It rained the day she told him. He later thought that Mother Nature had known all along and how fitting that the grey sky should weep.

"Don't do this," he'd said, reaching out for her wrist.

She looked away, out at the world, which was slowly drowning in the sudden downpour.

It wasn't anything he'd done, but more of what she couldn't do. After ten years, she would be the one to end it. He listened to her but didn't really hear.

When she finally petered out into silence, he pulled her into his arms. It occurred to him that this might be the last time he would hold her and know that she belonged with him. Why she wanted to fight the one thing he'd ever done right, he didn't want to ask. The answer might have broken him.

"I'm sorry," she'd whispered through her tears, stepping away from the safety that was them.

He didn't try to comfort her again; it was no longer his place to dry her eyes. Instead, he watched as the green glittered and shed their moisture, wondering how on Earth he could ever stop loving her.

She bowed her head and took a steadying breath.

"You don't have to do it," he reminded her quietly, a final plea ringing in his tone.

The world outside was quiet. He wanted the dark clouds back, to break the heavy silence between them. He needed noise to warrant the pain.

But the storm had stopped and it was over.

It rained the day he let her go. He later wondered why he didn't cry and figured that it was just as well that the grey sky did.