She Left Me 7 Letters—Each One Opened on a Rainy Day

It started raining the day she left.

Not a storm, not a downpour—just a slow, steady drizzle. Like the sky wasn’t angry, just quietly mourning something it couldn’t stop.

I stood at the window with a cup of cold coffee, watching her taxi disappear down the foggy street, her umbrella wobbling with every bump in the road. And then she was gone.

No long goodbye. No dramatic exit. Just… silence.

That same evening, I found the box.

It was tucked beneath my desk, wrapped in navy-blue paper and tied with twine. Inside were seven letters, each marked with a number and one simple instruction:

“Only open these on a rainy day. –M”

M was Maya.

The girl with soft brown eyes and the habit of biting her lip when she was thinking. The girl who never finished a cup of tea and always hummed while folding laundry. The girl I loved for three years and lost in a matter of minutes.

We hadn’t fought. There wasn’t another person. There was no note left behind explaining why.

Just the box. And the sky—grey and endless.

Letter One

Rainfall: Day 3

I lasted two days.

The drizzle returned on a Wednesday morning, and with trembling fingers, I peeled open the first envelope.

“Hey, you. If you're reading this, it’s raining. Fitting, isn’t it?

I wanted to say goodbye, but I didn’t know how to do it without falling apart.

So instead, I wrote these. One for each storm you’ll have to weather without me.”

I stopped there.

Her handwriting was the same—looped and steady. But her words cut like glass. I read the rest, quietly, swallowing each sentence like a slow poison.

“Letter One is simple. It's just me saying: I loved you. I still do. And leaving wasn't because I stopped. It was because I couldn’t keep loving you while losing myself.”

I sat on the floor for a long time, the sound of the rain and her words echoing in my ears.

Letter Two

Rainfall: Day 12

This one was different.

“Today, I want you to remember our bookstore dates. Do you remember how you used to read random first sentences out loud and make up the endings?

I used to pretend I hated it. But I didn’t. It was the only time I saw you completely happy.”

She described the way I’d light up when I found a worn novel with creased corners. How I always reached for the poetry shelves last. How I’d read Neruda like it was scripture.

“Maybe that’s who you still are beneath all the noise. I hope you find him again.”

That night, I wrote for the first time in months.

Letter Three

Rainfall: Day 20

This letter was angry.

“You’re probably wondering why I left without talking. Because every time I tried, you changed the subject. Or made it about you.

I was drowning beside you and you didn’t even notice.”

I slammed the letter down halfway through, guilt knotting in my chest.

She was right.

I always assumed she’d be there. That she’d adjust, compromise, stay soft no matter how hard life got. I never asked how she was. I just assumed love was enough.

But love, I was learning, needed more than presence. It needed attention.

Letter Four

Rainfall: Day 36

A softer one.

“Today, I just want to say I miss you.

Not the you-you. The way you held my hand in your sleep. The way you used to scribble songs on napkins. The way you’d whisper ‘stay’ when you were half-awake.”

She signed this one with a simple “M,” drawn in a little heart.

I carried that letter in my coat pocket for days after.

Letter Five

Rainfall: Day 50

This one shocked me.

“There’s something I never told you.

Before we met, I’d been diagnosed with severe anxiety and depression. I thought I had it under control.

But being in love… it magnified everything.

The good days felt better. But the bad days—those were invisible.

I didn’t want you to carry the weight of my shadows.”

Tears welled in my eyes.

I’d never known. Not really. I mistook her silence for mood swings. I thought her quiet days were just her being introverted.

I didn’t see her drowning.

Letter Six

Rainfall: Day 65

“You’re probably close to the last letter by now.

This one isn’t about us. It’s about you.

Please don’t become bitter.

Please don’t stop being the version of you that believes in magic, even if you won’t call it that.

Keep writing. Keep collecting old maps. Keep loving like it won’t hurt.”

It felt like a blessing. A soft push forward.

Letter Seven

Rainfall: Day 100

I knew the storm was coming.

I’d been checking the forecast all week, hoping it would hold off. But it didn’t. The sky broke open like a wound, and I knew it was time.

The last letter.

“This is it. The last one.

If you’ve made it this far, I hope you’ve grown. I hope you’ve cried and screamed and maybe laughed a little.

But most of all—I hope you’ve forgiven me.

And I hope you’ve forgiven yourself.

Loving you was the best part of my life.

But letting go of you might be the bravest thing I ever did.

Love doesn’t always stay.

Sometimes, it leaves in pieces.

But if you hold them gently enough, they’ll build something new.”

I sat with that letter for hours.

And when the rain stopped, I opened the window. Let the wind carry her words out into the world.

Then I started writing my own letter.

To her.

To me.

To the future.

Because she was right.

Love doesn’t always stay.

But sometimes, it leaves behind exactly what you need to begin again.