I Stand in the Rain

I see you from across the room;

but you're not really there.

Your body is here—

present, breathing, moving—

but your spirit is hidden,

somewhere deep behind those clouded eyes.

You laugh sometimes,

but it doesn’t touch your soul.

It’s hollow, like an echo in an empty cave.

And I see it—

even when others don’t.

You’re drowning in a sea no one else can see.

Treading water,

with a smile stretched thin

so no one asks questions.

But I ask.

I ask because I know.

And still,

you lie.

"I'm fine."

"I'm just tired."

"It's just been a long day."

Every day is long when your mind turns against you.

I remember the time when you used to sing.

In the car,

in the kitchen,

in the shower.

You don’t sing anymore.

Even your silence is heavier now.

I feel like I’m holding a fragile glass sculpture,

trying not to let it shatter—

but it already has.

There are cracks in you that no one can see.

Cracks that I feel every time I hold your hand.

You don’t want help.

Or maybe you do.

Maybe you just don’t know how to ask.

Maybe the pain has numbed the part of you

that once believed you deserved to feel better.

And I try.

God, I try.

To understand the things you never say.

To read between the spaces of your silence.

To make you feel seen,

when you keep disappearing into yourself.

I hate how the world treats this like weakness.

As if it’s not strength to wake up every day

and fight a war inside your head.

As if it’s not bravery

to keep breathing when your lungs feel like lead.

If only they knew.

If only they saw the way

you stare at the wall at 2 a.m.,

wrestling thoughts that don't belong to you,

thoughts that lie,

that twist,

that steal the truth from your mind.

The worst part?

I can’t fix it.

I can't reach inside your head and pull you out.

I can’t build a ladder tall enough

to rescue you from the pit you’ve fallen into.

But I will not leave.

I will not walk away

just because I can’t understand the full weight

of what you carry.

I will stand in the rain with you.

I will hold your hand through every storm.

Even when you let go—

I’ll stay near.

Last week,

you almost said something.

I saw it in your eyes,

the words dancing on your tongue—

afraid to come out,

afraid they might be too ugly to hear.

But nothing you say will scare me.

I have already seen the shadows in you,

and I didn’t flinch.

Because I know that shadows only exist

where there is light.

You are not your darkness.

Not your panic.

Not your worst day.

You are not broken beyond repair.

You are healing,

even if you can’t see it yet.

Even if it looks like falling apart.

Some days healing looks like tears.

Other days,

it looks like getting out of bed.

And sometimes,

it looks like letting someone love you

even when you don’t love yourself.

I ache,

watching you suffer in silence.

I ache because I don’t know how to make it better.

I ache because I can’t carry it for you—

only beside you.

But please,

when the fog clears—

even for a moment—

let me in.

Let me see the pieces.

Let me remind you

of who you are underneath the sadness.

You are more than this fight.

More than the labels,

the shame,

the weight.

One day,

you’ll remember how it feels

to laugh and mean it.

To look in the mirror

and not wince.

To breathe without effort.

And until then—

I am here.

Not to rescue you,

but to walk beside you

while you rescue yourself.

You are not alone.

Even in the dark.

Even when your mind turns into a storm—

I will stand in the rain with you.

Because you matter.

Because I love you.

Because pain shared

is pain made lighter.

And even if it breaks me to see you suffer,

I would rather break with you

than live whole without you.

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Thank you for reading,

with love and hope,

Muhammad Rahim