It rained the week Ryan left. Not the dramatic kind of rain that demands umbrellas and tears—just a steady drizzle that soaked into everything quietly. New York looked softer under it, as if the city itself was trying not to make a scene.

Emily stood by the window, coffee in hand, watching the streaks slide down the glass. The cup had gone cold, but she kept holding it anyway. Some habits felt like company.

He’d texted that morning: *“Landed. Gray skies. Feels like Seattle’s flirting with me.”*  

She typed back, *“Don’t cheat on me with weather.”*  

He sent a photo of clouds that looked suspiciously romantic. She almost smiled.

Almost.

The first few days were filled with polite communication—the kind that keeps you from falling apart.  

Morning check-ins. Random memes. Half jokes that avoided the word *miss*.  

She told him about the customers who argued over who invented espresso martinis.  

He told her about his new team, his new desk, his temporary apartment that smelled like new furniture and indecision.

Everything was “fine.” That awful, fragile word.

At night, Emily would come home, turn on the same lamp he fixed, and pretend she wasn’t waiting for her phone to light up.

Sometimes it did.  

Sometimes it didn’t.  

She hated that she noticed the difference.

Ryan’s life in Seattle looked good on paper.  

He worked, he ran by the water, he learned to make bad coffee in a better kitchen. People liked him. His boss called him “a stabilizing presence.”  

He smiled when people said that, because stability was supposed to feel like success.  

But some nights, he’d wake up at 3 a.m. and wonder why everything that was supposed to feel *right* suddenly felt *quiet.*

He missed the noise.  

Her noise.  

The way she made every ordinary moment sound like life was in stereo.

Two weeks in, Emily stopped pretending she wasn’t counting days.  

She told Jess she was “doing great,” which translated to “barely functional.”  

Jess didn’t buy it. “You look like someone who replaced water with emotional damage.”  

“Hydration’s overrated.”  

Jess sighed. “You should visit him.”  

Emily shook her head. “He’s figuring things out. I don’t want to be the reason he stays or leaves.”  

“Maybe you’re the reason he wants to.”  

Emily didn’t reply.  

She just wiped the counter, a little too hard, until the glass squeaked like a protest.

On the other coast, Ryan stared at his half-packed boxes. He still hadn’t unpacked completely—part of him afraid that doing so meant he’d already chosen to stay.

His coworker noticed. “You settling in okay?”  

“Still adjusting,” he said.  

They nodded, as if that was normal. But adjustment wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he’d started hearing her laugh in every quiet room.  

He wanted to call her, to tell her he missed the way she filled spaces. But wanting and doing were different species of courage.

Instead, he opened his laptop and worked until the thought dulled.

Three weeks later, Emily’s phone buzzed.  

**Ryan:** “You awake?”  

**Emily:** “Barely. You?”  

**Ryan:** “Can I tell you something stupid?”  

**Emily:** “That’s my love language.”  

**Ryan:** “I bought a plant. It’s dying.”  

**Emily:** “You’re just trying to impress me.”  

**Ryan:** “It’s not working.”  

**Emily:** “Then you’re doing it right.”  

She laughed, the kind of laugh that came from somewhere tired but real.  

He didn’t text back for a few minutes. Then:  

**Ryan:** “I miss you.”  

She stared at the words, the three she’d avoided saying herself.  

She didn’t reply right away. Instead, she set the phone down, heart pounding.  

By the time she picked it up again, the message had been read.

The next day, she called.  

He answered before the first ring ended.  

Neither spoke at first. The silence between them had weight, but not distance.  

Finally, she said, “I miss you too.”  

He exhaled, something like relief tangled with regret. “That helps.”  

“Not enough to fix it.”  

“No,” he said softly. “But it helps.”  

They talked for an hour—about everything and nothing. About her broken espresso machine, about his neighbors who owned a rooster for some reason, about how both of them pretended to be fine and were terrible at it.  

When the call ended, the ache remained, but it was softer now. Like pressing a bruise that’s healing.

Time, that uncooperative thing, kept moving.  

A month passed. Then another.  

Their calls grew longer but less frequent, filled with quieter moments—the kind that said *I’m still here* without needing proof.

Emily learned to live around missing him.  

She worked, she danced, she laughed at Jess’s bad karaoke nights.  

But some evenings, she’d catch herself checking the door like he might walk in again.

And in Seattle, Ryan learned to live around her absence.  

He cooked for one. He ran longer. He built a life that looked complete from the outside.  

But every success felt like an echo, not a song.

One night, it snowed—a rare thing in New York.  

Emily walked home through flakes that melted on her hair, thinking how snow was just frozen rain pretending to be special.  

Her phone buzzed.  

**Ryan:** “It’s raining here. Feels unfair.”  

**Emily:** “Trade you.”  

**Ryan:** “Deal. Just for a day.”  

**Emily:** “Just for a day,” she echoed, though what she really meant was *I wish it was longer.*

Weeks later, he surprised her. No warning, no plan. Just a flight and an impulse he couldn’t rationalize.  

When she opened her apartment door and saw him standing there, wet from the rain, suitcase in hand, she didn’t speak. Neither did he.  

He just said, “Hi.”  

She said, “You look terrible.”  

He smiled. “Good. I was going for authenticity.”  

They stood there for a moment too long, until she stepped aside. “Get in before the city changes its mind.”  

He dropped the suitcase by the door. “I only have three days.”  

“Then don’t waste them.”

Later that night, they sat on her floor again, same spot, same lamp.  

He told her about Seattle, about how he liked the quiet but hated what it reminded him of.  

She told him she’d stopped waiting for things to make sense.  

There was no big speech, no movie moment. Just two people finally breathing in the same space again.

At one point, she said, “You’ll have to go back.”  

“I know.”  

“And I’ll still be here.”  

“I know that too.”  

He reached out, fingers brushing hers. “Maybe that’s enough.”  

She smiled, sad and soft. “Maybe.”  

When he left again three days later, it didn’t feel like loss.  

It felt like a pause.  

A quiet understanding that sometimes love isn’t about distance or timing—it’s about the decision to keep finding your way back, even when you’re apart.  

As she watched him disappear into the cab, the city started to rain again.  

This time, she didn’t mind.  

Because some people are worth waiting through the weather for.