That was how it had started.
With a bomb.
And that was how it would end.
Love, she thought, is like the monsoon rain.
The heat and pressure increases until it is unbearable, then the storm. Pouring rain... flashes of light in the darkness... a flood.
Overwhelming and unstoppable.
Which only builds up to the next storm.
Like the fuse of a bomb.
(N.B. Am considering serious editing of the start of this novella, possibly changing the location. any criticism of the story would be most welcome.)
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