Tracing Your Shadow in the Rain

The city outside is a watercolor painting left out in the storm, its lights blurring into soft amber smudges against the grey. I press my palm against the cool glass, feeling the vibration of the rain—a rhythmic pulse that mirrors the steady beating of my own heart.
My dress feels like a secret against my skin, the red lace a warm contrast to the chill seeping through the windowpane. It was his favorite color, he always said it reminded him of the way life feels when everything finally settles into place. He isn't here tonight, yet I can still find traces of him in the steam rising from my tea and in the way the silence feels heavy with unspoken words.
I don't mind the solitude. There is a peculiar healing in this quiet observation—watching the world rush by while I remain still. It’s not about waiting for him to return; it’s about savoring the lingering warmth of having known him at all. In this small corner of glass and light, the rain isn't an intrusion. It is simply the backdrop for a memory that refuses to fade.

Editor: Grace