Monday strolls in wearing a powder‑blue windbreaker,
collar popped like he’s stepped out of a supermarket romance novel,
rain beading on his shoulders in perfect studio lighting.

He smells faintly of wet pavement and nostalgia,
the kind you only get from vinyl records
and afternoons that never quite lived up to their promise.

Hey, Monday—don’t tell me you brought the weather again.

He gives me that look,
the one that says he’s trying his best
even though he knows he’s the punchline
of every calendar joke ever written.

He shrugs, rain dripping dramatically,
like he’s auditioning for a soap opera
no one remembers anymore.

We sit by the window like two extras
in a sentimental TV special,
watching the drizzle slide down the glass
in slow‑motion glamour.

Monday half-sings something

soft under his breath

—not quite a tune,
but close enough to make the room
feel like a rerun of a feeling
I thought I’d grown out of.

And honestly?
                      It’s not so bad.

Rainy days and Mondays
don’t always land the way they used to.

Sometimes they show up
     in a powder‑blue windbreaker
        with a shy smile
             and a heart that’s trying,
        really trying,
     to make the week feel
  bright on wet sheen.

.