Woman in the rain

It was just past midnight when I left Rachel’s place, walking under streetlamps blurred by rain. We hadn’t officially broken up, but the silence said enough. No kiss goodbye. Just the sound of something ending. Then, from behind an old bus stop, a woman stepped out. She wore a dark coat, hood up, and walked straight to me like she’d been waiting. “There you are,” she said, slipping her arm through mine. “I’ve been looking everywhere.” I stopped. “Do I know you?” She laughed softly. “Nathan, stop. It’s me. Your girlfriend.” “No. Rachel’s my—who are you?” Her smile faded. “Still her, huh? That makes sense. You haven’t remembered yet.” “Remembered what?” She stepped closer, voice low. “Us. You hate cucumbers but eat them anyway. You flinch when someone says your dad’s name. You pretend jazz is just background noise, but it’s the only thing that calms you down.” I felt my chest tighten. “What is this? A joke? Are you stalking me?” “I’m not a stalker,” she said. “I’m someone you used to love. In another version of this life. One you left before it was done.” I didn’t believe her. But her eyes—they looked like they’d cried over me. “I know you don’t remember,” she whispered. “But you will. You always do.” She reached into her coat and handed me a photo—faded, torn. Me, smiling. Arm around her. I didn’t remember taking it. But I looked like I did. “I shouldn’t have come,” she murmured. “You’re not ready.” She turned to leave.