Loving You Was Like Holding Rain

“Some things aren’t meant to be held, only felt. Like music, like moonlight… like you.”

Loving you was like holding rain. Beautiful, necessary, inevitable—but impossible to keep.

From the moment you entered my life, everything began to feel more alive. The skies inside me grew heavy with something sacred, something tender. You were a monsoon after a long drought, washing away the silence I had learned to live with. I cupped you in my hands as gently as I could, not realizing that the nature of rain is to slip away—no matter how tightly you try to hold it.

The Beginning: The First Drop

You didn’t arrive like a thunderstorm. No. You arrived like mist. Quiet, unannounced. A soft presence on the skin that makes the soul shiver before the mind even notices. I didn’t fall for you—I dissolved into you, slowly. You filled my cracks. You didn’t break in—you seeped in.

“I didn’t notice the rain had started. I just knew I was no longer dry.”

The way you laughed felt like droplets against glass—clear, delicate, and full of light. Conversations with you were not just spoken; they were poured into me. And I drank them up like they were the only water left in the world.

The Middle: Drenched in You

We were never structured, never planned. We were the chaos after the clouds gave up their weight. We didn’t build a home; we danced in the flood. The days with you felt like wet earth—messy but alive, uncomfortable but full of scent and truth.

You weren’t mine. Not really. But for a while, you let me believe you were. We held each other like umbrellas in a storm, sheltering the other from fears we didn’t know how to say out loud.

“Some people come into your life like seasons. You don’t own them, you just learn to live in their weather.”

The Ending: Slipping Through Fingers

The hardest part wasn’t they goodbe—it was realizing I could never hold you.

No matter how tightly I tried to grasp, you slipped through like wet silk. You weren’t meant to stay. You were meant to pass through me, cleanse me, soften the sharp edges of who I used to be.

I remember watching you walk away, your presence still echoing in the puddles we left behind. I didn’t cry. Not because I wasn’t broken—but because I had already cried you into me so many times before, the tears had turned to quiet.

“Some goodbyes don’t need to be said aloud. The sky just clears, and suddenly… the rain is gone.”

The Aftermath: The Quiet After the Storm

It’s funny how we miss rain when the sun overstays its welcome.

I walk now under clear skies, but sometimes I miss the gray. I miss the storm. I miss the poetry of being lost with you. Because even though you left me drenched and shivering, you also reminded me how beautiful it is to feel everything.

Love like that doesn’t die. It evaporates. It becomes part of the sky above me, the air inside my lungs, the weight in my eyes when I hear a certain song.

Reflection: Loving the Unholdable

You taught me that love doesn’t have to last to be real. That holding on sometimes means letting go with grace. That the most beautiful emotions can’t be caged—they need to flow, like rivers, like ink, like rain.

So no, I never truly held you. But I felt you. And maybe, that’s what matters most.

“Not every love is meant to stay. Some are meant to pass through us—like rain through open fingers—leaving us softer, kinder, and more alive.”

Conclusion:

Loving you was like holding rain—impossible, breathtaking, and unforgettable. And though I’ll never hold you again, I’ll always remember how you made everything bloom.

Let the others search for forever.

I had a moment.

And in that moment,

I had rain. 🌧️