Do You Still Think Of Me When It Rains?

By Anshul Purvia

I’m sitting in my balcony again.

It’s raining the same way it did that evening,

when you ran out, laughing,

trying to save your stupid white shoes from getting wet.

You always hated mess,

but somehow you still chose me.

The rain hits the railing now,

soft and rhythmic,

like it’s trying to fill the silence you left.

I wonder what you’re doing right now.

Maybe you’re driving somewhere,

windows rolled up,

radio playing too loud to let your thoughts breathe.

Maybe you’re with someone new

who doesn’t ask too many questions

when your eyes drift to the sky.

And yet,

I can’t help but think,

when you see the rain,

do you think of me?

Of that night when we got drenched

and you said,

“This moment, right here,

I could live in it forever.”

And I, foolishly, believed you.

Sometimes I still hear your laugh,

echoing in the walls of my memory.

The way you used to look at me

like I was both a poem and the poet.

We had something rare, didn’t we?

But we ruined it with pride,

with late replies,

with things left unsaid because

we thought love would wait.

If only we hadn’t let those small arguments

turn into distances.

If only we’d stayed a little longer

instead of trying to prove who could leave first.

Maybe right now,

we’d be sitting here together,

watching this same rain,

sharing a cup of coffee,

arguing about who makes it better.

But the truth is,

I don’t know you anymore.

And you don’t know

how many times I still reach for my phone

just to stop myself halfway.

I guess some people

never really leave,

they just become a season.

And every time it rains,

you come back

like a whisper in the water.

So I sit here,

letting the rain soak the edge of my dress,

pretending you’re still here,

laughing, complaining, loving.

And for a fleeting second,

it almost feels

like we never made those mistakes.

Like it never ended that way.

By Anshul Purvia