where are my stars

We first met in the spring of 2023, and I didn't know it yet, but the summer that immediately followed was one of the rainiest that I'd ever seen. Every time I made the two-and-a-half hour drive, I'd check the weather and see that the same storm I was racing against was the same storm they'd be under. There would be rain in the forecast for the whole time I'd be with them, and for the next couple of days after I was supposed to leave. We would talk while we were apart, about how the rain never stopped or left either of us alone, and how the thunder would shake my house and their apartment. My backyard was always full of puddles, and so was their town. We split up and stopped talking that fall. The rain eventually slowed down, and that winter barely snowed. The whole year after was dry, too. There was maybe a drizzle or dusting here and there, but never anything that would keep people inside or flood out the streets' intersections. We eventually started talking again, and rain was in the forecast once more. Big and heavy storms that would bring down branches and drop fat raindrops that would sneak in through a crack in my dining room ceiling. There were downpours and blizzards; many long nights of staying up to talk while surrounded by candles and wrapped in a warm blanket. It felt good. Rain pattered in one ear while they'd chatter away in the other. We ended up splitting ways again. Just like the last time, I was dismissed. Brushed off and turned away from; I cared too much, and at the same time, was too hot for them to hold. But the rain stayed. Every day my name isn't on the work schedule, precipitation is in the forecast. Wide and dark storms that bring down the rain in sheets. The storm drains can't handle the rushing flow of runoff, and my gutters spill over the sides long before the water reaches the spout. I watch the overflow quietly. There is no chattering now, just the pounding of rain on the roof and my heart in my ears. The static of the lightning pulls down the corners of my lips and the low pressure squeezes my chest until my heart feels like it's going to crack. The raindrops splash my face and wet my eyes. It feels like I'm drowning all over again. My hips and shoulders ache, and the lump in my throat keeps any fresh air from getting in. I open my mouth to no one, and I am capable of making no noise. There is only a rush of water, hot and salted raindrops running down my cheeks and neck. The rain is what holds me now. Hundreds of freezing fingers that trace down my body the same way theirs had. Dozens of tiny hands, leaving broken streaks to accumulate and soak my skin down to the shivering bones underneath. If I could, I would stay out there in the rain. I'd let the water come up above my ankles and knees, pass my waist and cover my shoulders. I would stand there, drenched and still, until this sadness sloughed off like an old skin. I would stand until every ounce of missing was washed away. If I could, I would stand there in the rain and reminisce about hearing, "What're you doing out there? Get in!"