The rain came quietly this time. Not like the last few times—no urgent thunderclaps or dramatic lightning splits. Just a fine mist tapping on the glass, as if the sky were trying to be polite.
I sat by the window, knees curled to my chest, watching the droplets race each other down the pane. The silence inside was too loud. Richard had left for the day—something about meetings, but he hadn't said more than a few words when he left this morning.
He hadn't said goodbye either. Not like he ever did.
It was strange, the kind of silence that lingers after an argument you didn't have. We hadn't fought, but things were tense. As if we were speaking on two different frequencies lately, with words landing just a few inches off their mark.
I ran my fingers over the thin fabric of the throw blanket wrapped around my legs. It still smelled like him. Faint cologne and something warmer underneath.
Maybe I was reading too much into things.
Maybe I always had.
Layla texted me again this morning—just a photo. Her desk littered with tools, a circuit board, and a mug of coffee so big it practically dwarfed her laptop. I smiled. She'd always thrived in chaos.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. Just a bit tired."
"Want me to come over?"
"No, I'm fine. Focus on your world-domination-through-tech."
She replied with a skull emoji and a heart, and I felt a pinch in my chest. It was weird, missing people while still being surrounded by others.
The door opened around five. I heard the soft click of Richard's shoes as he walked in, the pause when he noticed I wasn't in the living room, and then the measured steps toward the bedroom.
I didn't turn around when he entered. Just kept looking at the rain.
"I brought your favorite," he said, setting down a paper bag on the dresser. "That lemon soup from that Greek place you like."
I nodded, still not turning.
Silence. Then a sigh. "Are you mad at me?"
"I don't know," I whispered.
He moved closer, and for a moment, I thought he would reach for me—but he didn't. He sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from me.
"I feel like I keep messing this up," he said quietly. "Every time I try to get close to you, it feels like you're pulling away."
I swallowed hard. "That's not fair."
"I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly, softer. "I just… I don't want us to keep dancing around whatever this is."
I turned to face him then, leaning against the window frame. His expression was tired. Not just physically—emotionally drained. Like he'd been carrying the weight of something unspoken.
"You've been distant too, Richard," I said. "Not just me."
"I know." His eyes met mine. "I've been scared."
"Of what?"
"Of failing you," he said. "Of turning into everything you ran from. Of being… not enough."
That undid something in me.
I walked toward him and knelt in front of him, placing my hands on his knees. "You don't have to be perfect. I never wanted perfect."
His breath caught.
"I just wanted you," I said, quieter this time.
He placed his hand over mine, and for a long time, we stayed like that. No grand declarations. No apologies. Just two people trying to find a way back to each other in the quiet.
Later that night, as we lay in bed—his hand on my back, mine curled into the fabric of his shirt—I whispered, "Let's stop pretending like we're okay when we're not."
He nodded against my hair. "Deal."
And maybe that was all we needed.
Not solutions. Not clarity.
Just the promise to keep trying.
Even when it hurt.
Even when it rained.