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The sky didn’t ask permission before turning a bruised shade of violet. It just happened, much like the way you left.

I watched the first few drops hit the windowpane, tracing jagged paths through the dust. It’s funny how a sound can be so deafening. To anyone else, it’s just weather—a reason to grab an umbrella or run for cover. But to me, it’s a metronome ticking back to a time when your laughter was louder than the thunder. The sky didn’t ask permission before turning a

The rain is still the same. I’m the only thing that’s different. It’s funny how a sound can be so deafening

There is a specific kind of loneliness that only exists in the petrichor—the scent of wet earth and old regrets. I sit in the silence of my room, accompanied only by the syncopated beat of water on the roof, realizing that the weather hasn't changed at all in all these years. The rain is still the same

The phrase loops in my head, a broken record fueled by the humidity. I can almost see you in the reflection of the glass, shivering in that oversized denim jacket, complaining about the dampness while refusing to let go of my hand. We used to find beauty in the gray. Now, the gray is just a reminder that the sun didn't just go behind the clouds; it went away with you.