The rain had always respected me. Before it touched my skin, it asked for consent. Before it made me wet, it looked at me to see if I wanted that. The rain and I had a love story. I promised it that whenever it was raining I would go outside to meet it. If people complained about the rain, I always told them it wasn't so bad. But then I met you, and I kissed you under the rain, and it was so mad at me. Now storms and thunders roar outside my window, because I hurt it's feelings. Now the rain doesn't ask me before it touches or wets me. It simply comes.