The first raindrops tapped softly against Maya’s window, carrying with them the scent of damp earth and something older—something that whispered of promises made before she was born. She pressed her forehead to the glass, willing her racing heart to quiet. Tonight, she had to speak. And the thought made her stomach twist.
All week, she had watched Rivka, her best friend since forever, drift further into bitterness—toward choices that would carry her much further still. Honest words perched on Maya’s tongue like frightened birds, fluttering but unable to take wing.
She wrapped her arms around herself. “What if speaking only makes it worse?” she whispered to the rain. Outside, a lone olive tree bent in the wind but held firm, its roots deep and unseen.
“A friendship faithful are the wounds of a friend,” bubbled up from an old memory—Maya’s grandfather’s steady voice, teaching her Proverbs by the flickering light of their Shabbat candles long ago.
She closed her eyes. G-d had given truth, yes—but truth tied to chesed, to lovingkindness. She couldn’t stay silent while Rivka slipped away from herself.
The evening deepened into night. Lanterns flickered in windows across the village, one by one, tiny fires of faith. Maya clutched her dark blue cloak tight and stepped outside.
At Rivka’s home, she hesitated, heart hammering. Inside, laughter and music floated out—the kind Rivka filled her emptiness with lately. Maya lifted her hand to knock, paused, and lowered it again.
She was about to turn away when the door burst open. A little boy, Rivka’s younger brother, darted out, nearly crashing into her. He looked up with startled eyes and beamed. Without thinking, he pressed something into her hand before dashing off into the night.
Maya stared. It was a crumpled paper flower—messy, uneven, utterly precious.
A breath she hadn't realized she was holding slipped from her lungs. Small kindnesses. Small hopes. Sometimes G-d sent the gentlest nudge.
Straightening, Maya stepped through the doorway.
She found Rivka in the corner, cheeks flushed, laughing too loud. As Maya approached, Rivka’s smile faltered, and something wary darkened her gaze.
Maya’s mouth went dry, but she tightened her grip around the crumpled paper flower and spoke, voice low but steady. “Rivka,” she said, “what you’re reaching for—it’s not going to heal the hurt. You’re running further from yourself… and from Him. Please—don’t lose yourself to chasing what will only leave you emptier.”
Silence draped over them. A few heads turned their way. Maya’s cheeks flamed, but she stood her ground.
For a terrible heartbeat, she thought Rivka might turn away, her words crashing uselessly.
But Rivka only stared at her. And then, without a word, she stepped forward and buried her head in Maya’s shoulder, shoulders shaking.
Maya held her, the paper flower crumpled between them.
Later, they sat outside under the stars, their words gentle and raw, no performances or cleverness between them.
Maya gazed upward at the heavens, heart loosening. The stars glimmered fiercely, beautiful and countless—just as the promises of HaShem to Avraham had been. She wasn’t alone. She had never been.
And in that same vast faithfulness, there was strength to say hard things in love—because truth, in G-d’s hands, was never meant to wound, only to heal.
The paper flower lay between them on the bench, a small, crumpled offering. And in the quiet, laughter—real laughter—bloomed between them again, fragile but alive.
Tonight, courage had not been roaring. It had come like the first rain: soft, steady, and enough.
—
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The first raindrops tapped softly against Maya’s window, carrying with them the scent of damp earth and something older—something that whispered of promises made before she was born. She pressed her forehead to the glass, willing her racing heart to quiet. Tonight, she had to speak. And the thought made her stomach twist.
All week, she had watched Rivka, her best friend since forever, drift further into bitterness—toward choices that would carry her much further still. Honest words perched on Maya’s tongue like frightened birds, fluttering but unable to take wing.
She wrapped her arms around herself. “What if speaking only makes it worse?” she whispered to the rain. Outside, a lone olive tree bent in the wind but held firm, its roots deep and unseen.
“A friendship faithful are the wounds of a friend,” bubbled up from an old memory—Maya’s grandfather’s steady voice, teaching her Proverbs by the flickering light of their Shabbat candles long ago.
She closed her eyes. G-d had given truth, yes—but truth tied to chesed, to lovingkindness. She couldn’t stay silent while Rivka slipped away from herself.
The evening deepened into night. Lanterns flickered in windows across the village, one by one, tiny fires of faith. Maya clutched her dark blue cloak tight and stepped outside.
At Rivka’s home, she hesitated, heart hammering. Inside, laughter and music floated out—the kind Rivka filled her emptiness with lately. Maya lifted her hand to knock, paused, and lowered it again.
She was about to turn away when the door burst open. A little boy, Rivka’s younger brother, darted out, nearly crashing into her. He looked up with startled eyes and beamed. Without thinking, he pressed something into her hand before dashing off into the night.
Maya stared. It was a crumpled paper flower—messy, uneven, utterly precious.
A breath she hadn't realized she was holding slipped from her lungs. Small kindnesses. Small hopes. Sometimes G-d sent the gentlest nudge.
Straightening, Maya stepped through the doorway.
She found Rivka in the corner, cheeks flushed, laughing too loud. As Maya approached, Rivka’s smile faltered, and something wary darkened her gaze.
Maya’s mouth went dry, but she tightened her grip around the crumpled paper flower and spoke, voice low but steady. “Rivka,” she said, “what you’re reaching for—it’s not going to heal the hurt. You’re running further from yourself… and from Him. Please—don’t lose yourself to chasing what will only leave you emptier.”
Silence draped over them. A few heads turned their way. Maya’s cheeks flamed, but she stood her ground.
For a terrible heartbeat, she thought Rivka might turn away, her words crashing uselessly.
But Rivka only stared at her. And then, without a word, she stepped forward and buried her head in Maya’s shoulder, shoulders shaking.
Maya held her, the paper flower crumpled between them.
Later, they sat outside under the stars, their words gentle and raw, no performances or cleverness between them.
Maya gazed upward at the heavens, heart loosening. The stars glimmered fiercely, beautiful and countless—just as the promises of HaShem to Avraham had been. She wasn’t alone. She had never been.
And in that same vast faithfulness, there was strength to say hard things in love—because truth, in G-d’s hands, was never meant to wound, only to heal.
The paper flower lay between them on the bench, a small, crumpled offering. And in the quiet, laughter—real laughter—bloomed between them again, fragile but alive.
Tonight, courage had not been roaring. It had come like the first rain: soft, steady, and enough.
—
Torah and Tanakh Support:
