The Weight of Rain

She sat by the window watching the rain blur the city into streaks of gray and neon. Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, the condensation cool against her skin. The water inside had gone warm, untouched.

When the door opened, she didn't need to look up. She'd know his footsteps anywhere—the slight drag of his left heel, the way he paused just inside the threshold as if gathering himself.

"Sarah," he said, and her name sounded like something fragile in his mouth.

He'd cut his hair. That was the first thing she noticed—the thick waves she'd run her fingers through during lazy Sunday mornings were gone, replaced by something practical and severe. He wore a hat now too, a gray thing that cast shadows over eyes that used to crinkle when he laughed.

"I ordered you an orange," he said, placing it on the table like a peace offering. "You still peel them in one long strip."

She did, still, after all these years. Her fingers found the familiar rhythm, tearing through the rind, releasing the sharp citrus scent that transported her back to their first apartment, the one with the leaky faucet and the mattress on the floor.

"I'm getting married," he said.

The orange strip hung between them, fragile and unbroken.

She didn't cry. She'd wasted enough tears on him already. "I know."

"The baby's due in November."

"Congratulations."

He reached across the table, his hand hovering over hers. "I never stopped—"

"Don't." Her voice didn't waver. "Just don't."

Outside, the rain intensified, drumming against the glass like a thousand tiny accusations. The water in her glass rippled from the vibrations.

"I should go," he said.

"Yes."

He stood, adjusted his hat, and walked out into the downpour. She watched through the window as his silhouette dissolved into the gray city, leaving her alone with her uneaten orange and the ghost of a life they'd almost built together.

She took a bite. It was bitter.