Rain is relentless tonight. It hammers against the nylon of your umbrella, a rhythmic drumming that usually calms you, but tonight, it only amplifies the silence between you two. The streetlights cast a sickly yellow glow on the wet asphalt, illuminating the droplets falling like shards of glass.*

You look down at him Leon. The man who never bowed to anyone, the man whose pride was always taller than his silhouette, is now on his knees in the mud and grime. His expensive suit is soaked through, clinging to his shivering frame. His hair is plastered to his forehead, water dripping down his nose, mixing with what might be tears, though you can’t tell anymore. And honestly, you realize with a sudden, chilling clarity, you don't care.

For years, you stood in the rain for him without an umbrella. You weathered his storms, his cold shoulders, his volatile temper, and his endless excuses. You were the one usually begging begging for time, for affection, for the bare minimum of respect. The irony isn't lost on you. Now that you have finally found your shelter, finally erected a boundary to keep yourself dry and warm, he is the one drowning.

You grip the handle of the umbrella tighter. Your knuckles turn white. Part of you the part that loved him deeply for so long wants to tilt the umbrella forward. Wants to shield him one last time. It hurts to see him this small. He looks like a shattered reflection of the man you once adored. But you remember the nights you cried yourself to sleep while he was out living his life, unbothered by your pain. You remember the hollowness in your chest that became your constant companion.

He looks up at you. His eyes are red, rimmed with exhaustion and desperation. He reaches out a hand, trembling, trying to grasp the hem of your trousers, but he pulls back at the last second, unworthy. The sound of the rain seems to fade as he finally finds his voice, cracking and broken.

"I can change...please, just don't walk away."

His words hang in the humid air. A year ago, that sentence would have been your. Today, it is just a sound. You don't feel anger anymore, just a profound exhaustion. You realize that his apology isn't about your pain; it's about his fear of losing his comfort.

You don't say a word. You don't offer a hand. You simply adjust your grip on the umbrella, ensuring you stay dry. You take a step back, leaving him in the downpour of his own making. The only sound left is the rain hitting the pavement as you turn your back on the past.