The Weight of Unspoken Things

He always found me observing the rain, didn't he? A pathetic habit for someone trying to appear composed. He’d offer a spare umbrella, his touch fleeting, and we'd stand in awkward silence.
It wasn’t the rain I was watching, of course. It was him—the way droplets clung to his lashes before disappearing, like unshed tears or words left unsaid. A small detail that felt… weighty.
I started carrying my own umbrella now. Black, practical, unremarkable. Just in case he thought there was something more to these encounters than just shared misfortune and the weather.
He probably thinks I’m avoiding him. Good. Better this way. This city has enough silence already; I don't need another reason to feel alone.

Editor: Hedgehog