It’s All Rain
a short story

Have you ever noticed how beautifully bleak rainy days can be? The graying colors of the sky pinned by the wonderfully rich green of trees and the dark brown of its bark – there’s something delightfully serene about it all. Somehow, with the world descending into gloom, it brings out the best in everything. It makes you realize that the world is not the way the news always portrays it to be: violent, dark, uninhabitable. Far from it, the world is beautiful.

On days like this, it’s great to take a walk, alone, accompanied only by a good song, preferably a melancholic piano piece that lets your mind just wander. Don’t think, just let it hit you: the beauty of it all, how the world seems to click into place – everything.

And as I try, I realize that I’m failing. There’s nothing wrong with the world, it’s as beautiful as I stressed it is. The leaves are still green and the sky is still grey. The brilliance of tree barks is still evident. The world is still beautiful.

But my eyes are filled with silent tears.

How can I cry when the cosmos seemed to have aligned just so to make everything feel right? How can I do such a thing?

Feelings are not rational. Emotions are not governed by the mind. The heart is its own republic, far away and autonomous from the logical power of the brain. I guess what I’m trying to say is, “I don’t know.”

If only it were easier to enjoy the uplifting warmth the cold of the rain can bring. Maybe it would be if I weren’t so demanding, if I don’t ask for too much. If only.

The questions that race through my mind are not deep ones. They’re not even original. It’s all been documented in the Great Book of Unanswered Forgotten Questions, where thoughts like these go to rest. But the moment they do, I will never know. The desire, the curiosity to know just dies.

Killed by the act of moving on.

In proverbs, it is common wisdom that you should let go. My own father used to say, “There’s no use in weeping for the dead canary,” a variation of the old spilt milk saying. But then, my mommy used to call me “a stubborn feller”. I think there is some truth to that.

I am of a steel heart. I won’t budge if I’m set on something. And if there’s something that I would set my heart on, it is this – my desire to be with her. In rain and in sunshine, in happy times as in sad, she is what keeps me alive. Together, we were a team.

“Were”. Ah, you caught me there. Has this started to sound like a tired and hopelessly romantic story yet? The kind you buy only to never read and in the end to be sold, by the bulk, to a second-hand bookstore, where the madam running it always seem to have a pair of spectacles hanging by her neck, the pointy ones. And she would always look scary and yet suggestive at the same time.

“Were”. Yes, I meant to write that. Can you hear the sigh that accompanies it? It’s meant to be silent. Now, it’s too loud for me to hide.

She is a girl I’ve known for a long time; her name is of no importance here. What I remember most about her is the hazel of her eyes, a shade darker than most; the tease of her smile; the giggle of a schoolgirl and the innocence too.

I miss her.

The rain is starting to drizzle, light, playful sprays of water on my face and all over my soaking body. My fingers are wrinkled, shriveled and all kinds of other words that beautifies “ghastly”. I’m looking forward to a warm shower and an evening spent under the covers, staring at the ceiling, thinking:

I miss her.

I’m repeating myself, aren’t I? I catch myself doing that sometimes, like: Whites with whites, colored with colored, where’s the soap? Ah, here it is – I miss her – two spoonfuls, right? Clank! The machine would then hum and I would – I miss her – say that I miss her again.

I think it’s hopeless. If a night as uneventful as laundry night could make me utter her name so breathily and with so much compassion, I don’t think it’s possible for me to give up.

Memories are a fickle thing. Details can be lost and become obscure even if you regularly bring them up from the dark recesses of your mind. I’ve forgotten how some of her hair would curl up around her ears; “It’s become too long,” she said once. That was nights ago. Right now, she is a vision in my mind. And her hair is long. But, my hands in them, I don’t mind.

All my wrinkly fingers can feel now is water and the sharp cold of the metal rail I’m leaning on by the side of the road on my way back home. It’s nothing like the warmth of her, the refreshing smell of her perfume, soft and gentle.

I’m never going to see her again, am I?

Admitting that is not easy. Accepting it is going to be even harder. But on a piece of paper, slightly crumpled from being under an apple, she wrote:

“Do you remember that movie we love to watch together, snuggling up to each other (mostly me on you)” – here she drew a round face with a smile – “at night, thinking how good they have it? When I wanted to write this, I knew I should really talk to you first, the way Robert did when Allison was going to leave but…

The lower curve of the t was bluer than the rest of the text, as if she was hesitating, thinking about what she wanted to say.

