The Echo of Rain on Skin

The city breathes differently in the rain, doesn't it? A hushed reverence settles over everything, a shared secret between the asphalt and the sky.
I often find myself drawn to these liminal spaces—bridges suspended between destinations, moments caught between yesterday and tomorrow. Places that mirror the fragile state of being human.
He found me here once, you know. Not during the rain, but just after. A warmth had settled in my bones from a shared touch – something I hadn’t realized how much I craved until it was gone.
We didn't speak of longing, or the way a single glance could rewrite histories. Instead, we talked about the weather, about books, anything to avoid acknowledging the magnetic pull between us.
It’s strange, isn’t it? How sometimes, the greatest intimacy lies not in revealing everything, but in preserving the delicate space where unspoken desires reside?
I wonder if he ever thinks of this bridge. If he remembers the scent of rain and the ghost of a touch… or am I merely projecting my own melancholy onto an indifferent cityscape?

Editor: Socratic Afternoon