The Night when the Rain Stayed

My Dear Rain,

I still remember the first moment I knew you could feel me.

It arrived quietly— after I had already been broken,

after disappointment had carved its name into my chest,

after anger burned itself out and left only ash.

Left behind. Again.

Unseen. Again.

I asked myself the cruelest question:

Am I that easy to forget?

I gave them everything—

my patience, my softness, my prayers disguised as effort.

I poured my whole heart into hands

that never stopped to look at it.

They walked past my devotion

as if it were ordinary,

as if love like mine was replaceable.

The pain didn’t ache. It shattered.

It broke me into pieces so small.

I didn’t know how to gather myself back.

So I cried in prayer.

Not the poetic kind—

but the desperate kind that steals your breath.

Hours passed.

Words turned into sobs,

sobs turned into anger,

anger turned into silence,

And silence was all I could offer God.

“Why?” I asked.

“Am I that worthless?”

“Am I not meant for love,

for care,

for choosing?”

I’m so tired of this.

I cried until my body surrendered to sleep,

tears still warm on my face.

Sometime in the night, the rain began.

Soft at first, then relentless—

as if the sky itself could no longer hold back.

It felt like the heavens were crying with me,

mourning something unnamed,

staying awake because I couldn’t.

We wept together,

the sky and I,

until darkness loosened its grip.

When morning came,

I woke to a world transformed.

Water everywhere.

Streets drowned.

Silence heavy.

Floods where there had once been ground.

I stood there confused, fragile, still sore—

asking, What happened while I was asleep?

And maybe that’s when I understood.

While I was breaking,

the sky remembered me.

While I felt forgotten,

all creation responded.

My pain did not disappear—

But it was witnessed.

And somehow, in the aftermath,

I was still here.

Breathing.

Standing.

Alive.

Maybe I wasn’t worthless.

Maybe I was just carrying too much love for the wrong hands.

And maybe the flood

wasn’t punishment—but proof

that even when no one sees me,

I am never crying alone.