The Paper left in a Drizzle

(Trigger warning - Drowning and Suffocation)

The Paper left in a Drizzle

“You always smell like rain,” I say.
It’s not entirely true.
Today, it’s chlorine mixed with soap,
something green, maybe cedar,
and beneath it, a faint trace of your cologne—
the one you wore to fight off summer.

You shrug, like you always do,
half-smiling, the left corner of your mouth lifting.
“You never liked the rain,” you say.
“I liked how it clung to you,” I reply,
and you laugh, dimples carving the sound into my chest.
Your dark hair drips water in uneven rhythms,
each drop curling your edges,
like paper left in a drizzle.
But you don’t push it back like you used to.
It glistens against the scar
just above your eyebrow—
a crooked line carved by childhood
and a game of "who’s braver."
“Me, always me,” I teased back then.
“Sure,” you said, bleeding and grinning.

I catch myself staring.
“You still look the same,” I tell you,
and your brows arch,
a small wave rolling across your face.
“Liar,” you say,
“Didn’t we make a pact against nostalgia?”

“I missed you,” I say,
though the words come out garbled,
wrapped in the heavy weight of the present.
“Yeah, you’d better,” you reply,
grinning in that crooked way
that reminds me of the boy who climbed trees with us,
who swung into the azure pond with the biggest splash,
But now I see the lines,
the new shadows beneath your eyes,
the years have etched in quietly,
as if you’ve been carrying us both.

“He missed you too,” I add casually,
my voice edged with that familiar grumble.
“He was mad you left.
I was too. But it’s okay now.
You’re back, aren’t you?”
You tilt my head,
“I am back.”
Your voice wraps around me,
a low hum like summer cicadas,
a sound that softens the edges of time.
Your brown eyes settle on me,
warm and certain,
like the earth deciding it can bear you forever.

“You’re staring again,” you say.
“Can’t help it,” I reply with a wide smile.
Your fingers trail the edge of my jaw,
cool and careful,
the way you once touched clay sculptures
in your mom’s studio
where we snuck in to paint mustaches on them.
“I thought you’d forget me,” you admit,
soft, as if the current might carry it away.
“Never.”
The word slips out too fast,
my throat catching on the sharp edges of a riptide.

You lean closer,
your breath brushing my cheek,
cooler than it should be.
“Breathe,” you whisper in my ear.
“Why don’t you ever breathe around me?”
I shake my head,
tilting it to see the surface above us,
a silvery ceiling trembling in waves,
just out of reach,
my hand raised to hold yours—
solid, real, warm as always.

“Why didn't you come back sooner?” I ask,
the words bubbling up like a last confession.
“You’re the one who decides when… the one who keeps coming back,”,
Your voice holds something heavy,
not anger, not sadness—
just the weight of knowing what comes next.

The ripples arrive suddenly,
shattering the shape of you—
that smile, those eyes, the scar I once kissed.
And then hands—too hot,
burning through my skin,
searing me into motion—
yanking me upward,
dragging me through the surface.
Air crashes into me,
wild and burning,
my lungs clawing at it like it might undo the silence below.
I cough, choking on your name,
and look up into a face I may or may not know,
but it’s not yours, like the first time.
It’s never you.
It will never be you again.