The rain came down like an accusation.
It wasn't gentle, nor romantic, nor cinematic in the way rain often pretends to be in love stories. It was heavy, relentless, soaking through clothes and resolve alike, as if the city itself wanted to make sure no one walked away clean.
Liyana stood under the flickering streetlight, water clinging to her hair, her face, her eyelashes. She did not wipe it away. She wanted Arman to see her exactly as she was—unprotected, exhausted, done pretending.
"I never meant to hurt you," Arman said again.
His voice sounded strange to her now. Familiar, yet distant, like a song remembered incorrectly. He stood a few steps away, hesitant, as if crossing that distance might break something fragile beyond repair.
That sentence—I never meant to hurt you—had once sounded comforting. Now it felt hollow.
Liyana laughed.
The sound surprised even her. It came out sharp, almost cruel, and echoed against the wet pavement. People passing by glanced at them, then quickly looked away. Strangers were very good at recognizing private disasters.
"That's the problem," she said, finally meeting his eyes. "You never meant anything."
Arman flinched, though she hadn't raised her voice. He looked wounded, like someone trying to understand a language he thought he spoke fluently.
"That's not fair," he said quietly.
"No," Liyana replied, her smile trembling, "it's accurate."
She thought of all the moments he had almost spoken. Almost stayed. Almost chosen her. How he had always lived inside the safety of uncertainty, calling it realism, calling it wisdom, when really it was fear dressed up as intelligence.
She stepped back.
Rain filled the space between them.
Arman opened his mouth, then closed it again. That hesitation—small, habitual, devastating—was the story of them.
"I loved you," he finally said, too late to save anything.
Liyana nodded slowly. "I know."
And that was the tragedy of it. Love had existed. It just hadn't been brave.
She turned and walked away, her footsteps splashing, her chest burning with a grief she would later learn how to survive but never fully erase.
Arman stayed where he was, convinced—absolutely convinced—that if love was real, it would return. That time would soften misunderstandings. That silence could be repaired.
The rain disagreed.
So did life.