The Sky Between Our Hands

Arwa met Zayan on the first day of university orientation. She was early, sitting alone under the giant banyan tree in the courtyard, sketching the clouds above. He was late, running across the lawn, his camera swinging from his neck and his shoes untied.

He tripped right in front of her.

She looked up, blinking.

He grinned from the grass. “Wasn’t planning on making an entrance, but here we are.”

She laughed—a soft sound that startled even her. He was like chaos wrapped in sunlight, and she was the girl who lived quietly between the pages of her sketchbook.

They became inseparable.

She drew. He took photographs. They shared coffee, sunsets, playlists, and silent moments on rooftops.

But they never labeled what they were.

Not friends. Not lovers. Something in between. Something that danced on the edge of possibility.

She once asked him why he never kissed her.

He looked at her with sad eyes and said, “Because if I kiss you, I’ll never want to stop.”

She smiled, but inside, something ached.

**

Years passed like chapters in a book too beautiful to end.

They graduated. He moved abroad for a film project. She stayed behind, painting murals on city walls and teaching art to children.

They called. They texted. They didn’t say what they meant.

Then, one day, silence.

A message she sent went unanswered.

Then another.

A week. A month.

She assumed the worst—maybe he had fallen for someone else. Or worse, had forgotten her entirely.

She stopped sketching clouds.

He stopped appearing in her dreams.

**

One year later, she received a letter.

Not an email. A real letter, written in his messy handwriting.

Arwa,

If you're reading this, it means I finally found the courage. I didn’t disappear because I stopped loving you—I disappeared because I loved you too much, and I didn’t know what to do with it.

When I left, I was afraid. Afraid I’d never be good enough for you. That my world was too unstable, too uncertain. You were always the calm in my storm, and I was terrified I’d pull you under.

But I thought about you every day. Still do.

There’s a photo exhibit next month. My first. And there's a wall full of you. The way you looked at the sky. The way you held silence like a song. If you’re still out there… please come.

If you don’t, I’ll understand. But I’ll always wonder.

—Zayan

She cried in the stairwell of her studio, clutching the letter like it was a piece of him.

That night, she bought a train ticket to the city where his exhibit was.

**

The gallery was warm and humming with quiet voices.

She walked in and saw herself—again and again—through his lens. Laughing under trees, staring at sunsets, caught mid-blink, mid-smile, mid-wonder.

Each photo had a title.

But one caught her breath.

“The Sky Between Our Hands” — a shot of their shadows almost touching, but not quite.

She turned—and he was there.

Older, tired, but still him.

“Hi,” he said, barely above a whisper.

She didn’t speak. Just walked toward him and placed her hand in his.

No more space between them.

He held her as if letting go wasn’t an option anymore.

And finally, after all the years, all the almosts, he kissed her.

Soft. Slow. Certain.

It wasn’t fireworks.

It was the quiet after a long storm.

It was coming home.

**

Later, as they stood outside under a sky full of stars, he asked, “Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened if I had kissed you back then?”

She smiled and said, “No. Because this moment is the one I was waiting for.”

They didn’t need to look back anymore.

They had the sky between their hands.

And the rest of their story to write.