When Our Shadows Touched

When Our Shadows Touched

written by [sudaisduranky]

It was near sunset when I first noticed it—how our shadows stretched long on the pavement, running ahead of us like children racing toward the horizon. We were walking side by side, just close enough that the thin strips of fading light between our silhouettes began to blur. At one point, I looked down and saw it clearly: two distinct outlines, dark and imperfect, leaning toward one another. And then—without permission, without even our awareness—they touched.

I didn’t say anything, of course. Who comments on something as fragile as shadows mingling? But that small collision made me feel more than the brush of any hand ever had.

You were laughing about something I’d said—I don’t even remember what it was, some nonsense about the taste of burnt coffee or whether pigeons could harbour grudges—but I remember that laugh. Loud but warm, the kind you didn’t guard or weigh before releasing into the world. It startled me, how easily you let go of joy, while I rationed mine like water in the desert.

I thought of telling you right then, confessing how I felt that my world tilted differently when you were near, how the quiet ache of my evenings dissolved into something bearable after I heard your voice. But words sat like heavy stones in my mouth. So instead, I stared at the shadow where ours had fused, and I held on to it like a secret.

Days turned into weeks. We met often—sometimes deliberately, sometimes by accident, though I suspected you had the same habit of “accidental planning” that I did. Our shadows became silent companions: stretched across the library steps, tangled in the gravel of the old park, carved sharp and restless against the glow of streetlights. Each time I caught sight of them, I looked for that moment again, the soft merging of outlines, as if they knew a truth we hadn’t spoken.

But love—if this was love—lives in the fragile space between what is shared and what is left unsaid. I found excuses to linger when you walked me home, aiming for the last light just so I could watch our blurred silhouettes reach a little closer. And you? You told stories about your grandmother’s garden, about the scent of jasmine and the way violets leaned toward the morning sun. You said those flowers were stubborn, surviving shade and rain and neglect. “They remind me of people like us,” you said, with a grin that almost sounded like an invitation.

Almost.

The day I finally reached for your hand had nothing cinematic about it. We were on a bench by the river, our laughter drifting between us like confetti, and then silence fell. The sun was leaving fast, skimming low across the water, and again our shadows lengthened in front of us. This time, I didn’t just watch. I moved my hand closer—an inch, then another—while the version of me caught in that stretched silhouette had already been brave enough to hold you. When our real palms met, it was almost anticlimactic. No fireworks, no music swelling. Just warmth. Just rightness.

And in that moment I realized: the shadows had always known before we did. They had touched before we touched. They had leaned toward one another long before courage caught up with our hearts.

Now, months later, every time the sun dips behind the hills, I look for those merging outlines on the ground, dark figures stretched taller than we are, shameless about their closeness. And I think to myself: this is what love was trying to say all along—

Now, months later, every time the sun dips behind the hills, I look for those merging outlines on the ground, dark figures stretched taller than we are, shameless about their closeness. And I think to myself: this is what love was trying to say all along—

that sometimes it begins, quietly, not with a kiss, not with a confession, but in the fleeting, miraculous instant…

when our shadows touched.

written by sudais duranky