Beneath the Weeping Sky

It had been pouring buckets the entire weekend, and he still hadn't reached out to him. Just three innocent words were enough to destroy a friendship built over more than two decades.

Rio and Milo had been the best of friends since their diaper days. Their mothers were childhood friends, and after graduating college and moving into the same apartment building, even marrying best friends, it was only natural that their first-born sons, sharing the same birthday, would be joined at the hip too.

Milo could never truly pinpoint when he'd first started seeing Rio as more than a friend. Perhaps it began on that school trip when they'd shared the same sleeping bag, and he realized his heart beat a second too fast whenever Rio casually threw his arm over him in sleep.

Milo started to question every little action of Rio's that had been as natural as breathing and had gone unnoticed for years. Rio was handsome, a fact known by Milo and their other friends, along with a boatload of Rio admirers. But Rio's good looks startled Milo every time their eyes met, and Rio caught him staring.

Perhaps it was the crinkle around his olive-green eyes when his mouth curved into that charming smile—a smile Milo felt was uniquely reserved for him, set against his smooth, honey-tanned skin and framed by full, luscious lips tinted a dark shade of pink. Or maybe it was the sound of his laughter, a melody that danced through the air like a warm breeze, rich and heartfelt, its cadence a tender symphony that whispered of joy and secrets shared in the quiet corners of their world.

But Milo was certain he was irrevocably in love with Rio—from the top of his unruly brown curls to the slender pianist fingers that graced his lean frame.

School came and went, and as they started college, Rio's first real relationship sent Milo into a panic. On one rainy night, with the sky weeping insistently, a drenched Milo laid bare his soul to Rio. It first came out as a whisper, and when he felt the thunder overhead drowning out his voice, he grabbed Rio by his drenched shirt, trembling fingers and all, and yelled, "I said I love you, Rio!" His voice lost power, breaking at the end. The look Rio gave him was one of pity. He pulled Milo in for a hug, then came the all-too-familiar head pat that always brought comfort. It didn't need to be said: Rio didn't love him the same way. Milo stilled his heart, pushed Rio away, and made a run for it, blindly running into oncoming traffic and almost getting hit by a passing car. He ran as fast as his legs could carry him, with the heavy downpour and loud thunder. He didn't hear the voice calling out to him, nor see its owner get hit by a car while chasing after him, dying on impact.

When Milo finally got to his and Rio's two-bedroom apartment, a gift for their recent birthday, with rainwater and tears streaming down his face, he switched off his phone and threw it against the wall. He crawled under the covers, still soaking wet.

For the entire weekend, with a stuffy nose and red-rimmed eyes from non-stop crying, he stayed under the covers. Only getting up to relieve himself, and with his bedroom being an ensuite, he never had to go out, risking running into Rio. All the while, the rain ceaselessly beat on his window, yet Rio never knocked on his door.

When the sky stopped its weeping, lying on his back in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, the knock finally came. Milo didn't answer. The door slowly opened, revealing his mother, a petite woman in her mid-forties, with a tear-stained face. Milo's blank stare cleared when he saw her. His head felt underwater; her muffled voice told him about Rio's passing. All he could think was that this was his fault. The voice in his head shouted this over and over, then everything went black. When he came to, he was told he had been in a coma for over a month and had missed Rio's funeral.

Not long after being discharged from the hospital, Milo set his plans in motion. He knew what he had to do. Resembling a walking corpse with hollowed cheeks and dark circles under his eyes, sleep continued to elude him for days on end. When he did manage to fall asleep, Rio's accusatory eyes haunted his dreams. He welcomed these nightmares, as they were now the only times he could see Rio, even though those beautiful eyes he had loved—and still yearned for—now stared back at him with unconcealed loathing.

It was inevitable that his parents would withdraw him from college after his hospital stay and his self-imposed isolation in his room upon returning home.

The grief counseling he attended three times a week, along with his and Rio's parents, offered little solace. He could never bring himself to meet the gaze of Rio's now frail mother. On each occasion, he tried and failed to confess to them how his unrequited love had ultimately led to Rio's death. The counselor suggested journaling as a way to navigate their grieving process. After countless attempts, he finally completed a letter to both sets of parents, expressing his deep regret and apology.

On one rainy evening, after having dinner with not only his parents but also Rio's, and after a night filled with sad reminiscences of Rio, he hugged both mothers goodnight and said his farewells, promising to call once he arrived home safely. Later, he took an elevator to the rooftop of a tall building, not far from where Rio had died just a few months earlier, on that very same day. Once he reached the rooftop, his eyes empty, he stepped rigidly onto the ledge and, without a moment's hesitation, jumped.

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