A wraparound porch on a rainy day kind of love

I feel a sort of nostalgia that only visits me on rainy days.

It’s not tied to a person or to a memory I can point to. Not to a house I’ve lived in before. It’s nostalgia for something that hasn’t happened yet - a softness I haven’t experienced, but somehow already miss.

When it rains, the world slows down in a way that feels gravitational. The air thickens. The light dims just enough to make everything gentler. The sound of rain hitting the roof, the pavement, the trees - it’s steady, rhythmic, protective. It wraps around you. It gives you permission to pause.

And every single time, my mind drifts to the same place.

A house somewhere quiet. Near or in the woods. Definitely with a wraparound porch - the kind that curves around the front like open arms and hugs it. On that porch, there’s a swing. A big one. Wide. Couch-like. The kind you can curl into without worrying about falling off the edge.

It’s raining. Loud.

The sky is grey but not sad. The kind of grey that feels full. The kind that makes everything outside look cinematic. The trees sway slightly. The scent of wet earth lingers in the air. Petrichor.

We’re sitting on that swing.

We’re wrapped in oversized blankets - the kind that swallow you whole. Our legs are tangled. His arm is around me in a way that feels instinctive. No one is trying to impress anyone. No one is trying to be chosen. We already have.

There are two big mugs of tea resting on the little table beside us, steam curling upward into the cool air. Every sip is slow. Every word is unhurried.

And we just talk.

About everything.

About childhood memories. About fears we don’t tell most people. About dreams that feel too fragile to say out loud. About the kind of people we used to be. About the ways we’ve grown. About the parts of ourselves we’re still trying to understand.

And the most beautiful part?

There’s no rush.

No checking the time. No wondering what this is. No anxiety about where it’s going. No fear of saying too much or too little. Just presence.

The rain fills the quiet spaces between our words. The woods hum softly in the background. Nature becomes our soundtrack. And love doesn’t feel loud or fiery or urgent - it feels steady. It feels like being understood mid-sentence. It feels like someone not just hearing your words, but feeling them as you speak.

I crave that kind of love.

The kind where sitting on a porch during a storm is the highlight of the day. Where joy doesn’t require spectacle. Where intimacy isn’t measured in grand gestures, but in shared stillness.

I yearn to be loved in a way that feels gentle.

Gentle enough that silence is safe and that time stretches instead of races. Gentle enough that the best possible plan is simply to stay right where we are.

There’s something about rain that strips everything back to what matters. It quiets the world so you can hear your own heart. And every time it pours, I realize what I’m longing for isn’t fireworks.

It’s depth.

It’s warmth that doesn’t burn out. It’s conversation that lingers. It’s being held in a way that says, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

Maybe that’s why rainy days feel nostalgic. They give me a glimpse of a future I haven’t stepped into yet - a life where love is soft, intentional, and rooted.

A life where the storm outside only makes the inside warmer.

One day, when it rains, I won’t just be imagining it.

I’ll be on that porch. On that swing. Wrapped in blankets. Tea growing cold because we’re too lost in conversation to notice.

And the rain will fall the same way it always has - steady, grounding, patient.

But this time, I won’t be longing for the moment.

I’ll be living it.

As always, thanks for coming to my Cez talk xo