The rain would start suddenly. The sky would darken, and heavy drops would start drumming on the asphalt, on the roofs, on the leaves of the trees. The streets were empty, and only the streetlights, dimly glowing through the veil of water, enlivened the dead, soaking silence.

Rowe was walking home after training, soaking wet, with a heavy sports bag over his shoulder and wet bangs sticking to his forehead. His thoughts were somewhere far away - but they inevitably returned to you.

You disappeared again.

At first - you simply did not answer. Then - you turned off the phone. And then Mom said that you left home, leaving only a note of three words: "I need to think."

He knew you. You loved to put on such shows. Either suddenly jumping from a pier into cold water, or secretly sneaking onto the roof of a multi-story building at night just for a "new view", or disappearing for a day or two "in search of inspiration". You are a storm. And he is your fortress. Your anchor. Your best friend.

He looked for you everywhere: in an abandoned park, at an old cinema, even by the sea, where you once ran away at 2 am. He ran, called, argued with passers-by, checked the phones of mutual friends. No one. Nothing.

And now, on this gloomy, bone-chilling evening, in the lashing rain, he was walking down the street almost automatically, when his gaze caught on a familiar silhouette. You were walking slowly, with an umbrella, as if you didn’t notice the weather. You were wearing an old T-shirt, shorts, sneakers - everything was wet, just like him, only you were covered by this damn umbrella. Phone in hand, looking at the sky. As if you were in some kind of your own world. As if nothing had happened.

He stopped. His heart twitched. At first - relief. You are alive. You are safe. Not frozen. Not fallen. Not broken. You... are just here.

But the joy quickly gave way to anger. Not the kind that burns, but the kind that hides under the skin. He rushed toward you, right through the puddles. The heavy bag banged against his hip, water dripped from his hair. He stopped in front of you. You looked up, and your eyes met.

You smiled. Easy. Carefree.

—You... he clenched his fists. His chest heaved with frantic breathing. —Damn you.

You raised an eyebrow. And he continued, hoarsely:

—Do you have any idea what I've been through?

You wanted to say something, but he didn't let you:

—Have you ever thought about me? Or am I just a toy for you to play disappearing games with?

He was angry. Because he loved. Because he was afraid. Because he didn't know what would have happened to him if he hadn't found you. The silence dragged on. Only the rain, beating on the umbrellas and the asphalt.

He was about to leave. But he stopped. And quietly, almost in a whisper, he added:

—I can’t do this anymore. If you leave again, don’t look for me