A Love Story That Waited Too Long by Odeta Rose

Ayaan and Leila grew up in the same small town, their houses just two streets apart, their lives quietly entangled from the moment they met in second grade. While the world around them changed—seasons, schools, jobs—their friendship was the one constant.

Leila loved art. Ayaan loved stories. She painted what he wrote, and he wrote what she felt. Every time they sat under the old elm tree behind the library, their souls silently confessed things their lips never dared.

They loved each other. Everyone knew. Except them.

After high school, Ayaan got a scholarship abroad. He hesitated to leave, hoping she would ask him to stay. She wanted to—but didn't. She watched him board that train with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, clutching the sketch he had drawn of them by the tree.

Years passed. They spoke less, then not at all. Life swallowed them. Leila opened a tiny art studio in town. Ayaan became a journalist, drifting from city to city, chasing headlines but never peace.

On a cold winter morning, Ayaan returned to Elmridge. A letter from Leila had reached him two weeks late:

“I still sit under the elm tree sometimes, hoping you’ll return. I kept waiting, Ayaan. I don’t think I’ll wait much longer.”

He rushed back. The moment he stepped into the studio, he saw her painting hanging near the door—him and her, older, under the same tree. But she wasn't there.

The shopkeeper handed him a sealed envelope.

"She asked me to give this to you if you ever came."

With trembling fingers, Ayaan opened the letter:

“I knew one day you’d come. I just didn’t know if I’d still be here. I have cancer, Ayaan. It came quiet, but stayed loud. I tried to fight, but maybe this life isn't about winning every battle.

I loved you since the day you helped me catch my first butterfly. I waited, and in a way, I still do. Maybe not here. But somewhere.

Sit under our tree once more. Close your eyes. You’ll find me.

—Leila.”

Tears blurred his vision. That night, snow began to fall gently as he walked to the elm tree.

He sat down beneath its bare branches, closed his eyes, and let the wind carry her laughter to him. He stayed there until morning, whispering her name, holding the last painting she had ever made—him, alone, under the elm.