It was raining when she said it.
Not the dramatic, thunder-cracking kind of rain. Just a soft, steady drizzle, like the sky was whispering instead of crying. The kind of rain that feels nostalgic even while it’s falling.
We were sitting under a bus stop awning, two strangers temporarily bound by bad weather and good timing. I had forgotten my umbrella. She had a red one with a broken handle and just enough space to cover one shoulder.
“You can share,” she’d said earlier, offering it with a smile, eyes crinkling. “But only if you don’t mind getting a little wet on the left side.”
I took it. How could I say no to someone who smiled like that?
Now we waited for the bus together. The red umbrella lay between us on the bench, dripping. We hadn’t said much after our initial exchange. Just the sound of the rain, the occasional swish of passing cars, and the hum of a city that never really quieted down.
Then she broke the silence.
“You ever notice,” she began, “how love shows up in the smallest ways?”
I looked at her, curious. She wasn’t looking at me, just watching the rain. “Like what?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Like… someone remembering how you take your coffee. Or texting you when they see something that reminds them of you. Even if it’s just a weird pigeon or a song on the radio.”
I nodded slowly, caught off guard by the softness in her voice. “That’s love?”
She turned to me then, her eyes bright. “That’s always beautiful love. The quiet kind. The kind that doesn’t make headlines but sticks around anyway.”
I blinked. No one had ever put it like that before.
It stayed with me, that phrase. That’s always beautiful love.
Even after the bus came. Even after we sat side by side and didn’t speak again. She got off three stops before mine. I watched her disappear into the misty street, red umbrella bobbing above her like a punctuation mark to a sentence I hadn’t fully understood yet.
But I kept thinking about it.
The quiet kind of love.
Later that week, I saw it again.
An old man helping his wife zip up her coat outside a bakery, hands shaky but steady with practice.
A kid holding his mom’s hand, not because he had to—but because he wanted to.
A woman picking out a bouquet of wildflowers and whispering, “These are his favorite.”
No fireworks. No grand speeches. Just love in motion, subtle and strong.
I thought of my parents, too. My dad making my mom tea every morning. My mom rubbing his back without him asking when he couldn’t sleep. They never called it “romance.” They just called it Tuesday.
And I realized that maybe love isn’t always about the “I love yous.” Maybe it’s in the “text me when you get home” or the “I saved you the last piece” or the “you looked tired, so I folded your laundry.”
That’s always beautiful love.
Weeks passed. Life rolled on, fast and full like it always does. But I kept seeing her words in everything. In everyday kindness. In patience. In loyalty.
One day, I passed the same bus stop where we met. The bench was wet again, the rain soft and familiar.
She wasn’t there.
But I left a note.
Just a scrap of paper tucked beneath the bench.
“Thanks for reminding me. I hope someone shares their umbrella with you again someday.”
I signed it with a tiny heart.
♥️
