"The sky weeps in public,
and no one tells it to be strong."
Dear Diary,
I used to be afraid of the rain.
Its grayness felt like a warning —
like the world was holding its breath.
Like something inside the sky had broken and couldn't be fixed.
But now… I understand her better.
Rain isn't always sadness.
Sometimes, she's just honesty.
Tears the sky didn't have the strength to hold back anymore.
And maybe that's why I love her now.
Because she doesn't pretend.
The rain doesn't ask permission to feel.
She just comes. Soft or sudden.
She spills. She falls. She lets go.
And somehow, every time she does,
the world feels cleaner.
When I walk in the rain, Diary, I feel like I'm walking beside something ancient —
a grief older than me, but gentle enough to share.
I don't carry an umbrella anymore.
I let the drops kiss my skin like lullabies.
I listen to the rhythm of the sky like a poem being written in real time.
I tilt my face upward —
and for once, I don't hide.
Because the rain doesn't ask me to smile.
She just asks me to feel.
And in a world that celebrates sunshine,
there's something quietly revolutionary about learning to love the storm.
Sometimes I imagine the rain is heaven crying softly —
not out of pain,
but out of the kind of joy that overwhelms even God.
Or maybe it's the sky mourning the people who forgot how to cry.
Either way, she comes to remind us:
We were made to feel deeply.
We were made to break open.
We were made to grow.
Rain is the earth's way of whispering,
"Darling, let it out. Nothing that falls in love with the ground is ever truly lost."
And maybe that's why I fell in love with her.
Not because she was loud.
Not because she was bright.
But because she taught me
that even in sadness,
there is softness.
And in softness…
there is healing.
Till tomorrow,
Wunor ☁️💧