The rain came again that night—the kind that echoed on rooftops and drowned out goodbyes.

You stood by the doorway, arms folded tightly around yourself. You weren’t sure if you were cold from the weather or from him. Maybe both.

He stood a few feet away, suitcase by his side, drenched not from the rain, but from everything unsaid.

“You’re really leaving?” you asked, voice trembling.

He nodded once. “You told me to.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “I didn’t think you’d actually listen.”

For a moment, silence filled the room—the kind that pressed against your chest and made breathing hurt.

“I can’t stay where I’m not wanted anymore,” he said quietly. “I keep trying to fix things you’ve already decided to break.”

It started months ago—when your world began to crumble, piece by piece. The pressure from work, the loss of your mother, the sleepless nights that hollowed you out. You stopped answering his calls, stopped meeting his eyes, stopped letting him in.

He tried to help, but you pushed him away every time. “I don’t need saving,” you told him once. “I just need space.” But space became distance, and distance became silence.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel unwanted,” you whispered now, guilt lacing every word. “I was... scared. Everything I love always leaves. I thought if I left first, it wouldn’t hurt as much.”

His eyes softened, breaking even as he smiled. “And did it work?”

You shook your head, tears spilling down. “No. It just hurts differently.”

He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the faint trace of rain on his shirt. He reached out, hesitated, then brushed a tear from your cheek.

“I’ll still love you,” he said. “Even when you pretend not to care.”

And with that, he walked into the rain.

You stood there until the sound faded, until the world went still again.

The rain stopped falling. But inside you, it never did.