Elara lived next door. She was quiet and loved her garden, especially these weird flowers that only opened at night, called moonflowers. Leo moved in next to her. He was an astronomer, a guy who liked facts and telescopes and things he could prove.
He saw her in her garden every evening and finally went over to say hello. He tried to impress her with the scientific name for her flowers. She just smiled and said, "They're shy."
They were an odd pair. He talked about planets and distant galaxies. She talked about soil and seasons. But they fit. He started spending every evening with her, drinking tea on her porch, watching the night come in. He brought her charts of the moon. She gave him a flower in a pot for his desk. He loved her. She loved him. It was that simple.
Then, she got sick. It happened fast. Within a few months, she was too weak to leave her bed. Leo took care of her. He stopped looking at the stars and focused on her, on her medicine, on making her comfortable.
One evening, she was very tired. She whispered, "The moonflowers will bloom tonight."
She looked sad that she couldn't go see them. So, Leo picked her up. He carried her from her bed, blankets and all, and sat with her on the bench in the garden. He held her in his lap.
They waited together in the dark. Slowly, as the moon rose, the flowers began to open. All around them, white petals unfolded. Elara watched them, and she smiled.
She turned her head to look at him. "You were wrong about them, you know," she said, her voice very soft. "They don't open because the sun is gone. They open because they love the moon."
She looked back at the flowers for a moment, then closed her eyes. "My sun," she whispered.
And then she was gone.
Leo held her for a long time, until the flowers closed and the sun started to come up.
The next year, he tried to keep the moonflowers going, but they never bloomed again. He understood. They were her flowers.
So, he planted sunflowers instead. Big, bright ones that follow the sun all day. Because she called him her sun. And it was easier, now, to live in the daylight.
He still misses her. Every day. But he tends his sunflowers and remembers the woman in the garden who loved the moon, and who, for a little while, loved him.
—
The best love isn't about grand, dramatic gestures. It's found in the quiet, everyday moments: making their tea or coffee how they like it, listening to their story, sitting together in comfortable silence. Pay attention to the small things, because if you're lucky enough to love someone, that's where the real magic is.
