The city had changed.
Or maybe it hadn't.
Maybe only Arin had.
When the bus stopped, he stepped out with a small bag and tired eyes.
The air smelled of rain and old memories.
He stood still for a moment, watching people rush past him — all in a hurry to be somewhere.
He smiled faintly. Same city. Different heartbeat.
He hadn't been here in months, yet every corner whispered something familiar.
The tea stall, the swing park, the cracked street lamp — all small ghosts of a time that still lived quietly inside him.
---
He walked down the street that led to her studio.
The signboard read "Lightspace" in soft golden paint.
For a long moment, he didn't move.
Children's laughter echoed from inside, brushes tapping, voices blending into joy.
He could almost hear her voice among them.
He placed his hand on the glass door — but stopped.
Through the window, he saw her.
Sjha.
Hair tied up loosely, streaks of paint on her cheek, laughing at something one of the kids said.
Light filled the room around her.
Not the quiet girl from before — this was someone who had rebuilt herself.
Arin's chest tightened.
He took a step back. She's happy. Don't ruin that.
---
That evening, he walked to the riverside instead.
The same bench where they'd first shared silence still stood there, half-broken.
He sat, took out his sketchbook, and began to draw — her smile through the glass, the glow around her, the peace he never thought she'd find.
By the time the sun dipped, he had drawn an entire page of her life without him.
He closed the book and whispered,
"You found light without me."
And for the first time, the thought didn't hurt.
---
At Lightspace, Meera noticed a familiar figure through the window.
When she turned again, he was gone — but she recognized that quiet stillness anywhere.
Later, when Sjha closed the studio, Meera said, "I think someone came to see you today."
Sjha frowned. "Who?"
"A face I've only seen in one sketch."
Her heart paused. "You're joking."
Meera shook her head. "He didn't come in. Just stood outside for a while."
That night, Sjha couldn't sleep.
She walked to the balcony, watching rain blur the city lights.
"Arin…" she whispered into the dark.
"Was that really you?"
---
The next morning, she reached the studio early.
Something felt different.
Near the door, under the mat, was a brown envelope.
No name — just a small sketch inside.
It was her, behind glass, sunlight falling over her hands.
And below it:
> "You kept your promise. You're still painting."
She pressed the paper to her chest, smiling through tears.
He was back. Somewhere.
---
Meanwhile, Arin rented a small room near the river.
He spent his days sketching, sometimes walking near the studio but never entering.
He wanted to wait — not to disturb her rhythm, not to test his place in her story.
At night, he wrote letters he never sent.
> "You look happy. I didn't think I'd ever see that again."
"I wish I could tell you I'm sorry — not for leaving, but for staying too long inside silence."
"I still carry your blue thread in my wallet. The one you used to tie brushes."
He folded them neatly and tucked them inside his journal.
---
One afternoon, a familiar sound reached him — children laughing near the river.
He looked up — and there she was.
Sjha, walking with her students, carrying paint boxes and paper rolls.
Her eyes met his.
The world stopped.
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Then she smiled — not surprise, not anger, just something quiet and full.
He walked toward her slowly.
"You finally came back," she said softly.
"I was always planning to," he replied.
"Letters got lost again?"
He laughed weakly. "Yeah. Maybe the world likes keeping us waiting."
---
They walked by the river, the children running ahead.
Words felt unnecessary — their silence said more.
"Did you see the exhibition?" she asked.
He nodded. "Through the glass."
"You should've come in."
"I didn't know if I still belonged there."
She stopped walking. "Arin… you were never a visitor in my story. You were part of it."
He looked at her then, truly looked — and realized something.
She wasn't the same girl he'd left behind.
And maybe that was okay.
---
They reached the park.
The swing creaked like an old memory.
He sat; she stood beside him.
"I thought you'd forgotten me," she said.
"I tried," he admitted. "Didn't work."
They both laughed quietly — the kind of laughter that comes after too many storms.
---
Evening settled, and the rain returned, light and endless.
She turned to leave. "Come tomorrow," she said.
"For class?"
"For tea."
He smiled. "I'll bring the cups."
---
That night, as the city fell asleep, Arin walked back through empty streets.
His sketchbook felt lighter.
Maybe because he finally knew — the story wasn't over yet.
And somewhere behind him, in a small studio window glowing with warm light, Sjha began a new painting.
No longer of loss, but of return.
Two silhouettes beneath the same rain.
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