Rain on Eighth Street

It was raining the day we met. Not a movie rain — no thunder, no sudden downpour — just that slow, steady drizzle that blurs everything into watercolor.

I remember ducking under the awning of a coffee shop, shaking droplets from my hair, when someone stepped beside me. She was holding a sketchbook to her chest, her fingers smudged with charcoal. Her coat was too big for her, and her smile looked like it wasn’t used to being worn in public.

We stood there in silence for a while, both pretending we weren’t trapped under the same tiny strip of shelter. Then she said, almost to herself, “Great weather for existential crises.”

It startled a laugh out of me — the kind that feels like it comes from someone else’s lungs. “Or coffee,” I said.

She nodded toward the door. “Coffee sounds safer.”

We went inside.

The café was nearly empty, all fogged windows and warm air that smelled like cinnamon and wet clothes. We took a corner table. She ordered a black coffee and drew shapes on the napkin while I tried to come up with something clever to say. I failed.

Her name was Eliza. She was an art student, she told me, though she said it like an apology. I told her I worked part-time at a bookstore, which sounded equally unimpressive. Somehow, we kept talking. About nothing. About everything.

We spent an hour discussing the best smell in the world. She said rain on asphalt. I said old paper. We compromised on “rain and old paper” — like a storm in a library.

When the rain stopped, she stood and said, “Well, guess that’s my cue.”

“Wait,” I said before I could stop myself. “Maybe… see you around?”

She tilted her head. “You might. I like this place when it rains.”

And just like that, she was gone.

I didn’t expect to see her again, but a few weeks later, it rained. And there she was — same awning, same sketchbook, same small, knowing smile.

“Thought I’d try another crisis,” she said.

That became our thing. Every few weeks, when the weather turned gray, I’d find her there. Sometimes we went inside; sometimes we stayed under the awning, passing a thermos of coffee back and forth. We talked about art, music, why people say they’re fine when they aren’t.

We never exchanged numbers. We didn’t even follow each other online. Our conversations existed only in that small pocket of the world, between thunderclouds and streetlight reflections.

It felt timeless. Safe. Like pressing pause on life.

Once, I asked if she ever drew me. She hesitated, then smiled. “Only when I miss the rain.”

Then one week, it rained harder than usual — the kind that turns the air white. I waited under the awning for almost an hour. She didn’t come.

I told myself she’d show up next time. But she didn’t.

The weeks passed. The season changed. The awning faded from blue to gray. I kept stopping by the coffee shop, telling myself it was for the caffeine, but the truth was heavier. The space beside me felt like an echo.

One afternoon, a year later, I walked by again. The rain had returned, soft and familiar. I glanced at the window — and saw it.

Taped to the glass was a small drawing. Two people, standing under an awning. Their heads leaned together. The sketch was rough, but the lines — the curve of the smile, the angle of the umbrella — were unmistakable.

At the bottom, in neat handwriting, it said:

“Thanks for the rain.”

I stood there until the barista asked if I wanted to come inside. I didn’t. I just smiled, touched the edge of the drawing, and whispered, “You’re welcome.”

Then I walked away, letting the rain soak through everything — my clothes, my thoughts, my heart.

And for the first time in months, it felt like something beautiful was still waiting to begin.