A Morning of Rain and Regrets

Like tentative fingers tapping on the past, the rain started before dawn, rapping lightly across the window panes. It was a gloomy, muttering rain that seemed to go on forever, enveloping the entire world in a thick sigh. Streetlamps illuminated the city streets below, where puddles formed on the tarmac like mirrors. With his hands clasped and elbows resting on his knees, Aiden sat at the edge of his bed in a small apartment on the fourth floor, gazing at the floor with an expression that could turn any stillness into sorrow.

He had not slept. Not at all. Haunted by nightmares he could not recall but whose emotions remained like smoke, he had been in and out. The aroma of lavender and something softer—something gone—was still present in the bed.

He looked at the blank area next to him, where the sheet was still slightly wrinkled. Even though she had been gone for three months, it seemed like she had only left an hour ago on mornings like this. Rain always brought back the memories. Perhaps it was because this morning resembled their last one exactly—gray skies, quivering droplets, and a silence that cried out between them.

Slowly, with tight joints, Aiden got up and moved toward the window. Like tears attempting to find their way home, rain streamed down the pane. Remembering how she used to stand there with her arms about her and her eyes scouring the universe as if she were looking for a future she could not find in him, he leaned his forehead on the chilly surface.

Elise was her name.

Of all places, a bookshop was where they had first met two years prior. Standing in the poetry aisle, she seemed to be touching memories as her fingertips traced the spines of Rilke and Neruda. Their fingertips touched as he reached for the same book she was holding. She gave it to him with a grin and an apology. Even though he was positive he had never heard her voice before, he recalled how it had sounded like a faraway tune.

Though not carelessly, their love had blossomed quickly. It was sensitive, full of whispered confessions at two in the morning, Sunday morning waffles, and a shared playlist that got bigger every second. However, if the roots decay without anyone noticing, even the most exquisite gardens may wither.

Along the way, he had stopped listening.

Not all at once. It was slow, silent and inexorable, like the autumnal fall of leaves. She always forgave deadlines, but he became caught up in them. When she wanted words, he became quiet, and when she needed solace, he offered silence. Ignorant of the way her eyes begged for more than simply the correct response, he nodded each time she asked him whether he was still pleased.

It had been similar to this morning. Rain and regrets.

Elise had been standing near the window with her arms encircling her body and her eyes averted.

Without turning to face him, she questioned, "Do you recall when we danced in the rain?"

He recalled. They were caught at the park by an unexpected storm during their first summer together. As she swirled beneath the sky, she had pulled at his hand while laughing wildly and carelessly. Then, drenched and freezing, he had kissed her and made a lifelong pledge.

But without nourishment, promises are brittle.

He was still in bed when he said, "I remember," not understanding why his voice lacked the warmth it ought to have had.

Then she turned, her eyes moist yet brilliant. "Aiden, I do not think we are happy anymore."

He did not know how to respond.

He wanted to declare that they could try to solve it, but he was unable to muster the conviction. All he had left were embers, and she wanted fire.

"I believe I must leave," she uttered.

He gave a nod. He made no attempt to stop her. He also believed that giving her space was an act of love.

However, it seemed more like surrender when the door closed.

The rain was coming down harder now, pounding the city like an irregular heartbeat. The silence grew louder when Aiden entered the kitchen. She never bothered to replace the chipped edge of her mug, which was still hanging on hooks. Leaning against the counter, he poured himself a cup of black, bitter coffee. Even though the perfume was pungent and familiar, it was unable to mask the hollowness in his chest.

There were tiny echoes of her all over the flat. She had a book she was halfway through, a recipe card with notes scrawled on it, and a scarf still draped over a chair. None of it had been touched by him. As though relocating them would render her absence irreversible.

Where was she now, he wondered? If she was in the city at all. If she had found someone who did more than simply remember to listen, or if she still got up early to watch the rain.

He had attempted to move on at times after she had departed. dates with an interview-like feel. Talks that sounded scripted. Smiles that fell short of the heart. She was not any of them. None of them inquired about his true thoughts. They all hummed off-key and did not make pancakes.

For a little period, the rain subsided, and there was a silence between sobs that was like a breath. Returning to the bedroom, Aiden unlocked the dresser's bottom drawer. He took out an old envelope from under a stack of socks. Her final message.

That day, she had left it on the kitchen table, written in that sloppy handwriting he used to make fun of her.

It had been read a hundred times by him. Perhaps more. Never stop hoping that the words will alter. That one wet morning, she would return through the door and inform him that it was only a phase, a break, and not a farewell.

Life, however, did not bend for hope. With or without consent, it moved on.

His fingers lingered on the edge for too long before he slid the note back into the drawer. Then, as though motivated by something outside of himself, he went to get a jacket from the wardrobe. The prospect of action, rather than solutions, was what drew him to the streets.

The environment was a haze of umbrellas and hazy reflections down on the street. Eyes down, feet sloshing through puddles, people rushed past. Aiden let his recollection serve as his compass and went aimlessly. It took him to the park, the one where they used to sit beneath the willow tree and the old swing set.

He was now drenched and his jacket was failing to keep the rain out. There was nobody on the bench beneath the willow. Still, he took a seat.

He spent a long time listening to the city's breathing beneath the storm, watching the branches shake, and watching the drops fall. Then he spoke—to the rain, to the demons that haunted his breast, not to any specific person.

"I apologize," he muttered. "I ought to have put up more of a fight. I ought to have waited.

A single umbrella held the hands of a couple as they went by. With a gentle ache that subsides, he observed them.deep and refuses to release.

Elise might have been correct. Perhaps they had lost their happiness. However, love was more than just bliss; it also required work, perseverance, and choosing one another on the days when the sky was crying.

He had not picked her carefully enough.

Something changed within him as he sat there, soaked in rain and recollection. No resolution just yet. But a start. An ephemeral acceptance. He was powerless to alter the past. But it might teach him something. He had the potential to improve his listening skills, love more deeply, and remain in the moment.

And perhaps one day, if fortune were on his side and she was feeling giving, she would reappear in his life—not to save him, but to enjoy the new him with.

Perhaps she wouldn't. Perhaps she had already found tranquility in another place.

In either case, he would always remember her—not out of sorrow. A lesson encased in tears, laughter, and lavender aroma.

The rain started to lessen, and the tiniest glimmer of morning sun was seen as the clouds parted like curtains.

After wiping the water from his face, Aiden got up and began to move. Away from the past. Not far from it, either.

Simply forward.