When It Rained Inside

He left the window open. The storm never left

It began the night he left.

He didn’t take much—just a bag, his coat, and the silence he folded carefully between us. The window was still open, barely, just enough for the rain to whisper through. I remember how the wind pushed the curtains like breath, like a sigh trying to escape.

The rain started softly.

So did the ache.

At first, I tried to believe it was a coincidence.

That the water dripping from the ceiling was just bad plumbing.

That the damp pillow was just from tears I couldn’t stop counting.

But then the water pooled in places he used to stand.

The corner near the bookshelf.

The rug beneath the piano bench.

The side of the bed he hadn’t touched in weeks.

And I knew.

The storm wasn’t outside anymore.

It rained inside the house.

Every morning, a new puddle.

A new reminder.

A memory soaked and wrung out by invisible hands.

I tried to keep up.

Mopping, drying, whispering into rooms I used to share.

But the rain didn’t care.

It had nowhere else to go.

The neighbors noticed, once.

“You should call someone,” the old man upstairs said. “There’s a leak, maybe a broken pipe.”

I smiled. Nodded. Closed the door.

How could I explain that the leak wasn’t in the ceiling?

It was in the goodbye that never closed.

In the echo of footsteps never returning.

Some nights, I would sit by the cracked window,

the one he left open.

And I would wait.

Not for him, exactly.

But for the way he used to look at me when it rained—

quiet, eyes soft, like he saw something I didn’t.

Like he knew how to belong in silence.

The house changed with the weather.

Mold bloomed on old letters.

Floorboards swelled with grief.

The air thickened until even breathing felt like remembering.

And yet, I stayed.

Because part of me believed if I kept the rain company,

maybe it would stop grieving too.

Then one day, I found his scarf.

Folded neatly on the couch,

though I had thrown it out weeks ago.

It was dry.

As if the storm wanted to return what it had borrowed.

As if it, too, missed him.

I tried closing the window.

The frame had warped. It wouldn't shut.

A metaphor, maybe.

Or a punishment.

So I left it open.

Let the rain come.

Let it sing lullabies on the glass.

Let it wash away the scent of leaving.

Over time, the water changed.

Less angry.

Less loud.

It became part of the rhythm of the house.

A background hum.

A heartbeat.

I planted herbs in cups near the wet sills.

They thrived.

Hung wind chimes in the hall.

They sang.

Put on music and danced barefoot on the wet floor,

like we used to.

Alone, but not lonely.

People think storms are meant to pass.

But some storms settle in, quietly.

They become part of the furniture,

part of the way you learn to carry pain like a familiar book.

Not always heavy.

But never gone.

I still live in the same house.

The rain still comes.

But now, it’s gentle.

Like a guest who knocks before entering.

And on some mornings,

I find new puddles in places I don’t remember walking.

But I don’t clean them up anymore.

I leave them be.

Let them rest.

Because some storms don’t ruin homes.

They remind us that we once had something worth missing.

story by shohel rana

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