Like the Rain
"Like Rain That Comes and Leaves."
Some days pass like headlines—loud, rushed, needing attention.
Others drift by like background music.
And some, like today, feel like rain.
Not the kind that throws itself on rooftops or floods your socks. This rain was the slow kind—quiet, unsure, falling like it had all the time in the world. Just enough to fog glass, not enough to stop the world.
I was back in that cafรฉ again. Same window seat. Third day in a row.
Cappuccino untouched, foam slowly giving up its structure.
Outside, people moved like they had places to be. Inside, I sat like I didn’t.
That’s how it used to be with her too.
She’d arrive five minutes late, hair damp at the edges, always apologizing with a smile instead of words. Sometimes, she’d bring two almond croissants. Sometimes none. She said she only liked the ones where the sugar wasn’t too visible.
“You ever think sugar’s like secrets?” she once asked. “The ones you can see aren’t worth hiding.”
She used to sit across from me—legs curled under her seat, back slightly arched, like she wasn’t fully here. Like she had one foot in some place she wasn’t ready to name. And yet when she laughed, it was full-bodied, like joy wasn’t rationed.
We weren’t together. Not in a way anyone would label us.
Just two people who started sharing time.
The first time it rained while we were there, she didn’t speak for twenty minutes. Just watched the glass.
She had this way of looking—not like she was admiring the rain, but like she was remembering something she hadn’t told me yet. Her eyes were wide. Still. Almost reverent. I could see the reflection of the window in them. And beyond that, the moon.
It had risen early that day.
And in her eyes, it looked closer than usual.
“I used to think the moon was only bright for people in love,” she said.
“You’re not in love?” I asked, softly.
“Not right now,” she replied. “But I think I’ve been. More than once. Even if just for an hour.”
That was the kind of girl she was.
She didn’t believe in permanent. She believed in potent.
Not forever, but enough.
She liked to sit with her fingers curled around warm mugs. Liked rain that didn’t come with thunder. Believed people are better when they don’t speak too much. She once told me her favorite way to be held was without being touched. I didn’t ask what that meant.
She talked in lines that made you pause.
But she never stayed long enough to explain them.
"เคुเค़เคฐ เคाเคคे เคนैं เคฆिเคจ, เคฏूँ เคนी เคฐेเค़ाเคจा
เคैเคธे เคฌाเคฐिเคถ เคा, เคเคे เคเคฒे เคाเคจा..."
The days passed like that. Light rain. Lingering warmth.
Until suddenly, it was just me at the table.
She didn’t leave a message. No goodbye. No performance.
One Sunday, she wasn’t there. And the chair across me felt emptier than usual.
I stared at her untouched coffee order, letting mine go cold too.
And just like that, she became part of the furniture I avoided looking at.
Weeks later, I stopped going to the cafรฉ.
Tried new places. Busier ones.
Tried not to see her in every slow laugh, every crooked smile.
But the rain kept coming back.
And every time, so did she.
Not in person. In pieces.
In the smell of wet dust.
In the sound of shoes slipping on tiles.
In strangers who sat across from me without knowing what their silence reminded me of.
"เคเคญी เคंเคคเค़ाเคฐ เคी เคंเคคเคนा,
เคคो เคเคญी เคตเค़्เคค เคฅเคฎ เคाเคจे เคी เคुเค़ाเคฐिเคถ..."
The worst thing about waiting is not knowing you’re doing it.
It hides in your habits.
In always choosing the window seat. In always looking up when the bell over the cafรฉ door rings.
Even after you’ve convinced yourself you’re over it.
I didn’t want to call it love. Maybe because it wasn’t. Not the kind people write sonnets about.
But it was something.
A pause in the noise.
A chapter that never felt finished, just torn.
One day, months later, I saw her again.
Not at the cafรฉ. Not at a bookstore or a movie queue like stories prefer.
She was at a crosswalk.
Hair longer. Smile smaller. No coffee in her hand.
She didn’t notice me.
The light turned green. She crossed.
And just like the first rain of a season, she came and went in seconds.
I didn’t call her name.
I didn’t want her to turn.
Because if she had, I’m not sure what I would’ve done.
So I watched her go.
Like watching a cloud drift out of frame.
"เคนเคฐ เคฌूँเคฆ เคฎें เคเค เคจเค เคเคนाเคจी
เคนเคฐ เคเคนाเคจी เคฎें เคคेเคฐा เค़िเค्เคฐ เคเคฐเคคी เคนै เคฌाเคฐिเคถ..."
She became that for me.
Not a heartbreak. Not a muse.
Just rain.
Sudden. Kind.
And always, just passing through.