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.
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. I watched the first few drops hit the
The sky didn’t ask permission before turning a bruised shade of violet. It just happened, much like the way you left. But to me, it’s a metronome ticking back
The rain is still the same. I’m the only thing that’s different. The sky didn’t ask permission before turning a