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Under the Rain you don’t cry alone.
There is a kind of despair that arrives without asking permission. It swells quietly, then suddenly breaks into uncontrollable sobs—those violent, breathless cries you try to restrain just long enough to move away from other people’s eyes. You seek a corner, a doorway, the open street under a heavy sky. The rain becomes an accomplice. For a moment, it disguises the tears, blurring the line between what falls from above and what escapes from within. You pretend that no one can tell, that the world is fooled by water on your face, even though the truth is written clearly in your posture, in your eyes, in the way your chest tightens.
We tell ourselves that hiding is enough. That if pain is unseen, it is somehow lighter. But we are human, stubbornly and vulnerably so. We need release valves—places, rituals, illusions—that let the pressure escape before it shatters us. They may be fleeting, fragile, even irrational, yet sometimes they are all that keeps us afloat. The rain does not solve anything. It does not heal or explain. It simply stays with us, offering a thin, temporary shelter where crying feels less lonely, and where surviving the moment feels just barely possible.
And then, sometimes, something quietly changes.
A friend appears. No speeches. No solutions. Just a simple, disarming question: “How are you?”
At that point, you cannot do anything but cry harder. But these are different tears. They are no longer only about pain; they carry relief, recognition, the sudden permission to stop pretending. They fall because someone saw you, not despite it. In that moment, the rain fades into the background. You are no longer crying to hide—you are crying because you are no longer alone.
