he only exists in the world underneath my fingertips.

that’s okay, though. that’s only where all of me exists.

he gives me a half-smile from across the room, one hand pressed against the window, as if to absorb the raindrops through the cool glass pane. the corner of his lips tips, just so – the perfect half-smile that says so much so cryptically, that makes my stomach twist with nervousness? sorrow? anger? pain?

when he speaks he winces slightly because his throat hurts, because he’s somehow always sick, never really well. he has asthma and coughs with the cold weather, so he wears a scarf, black because he has good taste and because he likes black as much as i do, understands why we need the black.

c’mere, he says, and taps the glass. i walk over.

what?

it’s raining, he says, like i don’t already know, but i grace him with an indulgent smile and a nonchalant shrug.

so?

come outside with me, to feel the sky crying.

i laugh only because it seems like such a cliché thing to say, but then i do. how can i say no?

we raise our hands to the clouds above, squinting through the drops and feeling the sky’s tears against our fingers. he laughs, but when i look over, he does not smile. we stamp across the wet concrete and trample the dandelions under our feet into a yellow paste against the ground.

why are we out here? i ask him.

it’s a stupid question. i know that at once. this is a ritual carried out every time the heavens open their doors and let the water come pouring down. he does this every time. sometimes I join him. other times i sit on the couch and stare out the window at him. sometimes he invites me out, and sometimes i say yes. but when he just slips out the door by himself, i never dare to go out, too.

he looks over and this time he smiles mirthlessly. because… his eyes dare me to finish the sentence.

i bow my head a little and laugh myself. because…

his fingers slip through mine and i hold on tight, for my sake as much as his.

because in the rain, no one sees you cry.

-fin-