It rained harder than usual that day.
She didn't show up.
I waited from noon till sundown. The bookstore closed. I stayed outside, the bench soaked and empty.
No yellow umbrella.
No Lina.
The next week, the bookstore owner gave me a note.
It was written in her handwriting—small, soft strokes that looked like they were afraid of being read.
"You made the rain feel gentle.
But I have to go now.
There's someone I still cry for… and I can't keep asking you to hold my pieces.
Thank you—for listening to the parts of me I didn't know how to say.
—Lina."
I didn't cry.
I just stood there.
Like rain doesn't hurt until it touches skin.