Before the drought, there was rain.
The kind of rain that made everything bloom, especially her. It’s strange, the way memory works. You never know which moments will fossilize and which ones will evaporate. But she remembers that one night with terrifying clarity, the first time she knew he really saw her.
Not just looked at her.
Saw her.
She was wearing a hoodie too big for her body, no makeup, her hair pulled back like she hadn’t even tried. She had laughed at something stupid, a lazy pun she didn’t expect to land. And when she looked up, he was just… staring.
Not blinking. Not breathing, maybe.
His voice barely worked when he said, “Damn.”
That was it. Just that one word, suspended between them like steam from a fresh cup of coffee. But it was enough. In that moment, she wasn’t just cute. Wasn’t just his girl. She was everything. A miracle he couldn’t stop discovering.
And she remembers thinking: So this is what it feels like to be rained on by love.
Back then, he would wake her up with whispers. Sometimes not even words, just sounds. A hum. A breath. The gentle brushing of his lips against her collarbone as she stirred.
She used to keep her eyes closed longer than she had to, just to stretch the moment out. The soft flood of attention. The way his fingertips traced invisible stories across her skin. She felt worshipped. Nourished. Alive.
Even her silences were full back then.
Now her silences feel like tombs.
They used to have kitchen dances.
No music. No reason.
He’d pull her close while the water boiled and just sway.
Once, she spilled tea on herself because he spun her around and said, “You always smell like summer.”
She’d rolled her eyes and called him ridiculous.
He said, “Exactly. That’s why I love you.”
And kissed her nose.
When he kissed her nose, her entire body reacted like roots soaking in rain. She melted, bloomed, and stood taller all at once.
He was so curious then.
About everything.
What she thought. What she dreamed.
Why she liked the color mustard yellow.
What her dreams looked like when she was five.
Whether she believed in past lives, and if so, had they found each other before?
She could talk for hours, and he would never drift. Never check his phone. Never look bored.
She was his favorite subject.
And now?
She can barely get a full sentence out without feeling like she’s in the way.
There was a time he used to photograph her in secret.
Not for social media. Not for proof.
Just to capture her. Just because.
She’d find the photos days later. Mid-laugh. Half-asleep. Reading a book on the porch with the sun in her eyelashes. There was one she kept, printed, framed, and hidden in the back of her closet now. It was taken during a nap on the couch, her hand curled into his hoodie like a child clinging to comfort.
He told her that was the moment he knew she belonged with him. Because even asleep, her body trusted him.
And now she flinches when his hand grazes hers by accident.
Not because he hurt her.
But because he hasn’t held her on purpose in weeks.
She remembers the first rainstorm they ever shared.
Real rain.
Thunder. Lightning. A blackout. Candles lit in every room.
They’d made love on the living room floor like the world had disappeared.
He kissed every inch of her. Not with hunger. But with awe.
After, he whispered, “You feel like shelter.”
She didn’t answer then. Just buried her face in his chest and tried not to cry. She didn’t have the words to tell him what it meant. What it did to her to be seen like that.
Not beautiful. Not sexy.
Shelter.
It was the highest compliment she’d ever received.
The drought didn’t come all at once.
It never does.
First it was a skipped morning kiss. Then a shorter reply to a long message. Then no reply at all. Then a dinner where the only thing shared was salt.
Then… silence.
The kind that isn’t loud.
The kind that’s polite.
Predictable.
Permanent.
Now, when she speaks, he nods instead of asking questions.
Now, when she undresses, he scrolls instead of staring.
Now, when she reaches for him, she feels like a ghost trying to touch something real.
And yet, her body still remembers the rain.
Sometimes it aches for it in the middle of the day, a phantom sensation. Her back tingles where his hand used to rest. Her ears burn where his voice used to live. Her thighs twitch with the echo of how he used to kneel before her like she was altar and answer.
She doesn’t even need sex.
She just wants presence.
A touch that says, I remember who you are.
But she is slowly forgetting.
Forgetting herself.
Forgetting what it felt like to be fed.
There’s a photo she keeps on her phone. A candid he took one weekend upstate. She was barefoot in a sundress, laughing at the sky. He’d caught it mid-laugh, sunlight kissing her shoulder. She looks wild and free and drenched in joy.
When she saw the photo, she gasped.
He told her, “That’s how I see you every day.”
That photo is two years old.
And she hasn’t looked like that in months.
Not because she’s aged.
But because she’s drying out.
What a thing, to be dehydrated by the one who used to flood you.
She walks around their home now like a wilted vine — trying to cling to the walls they built together. But some days, she can’t find the sun. Can’t find the source. Can’t even remember where the light switch is.
She keeps trying to bloom, though.
Keeps showing up with soft skin and open hands.
Keeps hoping he’ll remember how to pour again.
But he is not thirsty.
And that’s the difference.
She goes to bed early sometimes, hoping he’ll follow. Not for sex. Not even for talk. Just so she can feel the weight of him near her and pretend that proximity is enough.
But lately, he stays on the couch.
Or in his office.
Or on his phone, eyes glazed with timelines and strangers.
Tonight, she whispered his name as she passed behind him.
He didn’t hear her.
She smiled anyway. Because maybe tomorrow he will.
Maybe tomorrow the rain will return.
Maybe tomorrow the dream will wake up again.
But she is learning that even rain returns to the sky when it’s not received.
And she is getting lighter.
Not happier.
Not healed.
Just… lighter.
Like something untethering itself quietly.
Like something deciding it may need to float somewhere new.
Somewhere the soil is softer.
Somewhere the water doesn’t need to be begged for.
Somewhere she remembers who she is when she blooms.