Under the Amber Sky

There are skies we never forget.

Not because of what happened beneath them, but because of what they held—the colors, the silence, the weight of unspoken things. That amber sky, burning low above the horizon, was not just an end to another day. It was the backdrop to a memory I still carry like a secret folded inside my chest.

We stood beneath it once, you and I—two people trying to hold time still as it slipped through our hands. The world around us was quiet, except for the wind brushing through tall grass and the distant cry of a bird heading home. But within us, everything was speaking. Everything was awake.

The Stillness Before Goodbye

There’s something sacred about twilight. It’s a space between. Not day, not night. A threshold. A moment when the world exhales and lets its colors spill out—soft, burning, brief. That’s what we were too, I think. A threshold. A space between what was and what could never be again.

We didn’t say goodbye that evening, not really. But we knew. The silence stretched long and kind between us. We both understood that love sometimes arrives not to stay, but to teach us the language of loss.

You took my hand and I didn’t let go, even though I knew I couldn’t hold onto you forever.

The sun dipped lower, casting a golden blush across your face. I tried to memorize it—the way the light painted your eyes, how your mouth curved ever so slightly when the wind caught your hair. I wanted to take a photograph, but it felt too small for the moment. Some memories should live only in the heart, not on screens.

Adrift in the In-Between

We think of love as permanence. But some of the most real loves are temporary. They pass through us like the wind—intangible but felt, invisible but unforgettable. You were like that. Not a destination, but a journey. Not a possession, but a presence.

And when you left, you didn’t shatter me. You scattered me—like petals caught in a soft breeze, drifting through the golden hour.

For weeks, I walked under amber skies hoping I’d see you again. I told myself it wasn’t over, even though my heart whispered otherwise. I would sit on the same hill, at the same time, thinking the sky might give me back what it once watched me lose.

But skies don’t hold onto people. They just witness. They just glow.

Memory Woven in Light

What do we do with the memories that no longer fit into our lives but still cling to the edges of our thoughts?

I kept you in fragments. In the songs we used to hum. In the scent of rain on dry soil. In the pages of a book we never finished. I didn’t try to forget. I tried to carry it gracefully, like the evening carries the fading sun.

Every amber sky since then reminds me—not of the end, but of the fact that it was. That we were. And that love, however brief, leaves behind a different version of ourselves.

You made me softer. Quieter. You taught me to watch the skies. To listen more. To say what I feel before the light disappears.

The Beauty of Ephemeral Love

Some might call it a tragedy—what we had. A love that didn’t last, a story without a second chapter. But I don’t see it that way anymore.

Not every love is meant to be a forever home. Some are constellations—meant to be admired from a distance, impossible to hold, but no less beautiful. Some are sunsets, not sunrises—meant to close a day, not begin it. And some are simply moments where two souls meet at the right time to remind each other they’re still alive.

You were all of those things to me.

And under that amber sky, we were infinite for a breath of time.

Time Doesn’t Erase Everything

They say time heals all wounds. But I don't believe it. Time doesn’t erase—it softens, it reshapes. The sharp edges dull, the ache becomes quieter, but the impression remains. Like a pressed flower in a forgotten book, love stays—fragile, faded, but still there.

I’ve loved others since you. Differently, maybe even more deeply. But there’s a part of me that still pauses at every sunset, that still looks to the sky when the air turns gold. That part doesn’t long for your return—it just remembers.

And maybe that’s what love is in the end. Not possession. Not longevity. But remembrance.

Under New Skies

I go to that same hill sometimes. I bring a blanket and tea and sit under the amber sky alone. But I don’t feel lonely. I feel accompanied—by who I was with you, by the version of myself that bloomed in your light.

I write sometimes. I speak your name into the breeze. I imagine you’re out there, under a different sky, maybe remembering too. Not with pain, but with peace.

Because no matter how far we drift from the moment, it remains. The sky still remembers. And so do I.

We were there.

Under the amber sky.

And in that golden space between twilight and memory, we will always be.