Chapter 26 After the Rain

He hadn’t meant to find her again.

It started the way most mistakes did with insomnia.

The kind that dragged him awake at 2 a.m., the ceiling above him blank and endless, the silence too loud. He’d given up on sleep weeks ago, surviving instead on caffeine and regret. But that night, something pushed him online scrolling aimlessly through corners of the internet where people poured their hearts into words because they had no one left to listen.

He didn’t expect to see her name there.

Not the full name she’d dropped the last part, used only “Amara Writes.” But he would’ve known her cadence anywhere. The way her words curved, how her pain carried rhythm like a prayer disguised as a poem.

He clicked on one of her posts. Then another. And another.

Each one was a fragment of her voice, familiar and foreign all at once. She’d always had a way with words, even when she didn’t try. Back then, she used them to soothe him. Now, she used them to heal herself.

He couldn’t blame her.

He read until dawn, until the sky began to lighten  until he reached The Echo Between Us.

The title alone made his chest tighten.

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen, knowing that once he read it, he wouldn’t be able to unknow it. But he clicked anyway.

You can’t keep love in silence.

It spills, it stains, it leaves fingerprints on everything you touch.

Even the things you swore you’d keep untouched.

He felt those words like they were written on his skin. Every line was a mirror  her pain, her understanding, her acceptance. And beneath it all, something he hadn’t expected: grace.

She wasn’t angry anymore.

He didn’t know whether that made it better or worse.

He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. For years, he’d tried to rationalize what happened that letting her go was the right thing, that love shouldn’t be a debt someone keeps repaying. But reading her now, he realized he hadn’t let her go at all. He’d only stepped aside, pretending distance was closure.

And somehow, she’d turned that distance into art.

He found himself typing before he could stop.

A comment. Just one line.

Sometimes, silence is the only apology we know how to give.

He didn’t sign it. Didn’t dare to.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to know it was him. Maybe he just wanted her to see that someone understood. That he still remembered.

He set the phone down, but his pulse wouldn’t calm. The rain outside began, soft at first, then steadier. It sounded like her laughter from years ago  light, easy, unbothered. He almost smiled. Almost.

For the first time in months, he made coffee without the bitterness swallowing him. The smell filled the apartment and for a second, it almost felt like home again. Almost.

He sat by the window, staring at the city still half-asleep. His reflection in the glass looked older somehow  not in age, but in weight. There were shadows under his eyes, not from sleeplessness but from memories that refused to dim.

He checked her page again hours later. She hadn’t replied to the comment. Didn’t delete it either. That felt like something a quiet acknowledgment, maybe.

Then he noticed it: she’d posted a new picture.

A park bench, empty except for a folded newspaper and a cup.

He recognized it instantly  the same park he’d walked through the week before, the same spot he’d sat at, trying to make sense of everything he wasn’t saying. He hadn’t seen her, but she’d been there too. The world really did have a cruel sense of timing.

Her caption read:

“Some places don’t haunt us. They just hold our echoes until we’re ready to listen again.”

He stared at it until the letters blurred.

He liked the post before realizing what he’d done. Reflex. Then he froze, thumb hovering over the screen, wondering if she’d notice. If she’d know.

The username  @aftertherain wasn’t much of a disguise. He’d chosen it years ago, when they were still together, for a photo blog he never finished. She’d once told him the rain always sounded different after an argument softer, cleaner. “Like it forgives the sky,” she’d said.

And now, here he was. After the rain. Trying to forgive himself.

The days that followed felt strange quieter, but less hollow. He’d check her page sometimes, not obsessively, just enough to know she was okay. That she was writing, breathing, healing.

He told himself he wouldn’t reach out. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But knowing she was still out there, finding her rhythm again, was enough.

Sometimes he’d draft messages he’d never send:

I kept the book.

The one you left behind.

Page 97 still smells like you.

Or 

I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you. I left because I didn’t know how to love you right.

Then he’d delete them all. Because he’d learned finally  that love doesn’t always need an audience. Sometimes, it’s just about letting the other person live freely in your prayers.

He began writing again too, though not about her directly. His journal filled with small observations  the way mornings felt lighter, how silence could be company, how guilt could turn into gratitude if you let it.

And on one page, he wrote:

She healed louder than I ever loved her.

And maybe that’s how it was supposed to be.

He closed the notebook and looked out the window. The rain had started again, tracing thin silver lines across the glass.

Somewhere in the city, maybe she was watching the same sky.

He imagined her smiling  not for him, not because of him, but just because she could. That thought didn’t break him anymore. It softened him.

He raised his cup slightly toward the horizon, as though toasting something unseen.

“After the rain,” he murmured.

And for the first time in years, it didn’t sound like regret.