Sky full of rain

In a sky full of rain, I stand.

The downpour is relentless. The shivering has stopped, the cold no longer stings. My pyjamas cling to me, my hair drips, but I barely notice. The wind howls around me, urging, calling.

I came here for my eternal rest.

Thunder rumbles overhead like something ancient speaking my name. It beckons me forward, whispering promises I don’t understand. I take a step closer to the edge of the building, my bare foot slipping slightly against the slick concrete. The city below is blurred with mist and water, streetlights flickering like dying stars. The few people on the street pass by like shadows, their faces hidden beneath umbrellas, their worlds untouched by mine. 

They don’t see me. They never have.

The rain has always called to me. As a child, I would press my palms against the glass, watching storms roll in with a feeling I could never explain. It was as if something was waiting for me beyond the clouds, something I was meant to be a part of. 

And now, as lightning splits the sky behind me, that feeling is stronger than ever. The air hums with energy, prickling against my skin. The storm is close. Counting me down. Waiting to see if this time, I will finally do it.

My heart pounds tirelessly, carrying the weight of my existence. I look down, my vision blurring with rain and exhaustion. One more step. One more breath. That’s all I need to do yet I’m waiting for one more sign. Something to tell me this isn’t the end.

Lightning flashes, and for the briefest moment, I see something—no, someone—standing below. A lone figure in the street, staring up at me. They do not move. They do not raise an umbrella to shield themselves from the rain. The water bends around them, falling in a perfect circle away from their form. They appear to go unnoticed by the street.

My breath catches. 

They are watching me. They know. They now what I’m about to do and aren’t stopping me. 

The thunder growls, low and deep. A warning. A command. My fingers tremble as I grip the edge of the railing, my body swaying. My thoughts war with themselves—who is that? Why are they here? Why now does someone have to watch?

Lightning flashes again.

“You called.”

A voice is behind me.

I spin, slipping on the wet concrete, my arms flailing as I catch my balance. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. If this was to be the end I wasn’t ready. 

The stranger from the ground stood before me holding my forearm balancing me again.

They are cloaked in shadows, their presence humming with something I can’t name. The wind does not touch them, nor does the rain as if the storm bends to their will.

I take a step back, my foot nearing the drop. “Stay back,” I whisper, my voice raw having not spoken all day.

The stranger tilts their head, considering. “You called me.”

“I didn’t.” I shake my head, though the denial feels weak, uncertain. My entire life, I have felt this pull toward the storm, and now, standing before me, is someone who feels like a piece of that pull. “I don’t even know who you are.”

They are yet to let go. Their face is shrouded in mist, but their presence is overwhelming, like the pressure in the air before lightning strikes. “You have always called. But you were not ready to listen.”

My hands curl into fists at my sides. “Listen to what?”

The stranger lifts a hand, palm up. A flicker of light dances between their fingers—electricity, raw and alive. It crackles, illuminating their face for a split second. Their eyes gleam, catching the storm’s fury within them.

“You thought you were being called here by the storm,” they say. “But what if it was you calling the storm all along?”

The words sink into me, heavy, undeniable. My entire life, I have felt separate from the world, as though something else waited for me beyond the life I was given. I have longed for storms, felt their pull deep in my bones. And now—

Now, standing here, have I misunderstood what my thoughts were telling me?  

The stranger takes another step forward, and suddenly, I cannot feel the ground beneath me. The city fades into mist, the streetlights dimming, the skyline dissolving as if we have been pulled into another world entirely.

“You are not meant to fall,” the stranger says. “You are meant to rise.”

Something stirs within me. A warmth spreads through my chest, down my spine, tingling at my fingertips. The rain no longer feels like a force pressing down on me but rather something lifting me up. The wind curls around my body like an embrace, waiting.

The storm is not calling me to my death. It never was.

It was waiting for me to wake up.

Lightning strikes again, so close I can feel the heat of it licking at my skin. My breath stutters, but the stranger does not flinch. Their hand is still outstretched, waiting.

My voice is barely audible. “What am I?”

“I can show you,” they say, voice like rolling thunder. “If you’re ready.”

Am I ready?

For so long, I have thought of myself as lost, misplaced, drowning in a world I do not belong to. But what if I wasn’t meant to belong to it? What if I was meant for something else entirely?

I lift my hand.

The moment our fingers touch, the sky erupts. Lightning surges through me—not painful, but powerful, as though something buried deep inside has finally been set free. I gasp, my body lifting from the ground, the wind wrapping around me like a second skin.

The stranger watches, expression unreadable, as the storm welcomes me home.

And for the first time in my life, I do not feel like I am falling.

I am flying.

Or at least, I think I am.