When Rain Fell on Our Last Goodbye

Lina had always believed in quiet love.

Not the dramatic kind sung about in songs or written into the final pages of epic novels—but the kind that lived in small gestures. A warm coffee left on a desk. A forehead kiss before leaving. A shared glance in a crowded room.

Then she met Saad, and everything changed.

He wasn’t quiet love.

He was thunderstorms and laughter. He was loud opinions, bright eyes, and a camera always slung over one shoulder. He told stories with his hands, danced in the middle of streets, and cried at movies without shame.

And still—somehow—he loved Lina, the quiet girl who flinched at loud noises and wrote poems in the margins of her math textbooks.

They met in university. She was late to class, and the only seat left was beside him. He offered her his notes, and she offered him a shy thank-you smile that stayed in his mind for weeks.

He took a photo of her once. She hadn’t even noticed.

When he showed it to her, she gasped. She was staring out a window, sunlight dancing across her face, a slight frown on her lips as if she were thinking too hard about the universe.

“I look sad,” she whispered.

“You look honest,” he said.

That’s how their story began—unexpectedly, honestly, and beautifully.

For two years, they were inseparable. She calmed him. He challenged her. They traveled on a shoestring budget, made playlists for each other, got lost in old bookstores, and had their own language made of glances, songs, and inside jokes.

He once told her, “You’re the only quiet that doesn’t scare me.”

And she had written that into her diary three times.

But as graduation approached, reality began to tug at their dream.

Saad had been offered a scholarship abroad—for photojournalism in Italy.

It was everything he’d worked for.

And Lina? She had received a job offer in her hometown as a creative writing teacher. A chance to stay with her family and the familiar world that made her feel safe.

They sat on a rooftop the night before his flight, wrapped in a blanket, watching the city lights shimmer below.

“I could stay,” he whispered.

“No,” she said gently. “You were born to chase light. You told me that, remember?”

“I also told you I’d never leave unless you asked me to.”

She looked away.

He waited.

She didn’t ask.

And he left.

**

They spoke often—calls at midnight, messages filled with photos and words like “I miss you” and “Wish you were here.” But the time difference stretched them thin. So did life.

The calls became less frequent.

The messages shorter.

Until one day, silence.

**

Two years later, Lina stood in that same rooftop garden, staring at the city below.

She had grown. Taught dozens of students. Published her first book of poems. But there was a quiet in her chest that even words couldn’t reach.

Then came the message:

“I’ll be in town for one night. If you want to see me, meet me at the street where we first kissed. 8 PM. No pressure.”

She didn’t reply.

But at 7:50, she was already walking through light rain toward the corner bookstore where he had first leaned down, nervous and sweet, and kissed her under a flickering streetlight.

At 8:00, he was there.

Holding an umbrella. Drenched anyway.

They didn’t speak at first.

Then he laughed. “You still look like you’re thinking too hard about the universe.”

She smiled. “And you still look like you belong to the sky.”

“I missed you,” he said.

“I missed me, too,” she replied. “The me I was when I was with you.”

He looked down. “I wanted to call. I just... didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

She stepped closer.

The streetlight flickered.

“I never stopped,” she whispered.

And for a moment, they stood in silence again. Not because they had nothing to say, but because love was louder than words.

He didn’t ask her to come with him.

She didn’t ask him to stay.

Some love stories aren’t about forever.

Sometimes, they’re about that one night. That one kiss in the rain. That one last goodbye that doesn’t break your heart—but instead, finally lets it breathe.

And as the rain fell gently between them, she leaned forward and kissed him one more time.

Soft. Sad. Free.

Then she turned and walked away.

He didn’t follow.

And for the first time, it was enough.