i once loved a boy who said that he loved the rain.
and it was true: he loved the rain in his good moods. loved the rain when it allowed him to stay inside under a blanket. loved the sound when it would softly hit his roof while he slept. even loved to weather a storm once in awhile.
but he didnt always. he would hide under his umbrella, scared of getting wet. he would curse the clouds from preventing him from basking in the sun. he would wish and pray that the rain would go away. and some nights, when the rain was especially loud on his roof over his head, he would get angry and spite the storms that he claimed to love.
he loved the rain, but only sometimes.
he loved me in the same way.
at times he loved my outbursts, my energy, my wit, my constant questions. at times he told me that it was cute how much i knew about random topics. how he loved to hear me talk about my passions.
but he didnt always. he would tell me to talk quieter. his face would contort with annoyance before i could even speak the question mark. he would huff and sigh and tell me to stop asking. why do you need to know. i dont know. stop asking. he loved me in my quiet, controlled state. he loved me when i supported him and did so gladly. he loved me when he wanted to. when i fit him. but he didnt always.
i love rain. i love when its loud and violent, when it slaps my window, carried by the wind. i love to fall asleep to the soft pitter-patter or the cacophonous thunder. i love to sit by my open window, head on the sill and just listen to it, breathe it in, the scent of fresh water. i love to stand in it, to play in it, to kiss in it, and walk around in it. im not afraid of getting wet. the curious thing about getting wet is that you will always dry.
and now i think that he truly did believe that he loved the rain. he thought that in order to love something, it was okay to not love all of it. it was okay to love parts and pieces, and only when those parts and pieces aligned with how he was feeling. he thought that he could have the soft pitter-patter without the occasional storm, without having to give up the sun, without having to change himself. but storms always move on.
-Bella Cerrule, ’23