The rain comes back three days later.
I notice it first through the soft tapping against my window. At first it sounds distant, like something happening far away from me. Then the rhythm grows steadier until the whole street seems wrapped in it.
Rain used to make me feel safe.
It blurred the world outside. Turned everything quiet. People stayed indoors. The streets emptied. Nothing unexpected could happen when the sky itself told everyone to slow down.
Today it feels different.
Today I wonder if he is outside.
I try to ignore the thought.
I sit at my desk with my notebook open, pen resting against the page. The words from earlier in the week are still there, written in careful lines. I read them again even though I already know them by heart.
There is a bubble that surrounds me,no one sees it, but it's there.
I stop there.
The rest of the poem feels too personal to read right now.
The rain grows heavier.
Before I realize what I am doing, I close the notebook and stand up.
When I step outside, the air is cool and damp. The rain is steady but not violent, the kind that soaks quietly into everything.
And he is there.
Sam is standing near the fence, leaning slightly against the post like he has been there for a while.
He notices me almost immediately.
"Hey," he says.
His hair is slightly wet. Drops of rain cling to the sleeve of his jacket.
"You're going to get soaked," I say.
He glances up at the sky.
"It's not that bad."
I step closer to the edge of the porch where the roof protects us from the rain.
For a moment neither of us speaks.
The street looks softer when it rains. The colors dull slightly, the sounds fade into the steady rhythm of water hitting the ground.
"You like the rain," he says after a while.
It's not a question.
"I used to," I answer.
"What changed?"
I think about that for a second.
"I think I used it as an excuse," I say slowly. "When it rained, everything stopped. I didn't have to deal with people."
He nods thoughtfully.
"That sounds familiar."
I glance at him.
"You?"
"Not the rain part," he says. "But the hiding part."
That makes sense.
The rain continues falling around us, forming tiny streams along the edge of the pavement.
"I wrote something," I say suddenly.
The words leave my mouth before I fully decide to say them.
His expression shifts with quiet curiosity.
"You're telling me this voluntarily?" he asks.
"Don't make it weird."
"I'm not making it weird. I'm just surprised."
I hesitate.
My notebook is still inside the house. The poem is inside it.
Part of me wants to keep it there forever.
"What is it about?" he asks gently.
"The bubble."
He looks at me carefully.
"That thing you always talk about?"
"Yes."
"And you wrote about it?"
I nod.
The rain softens slightly, turning into a lighter drizzle.
"Can I read it?" he asks.
The question hangs between us.
A few weeks ago the answer would have been immediate.
No.
But now I'm not so sure.
"I'm not ready yet," I say after a moment.
He doesn't seem disappointed.
"Okay."
Just like that.
No pressure.
"You will show me someday though," he says.
It's not a demand. Just quiet confidence.
I look out at the rain again.
Maybe he's right.
Maybe someday I will.
For now, standing here with the rain falling around us and the quiet understanding between us, something feels different.
The bubble is still there.
But for the first time, it feels thinner.
Like the rain might slowly wash it away if I stay here long enough.