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There is a specific kind of loneliness that only exists in the petrichor—the scent of wet earth and old regrets. I sit in the silence of my room, accompanied only by the syncopated beat of water on the roof, realizing that the weather hasn't changed at all in all these years.

The sky didn’t ask permission before turning a bruised shade of violet. It just happened, much like the way you left. There is a specific kind of loneliness that

The rain is still the same. I’m the only thing that’s different. There is a specific kind of loneliness that