“I hate the rain,” she said. I chuckled, finding it amusing how contradictory it sounded, considering her touch feels like gentle raindrops on my face—like being at home, alone, in the rain. Her tiny fingers tapping on my forehead create a sensation as if lying beneath a giant cloud, with all the world’s rain falling gently.

I attempted to savor those moments, yet I admit I couldn’t. Her hands, like magic, would lull me to sleep. Realizing this after the initial days, I found myself resisting against such a simple solution to a pressing issue. (My sleep)

On this rainy, dark night, I reflect on her hands touching my face, as now even the rain brings her to mind. Despite the melancholy the rain brings, it nurtures the trees I adore. She’s my rain, making my heart bloom.