Rain That Taught Me to Breathe

The house was quiet,

too quiet for a girl

whose heart beat louder than her voice.

She was twenty—

the age when passion burns secretly

behind the ribs,

but words tremble

and hide before reaching the lips.

She wanted someone to know her.

Not the polite smile,

not the careful answers,

not the surface she carried like armor.

But the real her—

the fire that cracked beneath the skin,

the questions she never asked,

the longing she stitched

into every glance she turned away.

Outside, the rain began to fall.

At first a whisper,

a soft tapping on the windowpane,

then a steady chorus,

a thousand silver voices

singing against the roof.

She pressed her forehead to the glass,

watching drops race each other downward,

feeling the ache in her chest

mirror the storm above.

Alone,

yet not entirely—

for the sky had come down to visit.

She opened the door,

the air cool and trembling with water.

Bare feet carried her upward,

step by step,

to the rooftop where the world

felt closer to heaven.

The city blurred in mist,

lamps glowing like faraway stars.

The clouds were heavy,

but the rain was alive—

dancing, laughing, weeping all at once.

She closed her eyes,

let her hands fall open at her sides.

The drops kissed her cheeks

with more tenderness than words ever had.

They traced her arms,

her shoulders,

her shy but burning skin.

Each one whispered:

you are here,

you are alive,

you are enough.

Her clothes clung heavy,

a second skin too tight to hold the storm within her.

So she shed them—

not for shame,

not for spectacle,

but for freedom.

The sky did not judge.

The rain did not turn away.

It welcomed her,

every inch of her,

as though she were part of its endless hymn.

She lay upon the rooftop floor,

the concrete cool beneath her spine,

the heavens spilling their truth

across her body.

The rain was relentless,

and so was her silence.

For in that moment,

she realized she had never truly spoken

what she most wanted to say:

See me.

Understand me.

Love me for the storm that I am.

The sky listened,

though no human ear was there to hear.

The sky answered,

though no voice spoke in return.

Still,

a hunger remained—

a youthful thirst,

an ache for someone’s arms,

for someone’s gaze

to meet her and not flinch.

The rain could cool the fire,

but could not drink it dry.

Her longing was deeper,

rooted in the secret places

no storm could reach.

She turned her face upward,

lips parting as if to swallow the sky.

Raindrops slid against her tongue,

tiny rivers rushing to her.

She laughed—

a sound startled out of hiding,

a sound the thunder might have carried away

if it were not so stubborn.

In that laughter,

something shifted.

She realized the world

might never fully understand her.

No lover might ever read her pages

without missing a line.

No friend might ever see

how wide her silence stretched.

But she—

she could choose to understand herself.

She could choose to hold the passion

instead of fearing it.

She could choose

to love the girl the world overlooked.

So she wrapped her arms

around her trembling body,

not to shield,

but to cherish.

And in that embrace,

the rain became applause.

It struck her skin like music,

celebrating the girl

who finally stopped waiting

for someone else to make her whole.

She lay there for what felt like hours,

the storm steady,

her breath steadying.

The shyness did not vanish,

but it softened.

The longing did not dissolve,

but it found a place to rest.

The hunger for love

transformed into a seed of self-trust,

a seed watered by the endless sky.

When at last she rose,

her hair clung to her shoulders,

her skin glowed with raindrop jewels.

The city was still below her,

indifferent and distant,

but she felt taller,

as though she had built a secret tower

inside her chest.

She gathered her clothes,

but no longer felt small inside them.

She walked down the steps slowly,

each one carrying her

not just into the house,

but into herself.

The rain still fell,

but now it sounded different—

less like sorrow,

more like breath.

As though the sky

was exhaling for her.

And she whispered into the quiet air,

soft but unafraid:

“I am enough.”

The storm heard.

Her heart heard.

And for the first time,

she believed it.

wrt by brook