I Don’t Know Why It Keeps Raining

Jason POV

Holding back truths, waiting for clear skies.

I honestly don’t know why it keeps raining.

Spring isn’t supposed to feel like this—

constant, relentless drizzle,

as if the world itself hesitates.

It’s not particularly cold,

but I still find myself reaching for extra layers,

searching for some comfort,

something familiar to steady myself against uncertainty.

Strangely, every time the thought of her crosses my mind,

she seems to appear,

as though responding to some silent, unspoken call within me.

I believed that at my age, I was past the point

of being so profoundly unsettled by someone.

Yet she broke into my life like sunlight through glass,

fracturing all my carefully maintained composure.

—

She possesses an irresistible kind of magnetism.

Bright, spontaneous, vividly alive.

Everything about her feels unpredictable,

in stark contrast to my deliberate nature.

She’s like a stirring spoon, breaking through the settled grounds of coffee.

One gentle swirl, and every hidden feeling rises to the surface,

leaving me unsettled and fully awake.

I find myself watching her carefully,

observing quietly, cautiously from a distance,

constantly questioning myself:

Does she truly care for me, or has she merely grown accustomed to my presence?

And beneath those doubts lies a deeper question:

What could someone so vibrant possibly see in someone as reserved and ordinary as me?

These uncertainties swell within me,

surging like a tide,

pulling stronger with each passing day.

—

That evening, we stood together by the river,

the rain falling heavier than usual,

quieting the usually vibrant city.

The streets were calm,

the river surface shimmering gently beneath the droplets.

She stood close, umbrella angled thoughtfully,

her voice gentle but firm:

“You always think carefully before you act, don’t you?”

I nodded softly,

“Yeah.”

She watched me closely,

“Have you thought this through?”

I knew precisely what she meant, but still deflected,

“About what?”

She smiled knowingly, softly,

“You tell me.”

She understood.

And so did I.

“I have,” I admitted quietly.

A brief silence,

then words came softly, almost reluctantly:

“But I can’t say it when it’s raining.”

—

She didn’t press.

Didn’t question further.

The car arrived.

I stepped away,

avoiding looking back.

Because if I had,

if I’d glimpsed her eyes even briefly,

I might have confessed the truth I’d been holding tightly for weeks.

That I love her.

That I want her to be mine.

That I’ve never desired anything as intensely as this.

Instead, I walked quietly into the rain,

hands tucked in pockets,

promising myself silently

that one day—perhaps when sunlight returns—

I will finally say everything clearly.

If the rain ever stops.