The Color of Your Eyes

The first time Rohin noticed Sana, it was the middle of June and the air smelled like rain. She was standing by the library window, her finger tracing the spine of a book she hadn’t yet pulled from the shelf. The light caught her hair—not quite black, not quite brown—and he thought, absurdly, that he would like to remember this moment forever.

He didn’t say anything. He was not the kind of person who walked up to strangers and introduced himself. Instead, he sat at his usual table by the far wall, opened his laptop, and pretended to work. But every few minutes, his gaze drifted back to her, like a moth to a flame he didn’t understand.

She left without ever taking a book.

For the next week, he found himself at the library at the same time, hoping to see her again. He told himself it was a coincidence. He was a graduate student; the library was his second home. But when she finally reappeared, this time sitting at the table next to his, his heart stuttered in a way that defied explanation.

She was reading a worn paperback, the cover so faded he couldn’t make out the title. Her lips moved slightly as she read, and every so often, she would look up and stare out the window, her eyes distant and thoughtful. He watched her for a full ten minutes before she caught him staring.

She didn’t look away. Instead, she smiled—a small, curious smile—and he felt the heat rise to his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

“It’s okay,” she replied. Her voice was soft, melodic. “I’ve been staring at you too.”

And that was how it began.

---

Their first real conversation was about books. It turned out she was a literature graduate, and he was studying astrophysics. They were opposites in almost every way—she believed in poetry and fate; he believed in equations and probability. But when she talked about her favorite novels, her hands moved like she was conducting an invisible orchestra, and he found himself captivated not by the words, but by the way she said them.

They started meeting for coffee after his classes. She would bring him poems by Rumi and Pablo Neruda, and he would show her pictures of nebulae and star clusters. She called his stars “burning poems,” and he called her metaphors “little universes.”

It was on a rainy Tuesday that he first kissed her. They were standing under the awning of a closed bookstore, the rain coming down in sheets around them. She was shivering slightly, her arms wrapped around herself, and without thinking, he took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. She looked up at him, her eyes dark and luminous, and he leaned in.

Her lips were cold and tasted like the mint tea they’d had earlier. She kissed him back softly, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. When they pulled apart, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the world seemed quieter, hushed.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he said, the words escaping before he could stop them.

She smiled, a blush creeping up her cheeks. “I think I’m falling too.”

---

Those first few months were a blur of late-night conversations and stolen moments. They would stay up until dawn, talking about everything and nothing—her childhood in a small coastal town, his obsession with the stars, the books they loved, the dreams they had. She told him about her father’s passing when she was twelve, and he told her about his parents’ divorce. They shared their scars and their secrets, and with each confession, their bond grew stronger.

But love, he learned, was not just the bright, joyful moments. It was also the quiet, difficult ones.

It happened in November, when the leaves had fallen and the air had turned cold. They were at his apartment, curled up on the couch, watching a movie she had picked. Halfway through, she paused the film and turned to him, her expression serious.

“I got a job offer,” she said.

His heart dropped. “Where?”

“London. It’s a fellowship at the university. It’s for a year, Rohin. Maybe two.”

He didn’t know what to say. The thought of her leaving felt like a physical blow. He had known, logically, that this might happen—she was brilliant, ambitious, destined for great things. But he had let himself believe that they had more time.

“That’s… amazing,” he managed, his voice steady even though his hands were trembling. “You should take it.”

She searched his face, her eyes glistening. “Is that what you really think?”

“I think it’s what you need to do.”

She took his hand, her fingers cold. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“Then don’t,” he said, the words bitter on his tongue. But he knew he couldn’t ask her to stay. That would be selfish. Love meant wanting the best for someone, even if it hurt.

She left in January. He drove her to the airport, and they held each other at the gate until the final boarding call. She was crying, and he was trying not to. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and whispered, “I’ll be here when you come back.”

She nodded, unable to speak, and then she was gone.

---

The first few weeks without her were the hardest. He would wake up reach for her, only to find an empty space. He would go to their coffee shop and order her usual drink, just to feel close to her. They talked every day, first through texts, then calls, then video chats. But time zones and distance took their toll. The calls became shorter, the silences longer.

