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1502;
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Mimi ✨ Writer @ Adekunle Ajasin University Akungba Akoko
In Literature, Writing and Blogging 3 min read
WHEN LAVENDER MEETS RUST
<p>An 8,000-character romantic story of healing, trust, and unexpected connection.</p><p><br></p><p><br></p><p>---</p><p><br></p><p>Characters:</p><p><br></p><p>Amaara – A soft-spoken artist known for painting with lavender hues. She runs a quiet studio in an old coastal town, choosing solitude over chaos since heartbreak reshaped her life.</p><p><br></p><p>Korede – A welder and metal sculptor who works with reclaimed materials. Rugged, quiet, and known for his rust-touched hands and passion for fixing broken things—including his own past.</p><p><br></p><p><br></p><p><br></p><p><br></p><p>The Story:</p><p><br></p><p>Amaara never liked noise. That’s why her studio faced the sea—so the only sound she heard was the tide breathing in and out. Her canvases were soft, always in shades of lilac, pale blues, and lavender—the only color that felt like calm.</p><p><br></p><p>She painted healing. Not happiness, not sorrow—just what it felt like to breathe again after falling apart.</p><p><br></p><p>Korede never liked silence. It reminded him of what he lost. Every clang of metal in his workshop was a rhythm that filled the emptiness. He turned rust into sculptures. Old into new. Broken into art.</p><p><br></p><p>They were opposites. And yet, the universe is rarely subtle with its magic.</p><p><br></p><p>They met on a Thursday. Korede came into her studio by accident—looking for a mechanic next door. He stood there, uncomfortable in a room that smelled like lavender oil and dried paint. She looked up, brush mid-air.</p><p><br></p><p>“You lost?” she asked, gently.</p><p><br></p><p>“No… maybe not.”</p><p><br></p><p>He didn’t know why he stayed. Or why she let him.</p><p><br></p><p>They talked. Barely. But the quiet didn’t feel awkward—it felt like space. And that’s how it began.</p><p><br></p><p><br></p><p>---</p><p><br></p><p>He came back two days later, bringing her a rusted tin box. “Thought you could paint this.”</p><p>She didn’t smile, but her eyes warmed. “I’ll try, if you weld me a frame from broken wood.”</p><p><br></p><p>It became their rhythm. Trade and talk. Silence and story. Two artists healing in different mediums, finding peace in the spaces between.</p><p><br></p><p>Korede, with his hands scarred by heat and metal.</p><p>Amaara, with her heart still learning to trust anything that stayed.</p><p><br></p><p><br></p><p>---</p><p><br></p><p>Weeks passed. She invited him to her first exhibit in years. He wore a clean shirt, still smelling faintly of steel. Her piece—a lavender sky over a rusted sea—hung in the center.</p><p><br></p><p>“This is us,” he said quietly.</p><p><br></p><p>She turned, surprised. “Us?”</p><p><br></p><p>He nodded. “You paint lavender. I live in rust. But somehow, it works.”</p><p><br></p><p>She didn’t answer with words. Just reached out and touched his fingers, stained with stories she didn’t yet know—but wanted to.</p><p><br></p><p><br></p><p>---</p><p><br></p><p>They weren’t perfect. Some nights, Korede shut down—too many memories. Some days, Amaara pulled back—too scared of losing someone again. But neither of them ran.</p><p><br></p><p>Instead, they sat through the storms. Built art and trust in equal measure.</p><p><br></p><p>She began painting in deeper tones.</p><p>He welded more delicate shapes.</p><p>They softened into each other.</p><p><br></p><p><br></p><p>---</p><p><br></p><p>One year later, on that same beach, he placed a small metal sculpture in her hand. It was lavender—rusted iron painted with care.</p><p><br></p><p>“You still scared?” he asked.</p><p><br></p><p>“Yes,” she whispered. “But not of you.”</p><p><br></p><p>He smiled. “Then let’s be scared together.”</p><p><br></p><p>She kissed him. And in that moment, lavender met rust—not to fix each other, but to hold each other through the healing.</p><p><br></p><p><br></p><p>---</p><p><br></p><p>“When Lavender Meets Rust”</p><p>A reminder that love doesn’t always arrive loud. Sometimes, it walks in quietly, carrying a past—and stays anyway.</p>

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