Feel Like Rain

I had never seen the rain. Not like this, anyway. Not on the day we met, huddled under a tree waiting for the bus, when we were cold and drenched but still smiling. Not on the night everything fell apart in your living room, when our yelling drowned out the thunder in the sky.

This time it's different. It's the same thick veil of rain I've seen so many times in movies, but this time, it feels like a sign. The torrential downpour is reminiscent of so many nights I spent with you, and it brings a sinking feeling to my stomach.

When my phone buzzed on my bedside table last night, illuminating the darkness of the walls with your name on the screen, I began to hear a low rumble from the clouds. As the rain fell down past my window, I laid in bed, my heart skipping beats every time the lightning mimicked the glow of the phone.

You'd asked to see me. To meet up with me, at your house that I haven't seen in so long. I thought of the memories and the fights and the sour note we'd left off on. I should have said no. But when I woke up to a message asking if I still knew the way, without question I replied that I never forgot.

Now I'm here, standing across the street from the old house I became so familiar with, and I wonder if you can see me through the window, if you're watching, if you're waiting. The precipitation provides a curtain between me and you, almost, but just to be sure, I hold my umbrella lower and cover my face.

My legs feel weak. My heart thuds hard against my ribs. I take a breath. My feet move forward despite the muddle of protests flooding my brain. Part of me wants to stop, turn around, hurry home and never once look back. But I find myself inching closer to the curb, peering out from the umbrella's edge to look both ways down the street, and crossing.

I stop in front of your front steps, my sneakers becoming waterlogged as I stand with uncertainty in a puddle. Breathing in the smell of the rain, I continue on, one creaky wooden step at a time. Slowly I reach up, knocking on the splintered wood of your door. I wait.

Hours pass by in seconds. My mind is a mess of worry and doubt. Was this a mistake? Should I turn and run while I still have the chance?

My hands grip the handle of my umbrella tighter as I worry on my lower lip. I focus my attention on a newspaper, folded up in a clear plastic bag on your doorstep. The bag is littered with raindrops but beneath the surface I read the week's forecast on the corner of the front page: one full week of rain.

My eyes snap up when the door pulls open, revealing the face I haven't seen in months. Every thought stored up since last night disappears as my mind goes blank. All is silent except for the sound of the rain.