Lost in You, Like Clouds in the Blue.

There are some people you meet, and your heart whispers, Oh, there you are.

Like you’ve spent your whole life searching for them in everyone else.

That’s what it felt like when I met her.

We didn’t collide — we drifted into each other, like two clouds pulled into the same wind current. Effortless. Weightless. Fated.

Her name was Eleni.

She wore silence like silk, moved like water, and looked at the world like it was something holy. I met her in the middle of a nowhere town, where I was spending the summer to get away from myself. I hadn’t planned on meeting anyone. I just wanted to breathe.

She was painting on the rooftop of a small café when I saw her — hair caught in the breeze, brush dancing over canvas, completely unaware of the world below.

And I?

I was immediately, undeniably, irreversibly caught.

I started going there every day. Buying coffee I didn’t need just for the excuse to stay. Watching her from a distance, convincing myself it was admiration, not obsession. Until one day, she looked down from her perch and said, “Are you going to keep staring, or come up and see?”

That was how it began.

She painted the sky every day. Not because it changed, but because she did. “No two blues are ever the same,” she told me once, without looking away from her work. “And the clouds never apologize for how long they linger.”

I didn’t understand what she meant then. But I do now.

We spent hours on that rooftop, lying on our backs and naming the shapes in the sky. She told me stories — some hers, some imagined. I never asked which were true. With her, reality bent like light through glass. And I didn’t want the truth. I just wanted her.

There was a softness to being with Eleni. Like floating. Like forgetting gravity.

I was losing myself — not in a dangerous way, but in a surrendering way.

Like clouds drifting deeper into sky.

Lost in her like clouds in the blue.

I told her that one night, just after sunset.

She smiled at me, gently, like I was something fragile. “Don’t lose yourself too much,” she whispered. “I don’t always stay.”

I should’ve listened.

But when you’re wrapped in a love that feels like air, you forget how much it hurts to fall.

The summer passed too quickly. Time with her moved like wind — felt, not seen. We talked about everything and nothing. We kissed under stars. We danced barefoot on rooftops. And I thought, maybe, this wasn’t just a summer thing. Maybe I was enough to make her stay.

But the sky doesn’t belong to anyone.

And neither did she.

One morning, I went to the rooftop, and she wasn’t there. Just her easel, and a small envelope tucked under a stone.

Inside, a note:

“You knew I was the sky. And still, you tried to hold me like earth.

But some hearts aren’t meant to land.

You made me feel seen — truly seen — and that’s more than most ever do.

But I belong to the blue.

Find someone who wants to stay.

And don’t forget to look up once in a while. I might be passing by.”

I read it once. Then again. Then I cried the kind of tears that only fall when you’ve loved something too big to keep.

It’s been years now.

I’ve loved again — differently, more grounded. I’ve built a life, a home. But every so often, I find myself lying in the grass, eyes tracing the sky, watching the clouds drift in slow, aimless patterns.

And in those moments, I feel her again.

Like breath.

Like paint on wind.

Like sky.

And I whisper, without needing her to hear it:

“I’m still a little lost in you… like clouds in the blue.”