The Stain of Blue

The rain came down in sheets, a cold, relentless drum solo on the city's concrete stage. It wasn't a gentle drizzle; this was the kind that soaked through your jacket in minutes, clung to your eyelashes, and made every neon sign bleed into the slick, black puddles. I walked slow, head down, the hood of my worn-out sweatshirt doing little to keep the chill from my neck. Each puddle was a shattered mirror, reflecting the lurid greens of the liquor store, the frantic reds of the Chinese takeout, the electric blues of the strip club called 'Heaven' that was anything but.

It always got me, this particular kind of night. The neon. The rain. It wasn't nostalgia, not exactly. More like a punch to the gut, a phantom limb ache in my memory. Ten years. Ten years and the sting of it was still fresh enough to make my teeth clench, to make me swerve around a particularly bright blue reflection like it was a physical obstacle, something I could still crash into.

That night, it was different rain, a colder rain. Her apartment was above a dry cleaner, the sign buzzing a constant, low thrum against the humid air. We’d been yelling for an hour, maybe two, the kind of argument that wasn't about the fight itself but about the rotten core of something that had been festering, unspoken, between us. Her face was flushed, her hair, usually so meticulously kept, wild around her shoulders. She was furious, yeah, but under it, I saw the raw hurt, the desperation to make me *see*.

“You’re just gonna walk away, aren’t you?” she’d screamed, her voice cracking, her eyes swollen red. The overhead light in her kitchen, that terrible fluorescent glow, made her look spectral. I remember the smell of something burning, probably from the stove she’d forgotten to turn off in her anger. My gut churned, a knot of dread and something else, something I couldn't name then, but knew now was pure, unadulterated fear.

I stood there, my hands shoved deep in my pockets, jaw tight. I wanted to tell her no. I wanted to grab her, pull her close, tell her I’d fix it, tell her *we’d* fix it. But the words just wouldn't come. My throat felt thick, clogged with all the things I was too scared to face, too scared to commit to. I pictured a life with her, the fierce arguments, the breathtaking highs, the sheer, exhausting effort of loving someone so intensely. It felt like standing on a cliff edge, looking down into a beautiful, terrifying abyss.

I took a breath, the cold air scraping my lungs. “This ain’t working, Jules,” I said, and the words felt like broken glass in my mouth. A lie. It was working. We were working. Just… hard. Too hard for *me*. I was tired of the fight, tired of the fire, tired of having to be someone bigger, better than I thought I was. I just wanted quiet. Simple. I wanted out of the beautiful chaos.

Her face crumpled, a sound catching in her throat like a strangled bird. She didn't say another word. Just stared at me, eyes brimming, accusation in every line of her body. And I, coward that I was, I turned and walked out. Down the grimy stairs, past the humming dry cleaner sign, out into the spitting rain. I didn't look back. Not once. I remember the rush of cold air, the feel of rain on my face, blurring everything. The neon sign of the bar across the street, a lurid green, reflecting in every pothole. It felt like an escape. Like freedom.

But it wasn't. That’s the confession, see? I wasn’t leaving for her sake, or for ours, like I told myself. I wasn’t protecting us from more pain. I was leaving because I was scared. Scared of her passion, scared of the depth of her love, scared of what it would demand of me. I wanted an easier road, a softer touch. I wanted to be comfortable, even if comfort meant being alone, always. And in that moment, in the rain, under the glare of those cheap, gaudy lights, I chose my own pathetic, selfish ease over the most real, vibrant thing I’d ever known.

Every year, around this time, when the skies open up and the city lights start to bleed, it all comes back. The smell of wet asphalt, the dull ache in my chest. The truth, sharper than any shard of glass, is that I took the easy way out. And I’ve been walking in circles ever since, through puddles that still hold her accusing eyes, under the same damn neon that screams my failure, a constant, ugly stain of blue.