She was busy—her fellowship was demanding, and she was making new friends, exploring a new city. He was happy for her, truly. But a part of him grew cold with fear. He remembered reading somewhere that long distance relationships rarely survived. He began to wonder if they would be the exception.

March came, and she mentioned a colleague named Alex. Just casually, in passing. But his chest tightened. He tried to ignore it. Then she started talking about Alex more often, and he heard the lightness in her voice.

“He’s just a friend,” she said when he finally asked. But there was a note of defensiveness in her tone that made his stomach churn.

In April, she broke up with him over a video call. Her face on the screen was blurry, but he could see her tears.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I never meant to hurt you. But I’m here, and you’re there, and I can’t keep pretending that this is working.”

“Is it Alex?” he asked, his voice flat.

She hesitated. “It’s not just that. It’s everything. I need to focus on my work. I can’t be worried about someone on the other side of the world.”

He wanted to argue, to plead, to tell her that he would wait forever. But instead, he said, “I understand.”

He ended the call before she could see him break.

---

For a long time after that, he buried himself in his work. He spent more time at the observatory, staring at the stars, trying to find solace in their cold, distant beauty. He thought about Sana constantly—the curve of her smile, the way she laughed, the feel of her hand in his. He wondered if she thought of him too.

Months passed. He finished his degree and started teaching. He went on a few dates, but no one ever felt right. They were all compared to her, and they all fell short.

two years later, he received an invitation to a conference in London. His first instinct was to decline. But then he thought, maybe he was ready. Maybe he could see the city she had built a life in, and finally let go.

He arrived in London on a gray Thursday. The conference was at a hotel near the Thames, and he spent the first day attending lectures and pretending to network. On the second day, during a coffee break, he saw her.

She was standing by the window, just like that first time in the library. Her hair was shorter, and she looked different—older, more confident. She was talking to a man with sandy hair, and when she laughed, the sound was achingly familiar.

He started to turn away, but she saw him. Her eyes widened, and she excused herself from the man, walking toward him with an uncertain smile.

“Rohin,” she said, her voice soft. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Neither did I,” he said. “It was last minute.”

They stood there, an awkward distance between them. He noticed she wasn’t wearing a ring.

“How have you been?” she asked.

“Good. Busy. You?”

“Same.” She looked down. “I’m sorry for how I ended things.”

“It’s in the past.”

“I know, but… I want you to know that I never stopped caring about you. I just couldn’t handle the distance.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

They talked for a few more minutes, polite and stilted. Then she said she had to go, and he let her. He watched her walk away, and he felt the familiar ache in his chest. But it wasn’t as sharp as before. It was duller, like a scar that had healed.

---

On his last night in London, he found himself at a small pub near his hotel. He was nursing a beer, thinking about the conference, when the door opened and she walked in. She saw him and came over.

“I was hoping I’d run into you,” she said, sitting down across from him. “I wanted to explain everything. Properly.”

He didn’t say anything. He just waited.

“I was scared,” she said. “Not of the distance, but of how much I loved you. I thought if I left, I would lose myself. But I lost myself anyway.” She took a breath. “I broke up with Alex six months ago. He was never you.”

His heart pounded. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because I never stopped loving you,” she said. “And I think… I think you still love me too.”

He looked into her eyes—the same eyes he had fallen in love with that first day in the library. And he realized that the love he felt for her had never gone away. It had just been waiting, dormant, for her to come back.

“I do,” he said. “I never stopped.”

She smiled, and it was like the sun breaking through clouds. She reached across the table and took his hand.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” she said. “I want to try again. Properly this time.”

He squeezed her hand. “Me too.”

---

They spent the next few days exploring London together, rediscovering each other. They visited the places she had come to love, and he told her about the changes in his life. There were no grand gestures, no dramatic apologies. Just two people learning to trust each other again.

When he left, she came to the airport with him. They kissed goodbye, and this time, it wasn’t an ending. It was a promise.

A year later, she moved back. They got married on a rainy June afternoon, at the same library where they had first met. The ceremony was small, just family and close friends. As they exchanged vows, he looked into her eyes, and he saw his entire universe reflected there.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” she said, her smile brighter than any star.

And when they kissed, it felt like coming home.