“Like a Stray in the Rain”
“Miss, you dropped your phone! Wait up!” a stranger called out, his voice cutting through the drumming downpour.
Eleanor trudged down the empty streets of Manchester, barely registering the icy rain tracing her cheeks, mingling with her tears. She turned, eyeing the man with weary indifference before frowning.
“Is this yours?” he asked, holding out a waterlogged smartphone with a cracked screen.
“Mine…” Eleanor murmured, her voice trembling from the cold and the ache in her ribs.
“What are you doing out here alone in this weather? No umbrella, soaked to the bone—you’ll catch your death!” There was genuine concern in his tone.
He didn’t seem like a creep, so Eleanor, following some unspoken instinct, followed him under the awning of a corner shop. They ducked into a tiny café to warm up over a cuppa.
“Name’s Thomas,” he introduced himself with a smile. “And you?”
“Eleanor,” she muttered, staring into her tea.
“What’s got you wandering in this storm? Even strays get taken in on nights like this.”
“And I—I got kicked out like one,” the words tumbled out before she could stop them, her voice cracking.
The memory hit her like a freight train. She’d never imagined her carefully built life—the flat she and Simon had bought, the little bookshop they’d opened, the dreams of a family—would crumble in an instant. She’d poured everything into work, climbing the ladder, forgetting to breathe. And today, Simon had raised his hand. She’d grabbed her coat and bolted into the rain.
All she had was her passport, a debit card, and a phone that barely worked.
“Your phone’s proper soaked,” Thomas noted, trying to lighten the mood.
Eleanor suddenly realised she had nowhere to go. A foreign city, no friends, no family. She was alone, adrift. The tears came then—proper, ugly sobs she hadn’t allowed herself in years.
“Crying over a phone? I can fix that,” Thomas offered gently.
“Why do you even care? We’re strangers!” Eleanor snapped, though it sounded more like a plea.
“Not angry. Just… saw you, knew something was off. Wanted to help,” he replied evenly.
Eleanor took a shaky breath and, against her better judgement, spilled everything to this random bloke in a café.
“Came here twelve years ago from Leeds. Lost touch with my parents. Spent every waking minute on work—projects, the shop, the future. Thought I was doing it right. And today… Simon came home in a rage. Asked him to dinner, but he screamed about how I’d forgotten his favourite whiskey. I didn’t forget—he drinks too much as it is. I stayed quiet, didn’t argue, but he… he hit me. Rib still hurts just breathing.”
“Know the type,” Thomas said quietly. “Cousin was with a bloke like that. I get it. Let me help.”
“Why bother?” Eleanor sighed. “Not the first time. I’ll crash at a mate’s for a few days, then go back. He’ll call, apologise. Like always.”
“But your phone’s knackered,” Thomas pointed out.
“Then I’ll apologise first,” she laughed bitterly. “What else is there?”
“Or maybe it’s a sign,” he said suddenly. “Time to start fresh.”
Eleanor paused. The idea had crossed her mind before, but fear always won. Too much invested, too much lost. Yet here, under the rain’s rhythm, his words sounded like a lifeline.
“Let me take you somewhere safe,” Thomas offered. “Stay as long as you need. I’ll fix your phone, bring it back. Then you decide what’s next. Deal?”
“Thank you,” she whispered, feeling the weight lift, just a little.
For the first time in years, someone else was carrying the load. She deserved this—a breather, even for a day, after running so long.
