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I watched the first few drops hit the windowpane, tracing jagged paths through the dust. It’s funny how a sound can be so deafening. To anyone else, it’s just weather—a reason to grab an umbrella or run for cover. But to me, it’s a metronome ticking back to a time when your laughter was louder than the thunder.

The phrase loops in my head, a broken record fueled by the humidity. I can almost see you in the reflection of the glass, shivering in that oversized denim jacket, complaining about the dampness while refusing to let go of my hand. We used to find beauty in the gray. Now, the gray is just a reminder that the sun didn't just go behind the clouds; it went away with you. I watched the first few drops hit the

The sky didn’t ask permission before turning a bruised shade of violet. It just happened, much like the way you left. But to me, it’s a metronome ticking back