It started with rain. Not the dramatic, cinematic kind that makes people run for cover, but the slow, stubborn drizzle that turns sidewalks into mirrors and makes the whole city feel quieter than usual. I was late for work, clutching a half-broken umbrella that leaned to one side like it had given up on life. I remember thinking how everything that morning felt slightly off—the gray sky, the smell of wet pavement, the way my phone buzzed with another useless reminder.
That’s when I saw her.
She was standing by the crosswalk on 3rd and Pine, wearing this mustard-yellow raincoat that somehow made her look like sunlight had taken human form. She wasn’t looking at her phone like everyone else. Instead, she was staring at the puddle by her feet, like she was trying to remember something. There was something quiet about her, something that didn’t fit the rush of the city around us.
The light turned green. People started moving. I should’ve crossed too, but I hesitated, watching her instead. She looked up, just for a second, and our eyes met.
I know how cliché that sounds, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t a movie moment; it was real and awkward and short. She smiled—one of those small, polite smiles people give when they make accidental eye contact with strangers—and then she stepped off the curb.
I followed a few steps behind her. Not on purpose. Okay, maybe a little on purpose.
She walked fast, weaving through people like she knew exactly where she was going. I noticed her earbuds weren’t in, which somehow made her seem even rarer. Nobody walks through downtown Seattle without music or a podcast these days. I wanted to say something—anything—but what do you say to a stranger in the rain? “Nice coat”? “Hey, I think we’re both late to something”?
By the time I thought of a sentence that didn’t sound completely stupid, she’d already turned the corner.
That should’ve been the end of it. Just another almost-moment. But that night, I saw her again. Same street, different time. I was heading home, jacket soaked through, when I spotted her standing outside a flower shop, holding a single stem of baby’s breath. She looked lost in thought, like she’d just remembered something that hurt a little.
I didn’t even think. I just walked up and said, “You again.”
She looked at me, surprised, and then laughed. “You make it sound like fate.”
“Maybe it is,” I said, before realizing how ridiculous that sounded. But she didn’t roll her eyes. She just smiled again, and for the first time that day, the rain didn’t feel so cold.
We talked. About nothing important—how the weather couldn’t make up its mind, how she liked walking in the rain because it made her feel invisible. I told her about my broken umbrella, which made her laugh again. It was so easy, like we’d known each other longer than the few minutes we had.
When her bus pulled up, she hesitated before stepping away. “Maybe I’ll see you around,” she said.
“You will,” I said, way too confidently.
But I didn’t.
For weeks after that, I looked for her. Every rainy day, every walk down 3rd and Pine, every stop by that same flower shop. I even bought a new umbrella—black and sturdy, like I was trying to look like someone who had their life together. But she never showed up again.
Months passed. The rain came and went, the city changed its rhythm, and I eventually stopped looking.
Until one afternoon in June, I was sitting in a small park eating lunch when I heard someone behind me say, “You finally fixed your umbrella.”
It was her. Same yellow raincoat, same quiet smile. Only this time, the sun was out, and she wasn’t holding flowers. She sat down beside me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Guess the city got smaller,” I said.
“Or maybe we just started noticing the same corners,” she said softly.
We talked again—about her job, about mine, about everything that had changed since that first rainy Thursday. It felt like picking up a conversation we’d paused, not started anew.
When she stood up to leave, she hesitated. “There’s this art exhibit opening next weekend,” she said. “You should come.”
I smiled. “I will.”
But I didn’t.
The day of the exhibit, something came up—a meeting, a deadline, I don’t even remember now. I told myself I’d go later, that maybe she’d still be there. But by the time I got to the gallery, it was closed.
That was a year ago. I still walk past that flower shop sometimes, or sit in the same park, or catch myself scanning faces at crosswalks. I don’t know if I’d recognize her now. Maybe she moved away. Maybe she’s still walking around somewhere, still wearing that yellow coat when it rains.
Sometimes I think about how life isn’t made of the things we chase, but the moments we almost did. That single glance across the street. The conversation we meant to continue. The art exhibit we didn’t go to.
A missed chance doesn’t always hurt because of what it was. It hurts because of what it could have been.
And every time it rains, I still look up. Just in case.