“But I don't think things between us are going to work. This thing that we have? It doesn't have a pause button, honey. We can't just take a step back from it all. We're just wrong for each other. I know that I'm going to hurt you by doing this and I'm” – again the ink here is bluer, darker – “sorry. I wish I can avoid hurting you. I need some time apart right now. One day, maybe but right now we just can’t. I hope you can accept that.”

The word love she wrote in the corner; the l in cursive writing, the way I like it. It was signed. That night, I tried calling her many, many times but I only got through to her machine. She might have been screening her calls; I don’t know but it sure seemed like it.

But what does that mean? If she would take her time to not talk to me, does it mean that the memory of what we had hurts her as much as it’s hurting me? Then maybe there’s hope.

I chuckle a little at that thought. I’m too much of an optimist. That was her fault, though, wasn’t it? She made me change my view of the world, from intense gloom to reserved cheerfulness. She is a constant energy, the kind that uplifts and radiates in all directions. A lot of it, I believe, was directed towards me.

Days passed since she left. A lot of the pain is now dull, like a bruise on the arm left for too long on its own; touch it and the pain will shoot up your arm but leave it alone and it’s just a grim reminder of what happened.

She never called. All that is left to remind me of her is the pillow she forgot to take with her. Was that intentional? At night, I’d hold it, cradle it. It’s a ritual now and I think it’s one of the things that’s both keeping the pain dull and keeping me from moving on.

Not that I plan to. Feelings are not rational, I said. Loyalty makes even less sense.

Last night, I called her again. In a slur, I told her how stupid I can be, how naïve. The pillow I hug every night is now sagging, losing its vigor. I told the machine (for she can’t possibly be listening to my messages and I told it that too) how much I need her back, how crazy my life has become since she’s gone. At one point, I think, I cried. Then, abruptly, I hung up.

I wonder if she deleted that message.

From behind the clouds, rays of the sun shot through, creating a stalactite of light, signifying the end of the rain. Somewhere to the west, a rainbow made its arch but you have to squint to see it.

The building where I live is now within sight. It’s a five-storey building, a bit small for an apartment. I got in, got on the elevator and pressed “4”. The machine hums to life and ascends.

I fish in my pocket for my keys. Jabbing the key in and twisting the knob, I realize that the door is unlocked. And I was sure that I locked it. I wouldn’t have brought the keys otherwise.

I push the door open.

“Hey.” Oh God, that voice.

It’s her.

She’s sitting on the couch, where we used to watch “Meant to Be” together. She looks different; oh, a haircut. She looks at me and smiles, the teasing smile.

Unthinking, I blurt, “How did you get in?”

“With this, silly,” she dangles her set of keys to my apartment. I pause for a moment, looking at her.

“So you’re here to return them.”

Still smiling, she tilts her head a little, “Mm… maybe.”

Silence.

Maybe? What does that mean? Did she get my message? Is that why she’s here?

“Aw, stop analyzing everything, will you? I’m here; can we leave it at that?” She pats the seat right next to her.

“I can’t. I have to know why.”

She smiles again and for the first time, I notice that it reaches her eyes. Her beautiful a-shade-darker hazel eyes. My heart skipped a beat. I decide to take a seat next to her.

I open my mouth to say something, to ask her why or maybe to tell her how much I miss her or that it’s okay that she left me – we can still be friends – but she puts a finger on my lips.

“Shh.”

She puts her head on my shoulders, not minding the dampness of my T-shirt. Her hands then proceed to hug me around the waist, tightly. I put my hands around her too.

For an hour or so, we sat like that, each lost in their thoughts. Every ten minutes or so, I’d wonder if I was dreaming all of this up. It all seems surreal, the unexpectedness of it, the suddenness and… the dreamlike quality with which everything is proceeding.

She moves a little, turning her head so she’d be facing me. Then, she whispered, “I miss you.”

Whites with whites, colored with – “I miss you too.”

And we kiss.

She looks up afterwards and I can see in her gaze that she wants this as much as I do. Then she said in a whisper, “Let’s just sit here, okay?”