Letter Four – The Summer Storm
I asked myself why I wanted to write all this down—after all these years, more than a decade later. And here is the answer:
Now that I try to look back on those days, as someone—a woman—who tends to replay emotional memories and reflect on them, I realized, with some fear, that certain memories were starting to blur.Did this actually happen?
Or is my brain making it up, confusing it with other memories?
I don't want to forget the moments I once held so dearly, the ones I kept so deeply in my heart. And more importantly, I don't want to end up like some middle-aged people who give the past too much weight—too much regret or too much credit.
The mind tends to sweeten memories, especially the ones that never fully happened and can only live in the fantasy. Then people sigh, "What if..." or deliberately convince themselves the past was better than it really was.
I don't want to be like that.
I need to keep this memory true and real—bittersweet, yes, but real.
Even though the universe never gave us more time together, I've always believed that we could've created so many more unforgettable memories, if we had the chance. Years after we met—and years ago now, in our last conversation—you said so too.
Oh, that summer night rain.
The night when you tried to draw a line between us—a boundary, before you were about to leave my country. But in the end, the rain kind of melted it. Or at least blurred it a little.
This is part of why I still believe in fate. In cinematic moments.
Because it happened, for real. In that summer—when everything felt raw and exciting and new and uncertain, full of possibility.
I was sad when you drew that line with me.
Even though we still went to the night market that day—lively and crowded, and the liveliness of the market helped ease the tension—we talked like normal friends, maybe even like strangers who once shared a secret.
But I knew:
That night, if the summer storm hadn't come, it would've been the end of our story. I would have gone straight home after we parted.
And you, because you were trying to create distance, probably wouldn't have reached out again before you left. And I would've just continued with my life.
But the universe played one of its little tricks.
It rained. Suddenly, heavily. Just as we were about to part ways.
We ended up sitting in the hotel lobby for almost an hour, waiting for the storm to pass so I could go home. I was ready. After that hour—I would have gone. Even in the rain, because it was about time.
But then you said,
“I won't let you go home in this rain.”
You frowned a bit, the look on your face was serious, and I also wasn't smiling. And then you walked to the elevator without looking back, as if you were certain I would have followed you.
Why?
I never asked. You never explained. But it changed something. In the end, we stayed in touch. And I still remember that one sentence you wrote in your email:
“You have a special place in my heart.”
I kept that email for years, quietly.
I never told you—what would've been the point? But I did trust you. You had always been truthful with me. I believed those words.
And now, as the memories start to fade—I don't want to forget.
Not just yet.
Note: This is a work of pure fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
