Be All There
It was pouring rain that day. I could’ve called a cab or an uber for a ride to the cafe, but instead I wanted to walk. It doesn’t rain that often in the summer, so when it does, the streets are less rowdy, just how I prefer it in my city. While I was walking I saw a girl drenched from head to toe from the rain. I didn’t hesitate to go up to her and insisted she take the one and only umbrella I had; I thought she needed it more than I did.
It wasn’t to my surprise that she didn’t take my offer, it was to my surprise when she told me she loved the rain. It’s people like her whom I admire because too often times people say they love the rain, but they seek comfort indoors. It’s people like her whom I admire because she was all there—her whole being and her entire love for the rain.
That’s why I refuse to believe when a boy says he loves me. I know he’s not all there. Only half of him is—whatever that half intention is. He can’t just say he loves me and find comfort in only parts of me he would rather be with. Be all there. Even if I drench you from head to toe.
