I see purple in small things lavender on a stranger’s dress, the twilight smeared across the horizon, the ink bleeding through a page. Each time, it’s you. You, in the gentlest reminder, you, in the ache that never quite fades. If love had a color, yours would always be mine that endless shade of purple. I may have been the one to end us, but some endings are just pauses disguised as goodbyes. Maybe it was never the lack of love, only the wrong hour on the clock, only the world asking us to wait, a little longer.