"When the Sky Turned Lavender"

It was the middle of March when the sky above their school first turned that soft shade of lavender, the kind of color that comes right before sunset, when day hesitates before giving into night. That’s when Ayan first noticed Rayyan—not just as the quiet boy in the last row, but really noticed him.

They’d been classmates since eighth grade. Ayan, the more outgoing of the two, had a circle of friends who spoke loudly, laughed often, and moved through school corridors like they owned them. Rayyan, on the other hand, was quiet, observant, always with a book in hand and his headphones on. He wasn’t invisible—but he certainly wasn't the kind of boy who stood out. Until he did.

Their teacher paired them up for a group literature project. Ayan groaned at first. He’d hoped to work with someone easier, someone familiar. But there was something calming about Rayyan's presence that Ayan hadn’t expected. They met after school at the library, sat in silence before they spoke, and slowly, the walls began to fall.

“Do you actually like reading this stuff?” Ayan asked on their first afternoon, flipping through a worn-out copy of Romeo and Juliet.

Rayyan looked up with a soft smile. “Some parts. I guess I like the idea of people caring about each other that much. Even when it's messy.”

Ayan tilted his head, surprised. “You ever fall for someone like that?”

Rayyan hesitated. Then, almost in a whisper, “Not yet.”

They both chuckled, but Ayan’s heart did a small, strange somersault. It wasn’t the answer. It was the way Rayyan looked at him as he said it—like he was waiting to be understood.


---

Over the next few weeks, their after-school meetings became less about the project and more about each other. They talked about music, families, insecurities. Ayan learned that Rayyan loved sketching, and Rayyan learned that Ayan played guitar but never sang in front of anyone. It was as if they had been waiting their whole lives to find someone who listened without judgment.

One rainy Thursday, the power went out in the library. Candles were lit by the librarian, casting golden shadows on Rayyan’s face. They sat by the window, watching raindrops blur the glass.

“Do you ever feel like... you’re different, but you don’t know how to say it?” Rayyan asked, barely audible over the storm.

Ayan’s throat tightened. He knew that feeling well—those moments when you glance at someone a second too long, when you laugh a little harder at a boy’s joke and wonder if it means something. He looked at Rayyan, their knees almost touching.

“I think I’ve always felt that way,” Ayan replied. “Like there’s a part of me I’m still figuring out.”

Rayyan turned to him, eyes searching. “Me too.”

They didn’t say anything else that evening. But something shifted between them—unspoken but real.


---

A week later, the project was over, but Ayan found himself missing Rayyan. They still texted—little things like songs to listen to or memes that made them laugh—but it wasn’t enough. One evening, Ayan gathered all his courage and asked Rayyan if he wanted to come over after school.

They sat in Ayan’s room, cross-legged on the carpet, his guitar between them.

“You said you play,” Rayyan smiled, nudging him.

Ayan rolled his eyes but began strumming. The melody was soft, a tune he'd written himself but never shared. Halfway through, he stopped.

“I wrote this... after that day in the library,” he admitted. “I didn’t know what it meant. I still don’t. But it made me think of you.”

Rayyan's expression softened. He reached out, fingers brushing Ayan’s hand. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

There was a pause. Not the awkward kind—but the kind that stretches out when something important is about to happen. Then, gently, carefully, Rayyan leaned in. Their lips met in a moment that was more comforting than electric. It wasn’t fireworks—it was the warmth of understanding, of being seen.

When they pulled apart, Ayan smiled. “So... what now?”

Rayyan grinned. “Now, we figure it out.”


---

They didn’t rush into labels or promises. They still kept things quiet, just between them. Some days they held hands under the table in class; other days they just sat near each other, comforted by the silence. It wasn’t always easy—navigating feelings, fear, and the weight of what-ifs—but they had each other.

And for two boys in a world still learning how to be kind, that was more than enough.

Because love, even in its gentlest form, deserves a place in the story.

Especially when the sky turns lavender.