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The house was silent when I got home. I didn’t bother turning on the lights. I just dropped my bag by the door and stood there, dripping onto the floor, listening to the soft patter of rain against the windows. It felt like the only sound that didn’t judge me.

I peeled off my soaked jacket and sat by the window, knees pulled to my chest, watching the streetlights blur through the water streaks. My reflection in the glass looked tired. Not just physically—but soul-tired. Like I’d been carrying something invisible for too long, and today it finally cracked.

I thought about what they said. What they laughed at. What they didn’t understand. And I wondered if they ever would. Maybe I was too different. Too quiet. Too much of something they didn’t know how to name.

But then I remembered something—just a flicker. A moment from years ago, when I stood in the rain for the first time and didn’t feel alone. Back then, the storm felt like a friend. Like it knew how to hold my sadness without asking me to explain it.

So tonight, I let it hold me again.

I didn’t cry. Not because I wasn’t hurting, but because the tears had already fallen—inside, where no one could see. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe healing doesn’t always look like strength. Maybe it looks like sitting in the dark, letting the rain speak for you, and deciding—quietly—that you’ll try again tomorrow.

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At least, that’s what they say. But I don’t think it’s that simple.

She walks the halls like a shadow—quiet, deliberate, always just out of reach. People glance, whisper, move past her like she’s part of the scenery. They don’t see the way her fingers tighten around the straps of her bag, or how she always sits near the window, watching the world but never stepping into it.

It’s not that nobody likes her. It’s that nobody knows her. Not really. They see the silence and mistake it for coldness. They see the distance and call it arrogance. But I’ve seen her sketch in the margins of her notebook—tiny worlds, strange symbols, constellations that don’t exist on any map. I’ve heard her hum under her breath when she thinks no one’s listening. I’ve watched her pause at the edge of a conversation, wanting to speak but choosing not to.

She’s not upset because she’s unloved. She’s upset because she’s unseen.

And maybe, just maybe, she’s waiting for someone to look past the silence. To ask the second question. To sit beside her without needing her to change.

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Today I look at the rain mad, upset with myself and broken inside. I had just been completely humiliated in front of my whole town once again.

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I stood there, soaked in silence, while the whispers echoed louder than the storm. No one said anything to my face, but their eyes did. Every glance felt like a spotlight, every smirk like a dagger. I tried to laugh it off, pretend it didn’t matter, but my chest felt hollow and heavy all at once.

I wanted to disappear. Not forever—just long enough to breathe without feeling like I owed the world an explanation. Long enough to stop replaying every second of what went wrong. I kept asking myself, Why does it always happen to me? But the answer never came. Just the rain, tapping against my umbrella like it was trying to comfort me in a language I couldn’t understand.

I walked home slowly, dragging the weight of the moment behind me. My shoes were soaked through—my pride even more so. And yet, somewhere deep down, I knew this wouldn’t be the last time I’d stand in the rain like this. But maybe next time, I’ll be stronger. Maybe next time, I’ll speak up. Or maybe I’ll just learn how to carry the silence without letting it crush me.

For now, I let the rain fall—not to wash it all away, but to remind me that even storms pass. Eventually.

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This is Mena, and she's an artist and she likes to paint, but she never knows what she wants to paint so she goes on these long walks to open her mind into the world of art and by the end of her walks she has endless ideas is what she thought, and as she returned home, she released she doesn't have endless ideas because she seen most of the same things on her walk, and then she started tiering herself down because she didn't understand why she couldn't come up with something different.

5 YEARS later.... Mena had her own art show as well as her own art studio, and does tours of her studio and always tells the her story and how she started and how she could never come up with art and always went on these walks and how it never help and she just wanted to just give up on art and never look back, but look at her now, this big artist in this big world doing big things. And in this life lesson she learned to never give up on what you really love no matter how hard it gets.

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She didn’t notice me watching.

She stood alone, umbrella tilted just slightly, like she wasn’t sure whether the rain had truly stopped or if the sky was just pretending. The pavement around her was slick and quiet, and the puddle beside her held a reflection so vivid it felt like a second version of her—one the world wasn’t supposed to see.

I stayed across the street, half-hidden behind a bus stop sign, pretending to scroll through my phone. But I wasn’t looking at anything except her. Something about the way she stood—still, deliberate, almost ritualistic—made the moment feel sacred. Like I’d stumbled into someone’s private ceremony.

Her reflection in the puddle was sharper than reality. The silhouette was clean, composed. The umbrella curved above her like a halo. The sky in the water was brighter than the one overhead, and for a second, I wondered if she saw it too. If she knew that the version of herself in the puddle looked stronger. Calmer. Like someone who had already made the hard decision and was just waiting for the world to catch up.

She didn’t move. Not for a long time. And I didn’t either.

I thought about walking over. Saying something. Asking if she was okay, or if she needed anything. But the truth was, I didn’t want to interrupt. There was something powerful in her silence. Something I didn’t want to break.

Then, slowly, she stepped forward. The puddle rippled. Her reflection fractured and scattered into light. And just like that, the moment was gone.

She walked away without looking back. But I stayed a little longer, staring at the puddle, hoping it would settle again. Hoping it would show me something I hadn’t seen before.

It didn’t.

But I left with the feeling that I’d witnessed something important. Something quiet and invisible. Something that would stay with me, even if I never saw her again.

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She looks upset because nobody likes her.

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The rain had passed, but I lingered beneath the umbrella. Not for shelter—just for the weight of it. It gave me something to hold, something to anchor me while the world around me felt like it had been rinsed clean. The pavement shimmered, and the puddle at my feet was still enough to mirror the sky.

I looked down and saw myself. Not just a blurry outline, but a full silhouette—umbrella, posture, the slight tilt of my head. The reflection was sharper than I expected. It looked like someone who had made peace with something. Someone who had stood in the storm and come out quieter, but not broken.

The sky in the puddle was brighter than the one above me. Clouds drifted lazily across the water’s surface, and for a moment, I imagined stepping into that version of the world. One where everything was softer. Where the weight I carried didn’t press so hard against my ribs.

I thought about the things I hadn’t said. The messages I hadn’t answered. The decisions I kept postponing. I thought about how easy it was to stand still and pretend the moment wasn’t asking anything of me. But the reflection didn’t blink. It waited.

I shifted my stance. The puddle rippled. My image fractured, then reassembled. It felt like a warning: clarity is temporary. You only get it in flashes. But when it comes, you have to look. Really look.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t smile. I just stood there, letting the silence stretch. Letting the reflection hold me for a little longer. And when I finally stepped forward, the water broke apart. My image disappeared. But I didn’t feel empty.

I felt like I’d left something behind. Or maybe I’d picked something up. Either way, I walked away different.

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Write a short story about the scene in this picture from one of two perspectives: (1) The person in the picture, (2) a spectator. Make sure to check your spelling, grammar, punctuation, and separate your paragraphs appropriately. 

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Click on the "+" button to add your story to the Padlet.

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The remembering self needs to get real about the experiencing self ...