you left; the rain stayed

you left on a Tuesday,

without drama,

without slamming doors—

just silence,

the kind that hums behind your ears

long after the room goes still.

you said it wasn’t working.

I nodded like I understood.

I didn’t.

not really.

my hands stayed folded,

a child at a table where love

was no longer being served.

the sky didn’t wait.

by evening, it wept for me.

a steady drizzle,

like the tears I swallowed

to look strong.

it rained for days.

each drop a memory—

your laugh in the kitchen,

your toothbrush on the sink,

your name in my throat.

people said,

“you’ll feel better soon.”

but the rain disagreed.

it pressed against the windows,

curled itself around the corners of my bed.

it knew grief

isn't a moment—

it's a season.

I tried writing you letters

I never sent.

filled them with things

I wish I’d said sooner:

how I loved the way you stirred your coffee,

how your presence softened the air.

how I hoped

you’d come back

if I waited long enough.

but you didn’t.

and the rain stayed.

one day,

I stopped asking it to leave.

I let it wash over me,

through me,

until the ache thinned out—

not gone,

but no longer everything.

the rain became part of me.

not a curse,

but a reminder:

that love doesn’t always last,

but it always teaches.

and healing?

it comes not with sunshine,

but with surrender.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi