She wasn't just that strong girl I saw in the rain. Behind that serene gaze was a whole universe of battles no one could see.
It was a gray morning, one of those that feels heavy on the chest. She woke up early, even though she didn't want to, and made coffee for her mother. Her mother, always tired, with eyes full of worries and unspoken words. It wasn't an easy relationship. Sometimes, she felt the distance growing — an invisible wall made of old hurts and frustrated expectations.
She wanted to be more than a perfect daughter; she wanted to be a friend, a confidante, a refuge. But her mother sometimes didn't know how to receive that, trapped in her own storms. That morning, her mother complained about her being late, talked about work, the bills, the weight of life that seemed to crush her.
She listened quietly, holding the pain inside. Not because she accepted the criticism, but because she knew that fight was just a strange way of asking for help. She wanted to hug, to comfort, but sometimes she didn't even know how to comfort herself.
Work wasn't easy either. Amid the noise, the pressure, and the rush, she tried to smile, hiding the red eyes from sleepless nights. She had a secret love, someone she never dared to confess to, because the fear of rejection — of abandonment, of silence — was greater than the courage to take a risk.
She spent her days carrying the weight of everything: the home, the job, the unrequited love, the exhaustion that eats away at you.
And I was there, always open, always steady, offering a fragile shelter against the storm of the world.
Once, she told me, without meaning to, that she had thought about giving up — that life sometimes felt like a restless, endless sea. That she wanted to scream, but the voice got stuck. That she wanted to run away, but didn't know where to go.
I, a simple umbrella, heard that silent confession like thunder in the middle of the night. Because she wasn't invincible. No one is.
She was human — with fears, doubts, and tears hidden in her pillow. And that made her extraordinary.
In the midst of that hard routine, I saw moments of light.
Like when she smiled at a child on the street, giving them a piece of bread she kept in her pocket. Or when, exhausted, she received a message of affection from a distant friend, and her eyes shone for a few seconds, as if the world suddenly made sense.
Those small gestures, those sparks of humanity, were what kept her flame alive.
I understood that no one can bear everything. That strength isn't being impenetrable, but in going on — even when everything seems to fall apart.
That fragility isn't weakness — it's the essence of being.
She, with her flaws and fears, was living proof of that.
And I, an old, tired umbrella, was proud to protect her — even if only for a moment, even if the storm never ended.
Because life, in the end, is this: resisting the rain, step by step, tear by tear.