The first time Leila saw the lavender sky, she was eight years old. It stretched over the golden hills behind her grandmother’s cottage like an oil painting—soft, surreal, too beautiful to be real. She never forgot that color, nor the boy who stood at the fence beyond the garden, watching her with curious eyes.
Years later, when the hills had long since been sold to developers and the lavender sky was buried behind city smog, Leila thought often about that summer. Especially about the boy—Eli.
She didn’t see him again until she was twenty-seven.
It was a Tuesday. She was late for her train, fumbling with her coat sleeve, balancing coffee, phone, and hope. The station was crowded, rain-soaked, buzzing with commuters. When she turned the corner to her platform, she collided with someone so hard she spilled her coffee across both their jackets.
“I’m so sorry—I didn’t see—” Her voice trailed off.
Eli.
Older, yes. Taller. No longer the boy from the hill, but undeniably him. Same quiet brown eyes, same tilt of the head like he was still trying to figure her out.
“Leila?” he asked, incredulous.
She blinked, once. Twice. “Eli?”
Then they both laughed. Loud and too long, the kind that draws attention. She forgot she was soaked in coffee.
They didn’t board their trains. Instead, they sat at the edge of the platform on a bench that hummed with cold metal and shared a lukewarm croissant from the vendor kiosk. They talked for two hours. About life, about time, about the weird luck of reunion. She learned he was a freelance landscape architect. He learned she worked in publishing. Neither was married. Neither had kids. And both remembered that lavender sky.
In the weeks that followed, Leila found herself drawn back to the station—not for the commute, but for the chance of bumping into Eli again. They exchanged numbers. Then coffee dates turned into brunches. Brunches became late-night walks. And one evening, under the faded blush of a city sunset, he kissed her.
It wasn’t a dramatic kiss. No fireworks or background music. Just a kiss that felt like coming home.
Eli moved into her apartment in the spring. It was small, chaotic, and full of plants. He brought a kitten. She brought poetry. They filled each other’s gaps.
For a while, life felt like something out of a dream. They cooked Sunday breakfasts. They argued over paint swatches for the hallway wall. They watched documentaries neither of them understood. When Leila’s father passed away, Eli held her hand through the funeral and didn’t let go even when she forgot how to speak.
Then summer came again. And with it, a job offer.
For Eli.
A firm in Oregon had seen his work and wanted him to lead a new green space project. It was everything he had worked toward. But it was three thousand miles away.
“I could say no,” he told her, eyes heavy with unsaid things.
“You should say yes,” she said.
He did.
They tried to make it work. At first, the distance was romantic. Letters, postcards, video calls until they both fell asleep. She flew to Portland twice. He visited the city when he could. They laughed, they cried, they promised.
But love—real love—has weight. And sometimes, the weight is more than you can carry across state lines.
Leila found herself crying in the shower. Not because she stopped loving him. But because loving him now came with silence. Missed calls. Loneliness. A thousand tiny absences that became a wall between them.
One day, she called and asked, “Do you think we’re still ‘us’?”
Eli didn’t answer right away.
“I don’t know,” he finally said. “I think we’re trying.”
“Trying isn’t the same as being.”
“I know.”
They didn’t say goodbye. Not then. But the next morning, she woke up and didn’t check her phone. And he didn’t text.
Autumn passed. Then winter. The apartment was quiet. The kitten had grown into a cat with sharp opinions and soft fur. Leila threw herself into work. She started running in the mornings. She wrote again—short stories, poems, essays she never sent.
She didn’t forget him. She didn’t try to. But she let him become part of her past, like that summer sky.
Then, on a warm April day, a letter arrived.
Handwritten. No return address.
Leila,
I saw a lavender sky today. It reminded me of you. Of us.
I know I said goodbye badly—maybe I never really did. Maybe I was afraid. I kept thinking we’d find our way back someday, and maybe that made me lazier about the now.
But the truth is: I never stopped loving you. Not once. I’ve just been trying to figure out how to love you right.
If you’re willing, I’d like to try again. No promises. Just one day at a time. I’ll be at the garden fence.
Saturday. Sunset.
Eli
Leila stared at the paper for a long time. Then she packed a bag, fed the cat, and drove toward the hills.
The cottage was gone. But the field was still there. Someone had built a small park around it—iron benches, wildflowers, a path winding through the grass.
And at the edge, where a wooden fence now stood, Eli waited.
The sky turned lavender as she walked toward him.
Neither spoke.
Then she smiled.
And he smiled.
And the sky stretched wide above them, soft and surreal.
Just like before.