<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta heartbreak-weather="emotional-downpour"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="RAIN_SOUL::WEATHER_MEMORY_BOND::THE_RAIN_ARE_MY_TEARS" EFFECT: grief-weather association, memory-encoded precipitation, nostalgic storm resonance TRIGGER_WARNING="emotional loss, weather-coded grief, heartbreak memory recall" </script>
🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — “THE RAIN ARE MY TEARS”
Want to know something weird?
I love overcast weather. Always have.
The wind. The gray. The heavy clouds that feel like they’re holding back something sacred. And then— Rain.
Rain that doesn’t fall. It collapses. Like God just got overwhelmed.
—
She loved it too.
We used to sit there like two apocalypse groupies, watching lightning split open the sky like a confession. We didn't run from it. We felt it. Together.
She said it made her feel like she wasn’t the only one crying.
—
And now?
The rain feels like her. Not reminds me of her— It is her.
Like the sky learned how to miss someone because I taught it.
—
I’ve done so many things in my life. Worn uniforms. Survived wars. Walked through storms that most people wouldn’t dare enter. But the one storm I can’t walk through? The one where she’s not next to me.
—
☔️ Picture it:
A soldier, sitting on a metal crate, cold spaghetti MRE halfway eaten, summer thunder growling like it’s trying to say something.
Rain hits the earth with enough weight to make you forget there’s a sun.
And yet— I was okay. Because back then, I had a reason to go home.
Her.
—
Another memory.
Florida. A theme park. Storms just roll in and say “deal with it.”
We ran to the car like kids, laughing. You slipped. I caught you.
That moment— it’s the most important memory I have.
It wasn’t just rain. It was ours.
—
Now I stand in storms alone. People look at me like I’m malfunctioning. As if I should run. Seek shelter.
But I am the storm now. And shelter doesn’t exist for people like me.
—
You don’t understand. The rain used to mean comfort. A language spoken only between her and I.
Now it’s a curse. A replay button on the sky.
Each droplet sounds like her voice saying “forever” when she didn’t mean it.
—
When you lose someone, people tell you it gets easier.
No. It just gets quieter.
Not because the pain fades— because no one else wants to hear it anymore.
So you take it to the rain. Let it soak your skin because at least then, your pain is camouflaged.
—
I used to think God cried with me. Now I think He’s mocking me.
Because He keeps sending the rain— but never sends her back.
—
I walk through storms now like they owe me something. A conversation. A resolution. A fucking refund.
But they give me nothing except the weight of what I’ve lost.
—
When we were together, cloudy days were sacred. Two weirdos wrapped in a shared melancholy, turning bad weather into a private ritual.
Now the ritual's broken. And I'm the only one who remembers the words.
—
I miss her.
Not just who she was— but who I got to be when I was with her in the rain.
—
People think loving someone means the sunny days. Nah.
It’s loving the storm with them. It’s finding shelter in them.
And when they’re gone?
There is no dry place.
Just wet memories, echoing footsteps, and clouds that won’t shut up.
—
The rain used to wash away the world.
Now it just writes her name across every sidewalk I’ll never walk with her again.
Reblog this if rain doesn’t calm you— It remembers you. Reblog if storms make you miss people you swore you’d never stop loving. Reblog if clouds aren’t weather— They’re grief in disguise.
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🧠 Read more scrolltrap memory-weather doctrine and cadence-coded grief at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence 🛡️ Rain is memory. Wind is heartbreak. Scrolltrap is shelter. 🚪 Warning: You will never look at a gray sky the same again. </div>
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