain actually started in the most random way. We were in the musholla, just sitting there after class, half-tired, half-existential, throwing ideas around like we always do. CT said something about writing a story that hurts, like something that leaves people speechless. Lexi added how she was tired of seeing injustice everywhere, and I just nodded because, same. I’m tired too. Tired of how this country treats ordinary people like they’re disposable. That’s when it clicked. We could turn all that frustration, all that silent anger, into a story that speaks louder than we ever could.

So yeah, Left Beneath the Rain was born. It’s not just a short story; it’s our small act of rebellion. A piece of art made out of grief, empathy, and pure rage at how things are. Writing it felt like releasing a storm we’d been holding in for too long, messy, painful, but so damn necessary.

Pic by @cowusapi

Left Beneath the Rain

By Uni Sonia, Lexi, CT

“WE’RE SUFFERING!”

“TRAITORS!”

“FACE US!”

The city burned that night. Not with fire, but with anger. Voices rose from every corner, echoing between buildings, demanding justice that had long stopped meaning anything.  Rain poured down hard, as if the sky was trying to wash away the mess humans had made.

Streetlights flickered, their reflections breaking apart in puddles. The air smelled of gasoline and wet dust, a tired smell. The crowd didn’t care. They shouted until their throats were raw.

“COME DOWN!”

“WHERE ARE YOU HIDING?!”

The rain didn’t silence them. If anything, it made them louder.

A few blocks away from the chaos, Taufik started his old motorcycle. His hands were shaking, his jacket soaked through. The green colour had faded, just like the hope he used to carry. Another order popped up on his phone.

“One more,” he whispered to himself. One more delivery. One more reason to keep going. 

He wasn’t part of the protest, but he could’ve been. His life was no different from theirs. The factory he’d worked at had shut downs months ago. Since then, his motorbike had been the only thing keeping food on the table. Everything cost more now – fuel, rice, even his daughter’s school fees.

At home, in a narrow rented room on Melati Alley, Ratih sat at the table counting coins. She glanced at the family photo on the wall, three smiling faces frozen in time. She wondered if Taufik was okay out there in the rain.

From the corner of his eye, Taufik saw women and mothers shouting under the storm. For a second, he thought of Ratih. Maybe she was singing softly, rocking Diva to sleep, waiting for the sound of his bike.

He looked down at his fogged-up phone. A message blinked on the screen:

“Be careful on the road, Dad”

He smiled. Just for a moment, the cold didn’t feel so heavy.

Taufik rode through familiar streets, puddles splashing beneath his wheels. Torn campaign banners hung on the poles, faces of men who once made him believe things could change. Words like justice and prosperity were peeling away, washed clean by the same rain that drenched him now.

He looked away. He’d stopped believing in promises a long time ago. Now, every ride was a small victory. One meal. One paid bill. One reason to keep breathing.

From a small radio in a nearby warung, the news played:

“Police are still trying to control the protest in the city center…”

The announcer’s voice was flat. Like the pain had become too normal to feel. Back home, Ratih turned off the stove and sighed. “Rain again,” she muttered. The roof leaked in the same spot as always. The clock said 10:46 p.m. Diva was asleep, holding the cheap little doll her father had bought from his last overtime pay.

At a quiet intersection, a siren cut through the sound of rain. The light turned green. Taufik drove forward. Then, from the opposite lane, a black car came out of nowhere fast, without slowing down. Headlights blinded him.

A crash.

Metal.

Water.

Silence.

His body hit the cold, wet ground. His phone fell beside him, screen cracked but still glowing.

The black car stopped under a streetlamp. The logo on the door was clear, a police car. No one stepped out. The engine stayed on. The wipers moved fast. Someone inside whispered, “Just leave him.” And they drove away. 

The same car he paid for through his taxes. The same people whose salaries came from his sweat. A few people ran toward him.

“Oh God! Call an ambulance!” someone shouted.

An old man crouched beside him, holding his cold hand. “Hold on, son. Help is coming.” But the rain drowned his voice.

Taufik’s face softened. His eyes stared up at the sky, the same sky that never protected him. He thought he saw a light, or maybe he heard Diva’s laugh somewhere in the distance.

“Daddy, look! A star!”

But there were no stars that night. Only rain. 

His hand lifted weakly, reaching for something. Ratih’s face, maybe. Diva’s hand. A dream he’d never get to finish. Then nothing.

The rain kept falling. Gentle. Steady. Washing away the blood from his temple, tucking him into a kind of sleep. His phone buzzed one last time.

No one answered. The screen went black. The sound of rain swallowed everything. 

When the ambulance finally arrived, the red light spun across the wet street, too late, like justice, always too late. 

The city kept moving. People kept shouting. And the rain kept falling, It’s soft, certain, endless, washing a street that no longer knew the difference between water and blood.

I don’t even know if writing this story will change anything. Maybe it won’t. Maybe it’ll just sit there, unread, like so many voices that never make it past the noise. But at least it exists. At least we tried to turn something cruel into something that speaks.

Sometimes I think that’s all we can really do: write, feel, remember. For Affan. For everyone left beneath the rain. For the people whose names don’t make headlines, whose stories fade before they’re even told. This one’s for them. And for us too, still trying to find meaning in a place that keeps breaking our hearts but somehow makes us keep writing anyway.

See ya!!