The rain starts slow. A drizzle at first. Gentle. Almost polite.

You don’t go inside.

The sky is gray and low and it feels like it matches the inside of you too perfectly. You’re tired. Not physically. Existentially.

Everyone leaves.

They come to you when they need answers. When they need reassurance. When they want to know what’s going to happen next — like you’re some kind of emotional weather app.

You always know.

You can read patterns. See the shifts. Feel when someone’s about to drift.

Thunder rumbles low in the distance. You press your palms against your eyes.

The rain picks up.

Cold water soaks into your jeans. Your hair clings to your face. It doesn’t matter. You’re already crying.

You don’t cry quietly. It breaks out of you. Sharp. Loud.

Because you’re so tired of being the strong one. The wise one. You don’t want to predict the future anymore.

You want someone to choose you and stay. Footsteps splash through puddles.

You assume it’s someone passing by. But the steps stop in front of you. And they don’t leave.

“Hey.” Maddie’s voice. Soft. Careful.

You don’t answer.

She crouches down slowly, trying to catch your eyes. “You’re going to get sick sitting out here.”

You laugh bitterly. “That would be consistent.”

She frowns. The rain hits harder now, soaking both of you. Maddie doesn’t move away. “I looked for you,” she says quietly.

You shrug. “I didn’t want to be found.”

“I know.”That makes you look at her.

She’s soaked too now. Mascara faintly smudged. Hair plastered to her forehead.

She stayed.

“You don’t have to fix this,” you tell her. “I’m not a project.”

“I don’t think you are.”

“Then why are you here?”

She hesitates. Because Maddie doesn’t say things unless she’s sure. “Because you don’t get to disappear when you’re hurting,” she says finally. “Not on my watch.”

You look away. “You’ll leave too.” The words come out flat.

Maddie’s jaw tightens. “Don’t decide that for me.”

Thunder cracks louder this time. You stand up abruptly, pacing two steps away.

“I’m tired of being the person people need. I’m tired of watching them drift and pretending I didn’t see it coming.”

You shake your head, tears mixing with rain. “Why do I keep doing that?”

Maddie steps closer, cautiously, like you’re something fragile and breakable even if you pretend you’re not.

“Because you’re brave,” she says.

You let out a humorless laugh. “You’re hopeful.”

You don’t respond. She closes the gap between you.

Not touching yet. Just near.

“You think everyone leaves,” she says softly. “So you brace for it. You read it. You prepare for it. But you still open the door.”

Your breathing shakes. “That’s not weakness.”

You look at her finally. “It feels like it.”

Her voice lowers. “I don’t need you to tell my future.” The rain runs down her jawline, dripping off her chin. “I just need you.”

You swallow hard. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” Her hand lifts slowly — giving you time to pull away if you want. You don’t. She cups your cheek gently.

“You don’t get used,” she says firmly. “Not by me.”

Your shoulders finally sag.

The fight drains out. You lean forward before you can stop yourself. Forehead pressing against her shoulder.

And she wraps her arms around you immediately. Not hesitant. Anchoring.

The rain keeps falling around you. But she doesn’t complain. Just holds you while you cry into her jacket.

“I can’t be alone again,” you say against her.

“You’re not,” she replies instantly.

“You can’t promise that.”

You grip the fabric of her hoodie tighter. Maddie pulls back just enough to look at you. “You are not a service.”

Her thumb brushes under your eye. Her voice steadies. “And I am not going anywhere.”

You search her face for cracks. For hesitation. There isn’t any.

She takes your hand. “Come home with me.”

You hesitate. “What?”

“My house,” she says. “Dry clothes. Blankets. You can sit in my room and ignore the world.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

Not obligation. Choice.

You nod. She squeezes your hand once before tugging you gently toward her car.