The rain came gently that day—not the kind that storms or soaks, but the kind that whispers. The kind that taps against windows like an old friend knocking softly, asking, "Do you remember me?"
And I did.
Rain always reminds me of you.
Not just because of that day at your grave, not because of the notebook soaked in our promises, but because you always said rain felt like home.
"When it rains," you told me once, "I feel less alone. Like the world is crying with me."
I never really understood it until you were gone.
Now, when the sky breaks open, I find myself standing outside without an umbrella, letting it wash over me. It doesn't feel cold anymore—it feels familiar.
Comforting.
Like maybe somewhere beyond the clouds, you're still here.
That day, I walked through the city streets as the drizzle kissed my face and made everything shimmer. My clothes clung to me, but I didn't care. I kept walking, every step an echo of old memories.
You and I used to run through puddles, not caring if people stared.
You used to close your eyes, face turned up to the sky, and whisper, *"Let it rain."*
I tried it that day.
Closed my eyes. Whispered your words. Let it rain.
And for a moment… I swore I felt your hand brush against mine.
Not real, maybe. But real enough.
Real enough to remind me that grief doesn't mean the end of connection.
Love doesn't vanish with the person who carried it.
It stays—hidden in the rainfall, tucked between quiet seconds, living in all the places we once laughed.
When I got home, soaked and silent, I pulled out my canvas again.
And I painted you—not your face, not your form, but the feeling of you.
The warmth of your smile in cool colors.
The sound of your voice in soft brushstrokes.
The rain, falling gently across everything, tying it all together.
I named it *Rain That Feels Like Home.*
And when I stood back to look at it, I didn't cry.
I didn't break.
I just breathed.
Because the rain didn't feel like sorrow anymore.
It felt like you.
It felt like healing.
It felt like home.
—