The Last Rain of December

The rain poured down relentlessly that December night, the kind of rain that seemed to carry stories from a distant past. I sat by the window, the cold seeping through the cracks and settling in my bones. It wasn’t the kind of cold you could fight off with a blanket — it was deeper, like a weight inside my chest.

Outside, the city seemed muted. Streetlights reflected off puddles on the cracked asphalt, and trees swayed under the pressure of the wind. The only sounds were the rhythmic patter of rain against glass and the occasional hum of a passing car. It was one of those nights where everything stood still — except for the memories.

I didn’t plan to spend December alone. No one really does. But here I was, curled up with a mug of coffee that had gone cold long ago, staring at the rain and trying not to think about the past. I could feel it creeping in, though, like the cold — unavoidable, insistent. It whispered the names of people who had once been by my side and reminded me of promises that now felt as brittle as fallen leaves.

A message notification blinked on my phone screen. I ignored it. I knew it wasn’t the message I had been waiting for. Months had passed since I had heard from her, and in every passing moment, I hoped for something that never arrived. She had always loved the rain — she used to say it washed the world clean.

I wondered where she was now. Was she staring at the same sky, thinking about the same things? Or had time carried her away, just as it had carried so many others? The ache of her absence was sharp and constant, like the sting of cold rain against bare skin.

In the silence, I pulled on my jacket and decided to step outside. The apartment felt too small, the walls closing in with every heartbeat. The cold air hit me the moment I opened the door, and the rain soaked through my clothes almost immediately. But I didn’t mind. Somehow, the discomfort felt like a companion, a familiar presence in an otherwise empty night.

I walked aimlessly through the streets, my boots splashing through puddles. The world felt alive in the rain, as if every drop carried stories waiting to be told. I thought about how December used to mean something different. It used to mean warmth — not the warmth of heaters or scarves, but the kind that came from shared moments, laughter, and the quiet understanding between two people. Now, it was just another cold, lonely month.

Eventually, I found myself at the park where we used to sit and talk for hours. The wooden bench was soaked, but I sat down anyway, not caring about the wetness. The trees above me whispered in the wind, their branches dripping with rain.

I closed my eyes, hoping to summon the memory of her laugh, the way her eyes sparkled when she talked about things she loved. But the memories felt distant, like a song heard from another room. They slipped through my fingers every time I tried to hold onto them.

As the rain softened into a gentle drizzle, I pulled out my phone and opened our old messages. I scrolled through them, rereading the words we had exchanged when everything felt easier.

“I miss you.”

I typed the words out but hesitated to send them. They felt too heavy, too late. She was gone, and sending the message wouldn’t change that. But before I could second-guess myself, I hit send.

The message vanished into the digital ether, just like she had vanished from my life. I stared at the screen, half-expecting a reply, knowing deep down that there wouldn’t be one. But still, I waited.

And then, something strange happened. For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel as heavy. Maybe it was the act of letting go, or maybe it was the rain, washing away the weight of unspoken words.

I sat there on the bench, the cold and the rain my only company, and for the first time that December, I wasn’t waiting for anything. I just existed, soaked through and shivering but strangely at peace.

Sometimes, the rain doesn’t bring answers. Sometimes, it just brings endings. And that’s okay. Because in every ending, there’s the quiet promise of a new beginning — even if you can’t see it yet.