blooming after rain

Five Years Later: Blooming After Rain

The jacaranda tree was still there.

Older now, like them. Its blossoms fell gently on the garden patio where the laughter of guests echoed and soft music drifted into the warm afternoon air.

Thami stood at the edge of the crowd, watching Nana adjust the collar of his crisp white shirt, grinning as he posed with their team for yet another photo. A golden ring shimmered on his finger—simple, elegant, and forever.

Their wedding had been quiet, but beautiful. Just close friends, family, and a sea of purple petals that fell like blessings.

Five years had passed since the rooftop, since the confessions and the silence and the ache. Now, they owned a small creative studio together—a place where stories were born, where art and design and music collided into something honest. Something theirs.

Thami wrote. Nana managed. And sometimes they just sat across from each other in the office, smiling between emails and sketches, like two people who still couldn’t believe they got this lucky.

Business was good. But love was better.

In the evenings, they often sat under the jacaranda tree in their courtyard—still sketching, still dreaming.

“Do you ever think about before?” Thami asked one night, his head resting on Nana’s shoulder.

“All the time,” Nana said softly. “Sometimes I wonder how I didn’t see it. How close I came to losing you.”

“You didn’t,” Thami whispered. “You just had to find me.”

Nana kissed the top of his head. “Thank you for waiting.”

Thami smiled. “Thank you for coming back.”

And as the sun set behind their shared life, the petals fell again—soft and slow—like the past forgiving itself.

And love, once hidden in silence, bloomed without fear.

The End (and the beginning).

Epilogue: A Letter Beneath the Jacaranda Tree

To the boy I once loved in silence,

You’re asleep right now, curled up on our couch, one hand still holding your sketchpad like you couldn’t let go mid-idea. I should probably put a blanket over you, or take that pencil out of your hand before you smudge the couch again. But I don’t want to move just yet. I want to write this—because today, something hit me.

We’ve built a whole life.

Five years ago, I never thought I’d be here. I was the boy who used to sit under the jacaranda tree, aching, quiet, loving you from a distance you never noticed. I filled notebooks with stories where we ended up together, not because I believed it would happen—but because fiction was the only place where I could hold you without fear.

Now, I wake up next to you.

You smile at me in the morning, messy-haired and half-asleep, and I still don’t know how I got this lucky.

Do you remember that day you came back?

You found my sketchbook.

You read the words I never thought you’d see.

You looked at me—not with fear, not with rejection—but with something I’d never seen before: clarity.

That was the day everything changed.

You told me you didn’t have all the answers. That you weren’t sure what this made you, or what we would be. But you were ready to find out—with me. That was all I needed. You chose us, even before you fully understood what "us" meant.

And slowly, we found it.

We fumbled at first. There were moments I pulled away, scared of needing you too much. And times you got overwhelmed, scared of messing things up. But you never let go. You always came back. And we grew—not into something perfect—but into something real.

We started the studio with nothing but your sketchbooks and my worn-out laptop. Now, we have a team. Clients. A whole brand. They call us “the storytelling duo.” You sketch dreams. I write truths. Together, we build worlds.

Funny, isn’t it?

The very love I once hid is now the love that fuels the work we do every single day.

But even with the business growing, with life moving fast—I still love the quietest parts the most.

The way you hum when you cook.

The way you still can’t fold towels properly.

The way you pull me close in your sleep like you're afraid I might disappear.

And every time we walk past the jacaranda tree in our courtyard—our home—I remember the first one. The old tree back on campus. The one that held my heartbreak, my dreams, and my hope.

Back then, I thought love meant suffering in silence. That I had to protect you from knowing how I felt. But you’ve taught me that love isn’t about hiding. It’s about choosing. Every day. Every moment. Even when it’s hard. Even when you’re scared.

I choose you.

I chose you the day you didn’t show up on time but still made my heart race when you did.

I chose you the night you smiled and told me I was worth figuring things out for.

I chose you the day we said “I do,” standing under a canopy of purple flowers, hands shaking, hearts full.

And I’ll keep choosing you. In every tomorrow we get.

I know this letter is long. But I guess I’m still that boy from college, still writing you stories. Still turning my love into words. Some things never change.

But this part does:

You used to be the love I could never have.

Now, you’re the love I get to come home to.

So if you wake up and find this next to your sketchpad, know this:

You are more than a dream now.

You are my reality.

My partner.

My home.

And I love you more deeply than any poem I’ve ever written.

Yours always,

Thami

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