One Rainy Night in March
It was one of those rain-heavy nights that feel like the world is trying to remember something it forgot. The kind of night that makes everything quieter but somehow louder in your chest.
I had just left my cousin’s wedding. Beautiful, chaotic, loud in all the ways that love celebrations usually are.
But I left before the drinks were opened, skipped the after-party, blamed the rain and a made-up early morning.
Truthfully, I just felt… full.
Of noise, of faces, of questions I didn’t want to ask myself.
So there I was, alone in the car, windshield wipers clicking their rhythm, watching streaks of light stretch and bleed across the wet glass.
And then my phone lit up,
His name.
Three years of silence, and suddenly:
“Mariazanette. Naa man daw ka maramag?”
“catch up ba”
After almost three years of silence.
Three years since the last goodbye,
since the last time I saw his eyes
that knew too much of me—
six years’ worth, to be exact.
I don’t know why I replied.
I don’t know why I agreed to meet.
Maybe because nostalgia sometimes wears the mask of hope.
Or maybe because when someone shaped so much of who you were,
you can’t help but want to see how the sculptor turned out.
We sat in my car, the rain a soft applause on the roof,
the kind that makes you feel wrapped in something ancient and gentle.
It wasn’t awkward. Strangely, it was… comfortable.
Like muscle memory. Like slipping into an old sweatshirt
that no longer fits quite right
but still smells like home.
We laughed a little.
Talked about nothing and everything.
Avoided the question that has followed me like a ghost:
Why did we end?
Was it distance? Neglect? A slow unraveling?
Or were we just not meant to survive the version of love we knew?
I asked about his fiancée. He said they were still engaged.
Two years and still waiting.
I nodded. Didn’t ask why.
I didn’t need to.
There was no confession.
No dramatic declarations.
Just… a stillness.
A shared understanding that
this—this hour in the rain—was the real goodbye.
Not the one we fumbled through three years ago.
This one had weight. This one had grace.
I walked away not knowing where I’m headed.
Still a little unsure about the next chapter of my life.
But I know this:
Whatever road he walks,
I want joy to follow him like the rain followed us that night.
I want his laughter to be loud,
his heart to be safe.
And me?
I’ll carry this night like a pressed flower in a forgotten book,
a quiet reminder that some endings are soft,
and some goodbyes are necessary
to make room for what’s to come.
Fin.
