Just One More Day Without Someone to Love
The rain had been falling for days. Not the kind that announced itself with thunder or wind, but the quiet, stubborn kind that lingered, thin threads against the window, soft enough to ignore until it became everything. It blurred the city into something shapeless, a smear of grey and light. Leo had stopped checking the weather sometime last week. It didn’t matter whether the sky had cleared. Inside his apartment, the air held the same dull weight regardless.
He lay on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, still wearing yesterday’s shirt—or maybe the day before. Time had begun to slip, hours folding into each other until they were indistinguishable, like pages stuck together in a damp book. Somewhere in the kitchen, the faucet dripped. He had meant to fix it. He remembered thinking about it once, standing beside Elara while she dried the dishes, the two of them arguing lightly over whose turn it was to call maintenance.
She had nudged him with her elbow, soap still clinging to her wrist, and said, “You always say you’ll do it tomorrow.”
He had laughed then. “Tomorrow is infinite,” he said.
She had shrugged. “That’s why it feels safe.”
Now the sound came at him in slow, hollow taps that echoed through the apartment like something counting down. He tried to measure time between each drop. One, two, three. He lost track. His phone buzzed on the coffee table. Leo didn’t move at first. The sound no longer carried urgency; it had just become another part of the background, like the rain or the drip. Eventually, he reached for it, his finger slow, as if motion itself required permission. No messages. Just a notification he didn’t care about. The lock screen lit up anyway.
A photograph.
He should have changed it. He thought about it; he had hovered over the settings more than once, but something in him resisted, like replacing it would mean admitting the version of his life inside that frame was gone for good. It was from two summers ago, a wedding, someone else’s happiness preserved in the background while they stood at the center of their own. Elara was mid-laugh, her head tilted slightly back, eyes half-closed like she didn’t care who was watching. He used to tease her for it.
“People are staring,” he’d say.
“They can look,” she’d reply, shrugging. “
I’m having a good time.”
In the photo, his arm was around her waist. Not tight. Never tight—she hated feeling held down. Just enough to say I’m here without saying stay. He wondered, not for the first time, when that had stopped being enough.
He stared at the image until the screen dimmed, then went dark, leaving a faint reflection of his own face in its place. For a moment, he didn’t recognize it. The angles looked sharper. The exhaustion settled in a way that felt permanent, like it had found a place to live. He set the phone down. The silence returned immediately, heavier for the interruption.
Leo sat up slightly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. He remembered that night—how the city had smelled after rain, the hum of the traffic, the music spilling from the restaurant as they walked past. He had thought then that everything could be steady, that love could be enough.
It hadn’t been.
He had let his guard down. He had actually let himself believe that the chaos in his head had found a permanent resident in her calm. He was getting used to it—being the one she chose, the one she came home to. Being someone she loved. Then she had pulled the rug.
He picked up the photograph again, turning it slightly in his fingers. “I loved you,” he whispered softly. Not that it mattered anymore. It had always mattered to him. Always.
The apartment felt colder somehow, though the radiator hissed in the corner. The rain tapped its quiet rhythm on the glass, as if counting time he no longer participated in. Leo’s mind wandered. He thought about calling her. Not to beg, not to plead, just to hear her voice. His thumb hovered over her name in his contacts. He didn’t. He never did. Instead, he put the phone down, letting the weight of it settle on the table.
From the hallway came a soft sound—Oliver, the orange tabby, winding between his legs, purring. Leo bent down to scratch behind the cat’s ears. “Even you,” he murmured, “don’t make sense right now.” Oliver twitched his ears, as if in mild agreement, then settled back on the couch beside him. Leo leaned back, staring at the ceiling, the room dim and quiet, except for the rain, the drip, and the faint, steady presence of a cat that asked for nothing and gave too much.
He exhaled slowly, almost a sigh, almost a surrender. “I let my guard down,” he said again, quieter this time. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been holding it in. Not the words. Not the grief. Not the truth.
And maybe that was the first step—admitting it. Naming it. Letting it sit, heavy and unwelcome and real.
He lay back, one arm over his eyes again, but this time the darkness felt a little different. Not empty. Not quite broken. Just waiting.
Waiting for something. Anything.
For a long time, he let the rain speak for him.
