It was strange, the things that still carried his fingerprints.
Not literal ones—he'd taken nothing when he left—but echoes:the way her camera strap had a loose thread because he once fixed it too quickly,the stack of old negatives he'd labelled out of habit,the coffee mug with his faint, permanent smudge on the rim.
They weren't things she missed; they were things that made the air heavier.
Meera had promised herself she wouldn't look for him. Promises, it turned out, were fragile when made in silence.
Days slipped into routine.Class. Coffee. Studio. Sleep. Repeat.
Her friends started to believe she was fine again.She smiled in the right places, talked about exhibitions, even laughed sometimes.But underneath, she could feel the hollow.
It wasn't that she missed him.It was that she missed the version of herself that had felt seen—even if it was through the wrong lens.
One evening, she stayed late in the darkroom.The red safelight cast her shadow long and sharp across the tiles.
She was developing new photos — portraits of people she didn't know, faces she'd captured without meaning to. Strangers were easier. They didn't demand truth.
But when the first image bloomed into view, her hands stilled.
It wasn't a stranger.It was him.
Aarav, leaning against the wall outside the art building, looking down at his phone. She must have taken it weeks ago, without realizing it. A ghost frozen in chemistry.
The air turned thick. The tray rattled slightly as she lifted it out.
"I can't keep doing this," she whispered to no one.
The room didn't answer, but the silence felt sympathetic.
She pinned the print to the drying line anyway. Some griefs demanded to be seen before they could be destroyed.
Outside, the campus was soft with mist. The rain had stopped, leaving everything slick and shining under lamplight.
Meera wandered aimlessly, hands tucked in her pockets. The world looked almost normal, like someone had retouched it just enough to hide the cracks.
Her phone buzzed again.Unknown number.
A.M.: You took a picture I never saw. Don't develop it.
She froze. The words were calm, familiar. Not a threat. Not a plea.Just awareness.
Meera: You're watching me again.A.M.: No. Just guessing. You always go back to the darkroom when you can't sleep.Meera: Stop pretending this is care.A.M.: It's habit.Meera: Then break it.A.M.: I'm trying.
She didn't respond. She deleted the thread.But the ache stayed, quiet and constant, like static under skin.
The next morning, she went to the gallery early. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, clean and golden. Someone had moved the last of the exhibit boxes into storage. The walls were bare again — white, indifferent, empty.
She stood in the center of the room, closed her eyes, and breathed in the smell of paint and dust.It was the same place where everything had begun—and ended.
For the first time, she realized she wasn't angry anymore. Not really.Just tired.
When she opened her eyes, a small envelope sat on the floor near the door. No name. No note. Just thin paper, folded once.
Inside was a photograph.
A picture of her — candid, mid-laugh, hair caught by wind, light hitting her face in the exact way she loved capturing others. It wasn't dramatic or stylized. It was just real.
On the back, two words in neat handwriting:
Keep this one.
She pressed the photo against her chest. Her heart felt like it didn't know whether to break or begin again.