When it rained, my mom would ask the same question to the sky.

"Will the rain wash away the sadness in my heart?"

When I was younger, I didn't understand what that meant. I didn't know what she was asking when she talked to the opening heavens. I would just laugh, thinking her funny for talking to something that couldn't talk back.

As I've grown older, I've come to understand her more. 

I hate the rain. The way it seems to come right at the most inconvenient of times. The gentle taps on the roof, building in intensity as the storm carries on. I hate the way it arrives unannounced, and I hate how it stops just as I get used to its presence.

I also hate how it knows when I didn't bring an umbrella with me. It's days like these that it feels as if the world is set against me. 

Taking a deep breath, I steel myself before walking outside. Just a few minutes until I reach the subway. I can make it. Probably.

Twenty seconds pass and there's not a single part of me that's still dry. That damn rain.

Just as I'm cursing the weather in every way I can, it stops. There are two feet around me that are dry, as if someone has held an umbrella right above my head.

Looking up, there is an umbrella. It's a comforting color, a navy blue that reminds me of reading until early morning and long walks on the beach. 

I turn, looking for the person holding it. If the color of the umbrella reminded me of comfort, this man was the personification. 

Everything, down to his brown overcoat to his dirty blonde hair, said "You're always going to be safe with me." His beautiful outfit was soaked, though, as he leans a little to place me in the middle of the dry spot.

He smiles brightly at me and I swear my heart stopped. He has the mistakes of an angel in his cheeks, and I want to lose myself in his dimples.

"Are you alright?" He asks, and it takes every fiber in my being to nod and smile back. He feels like home, and I don't even know his name.

His eyes crinkle happily before looking me up and down. His smile fades, and he looks up, making eye contact. Asking permission to lead me to the closest building, I nod and he gently grabs my arm. 

When we're inside, he shakes out his umbrella and carefully peels off his wet overcoat. Underneath is a perfectly dry sweatshirt. Taking that off as well, he offers it to me, his perfect smile back. 

"Here," he says. "You would get sick if you stayed wet."

I take the sweatshirt, unable to say anything. Fascinated by his smile and the way his eyes shine in the dim light, all I can think about is how people like him should only exist in Jane Austen books.

He was probably written by a female.