"Not every silence means peace.
Some silences are waiting for their
truth to echo."
---
Rain had become the sound of their days — steady, endless, familiar.
At Lightspace, laughter and brushes filled the air, and the walls finally smelled like life again.
Sjha had stopped counting hours.
She painted, she smiled, she breathed.
Sometimes, that felt like enough.
Arin still came every evening.
He helped tidy up, fixed shelves, brought tea from the small stall near the gate.
Their hands brushed sometimes — accidental, soft, electric — but neither mentioned it.
It was safer that way.
---
One evening, she found a folded paper left on her desk.
No name, just his handwriting — neat, tilted, careful.
> "We all leave something behind —
a shadow, a memory, a voice still speaking in empty rooms.
I am learning not to run from mine."
She smiled faintly.
He always wrote like he was half confessing, half hiding.
But that night, she noticed something strange.
His usual sketchbook wasn't beside his chair.
He never forgot it.
---
The next day, he didn't come.
Not in the evening. Not even the day after.
She tried to tell herself it didn't matter — people get busy, life moves.
But the quiet between 6 and 7 p.m. felt heavier than usual.
Her heart whispered what her mind refused to believe —
Something's wrong.
---
By the third day, Meera noticed.
"He didn't call?" she asked.
"No."
"Maybe he needed space again."
"He's already had too much of it."
"Then find him."
Sjha looked up. "You think I should?"
Meera shrugged. "You'll never sleep till you do."
---
That night, Sjha found herself walking through the narrow lanes where the rain still smelled like yesterday.
She followed the road to the old pier — the place they first spoke about forgetting.
He wasn't there.
But on the bench, under a damp newspaper, she found his sketchbook.
Her breath caught.
It was soaked, pages curled, ink blurred.
But inside — every page was filled.
Painted waves, torn letters, portraits of her — not smiling, but waiting.
And then, halfway through the book, a poem:
> I kept the light alive for you,
even when the wind forgot your name.
If I vanish before morning,
let the sea remember me kindly.
Her hands trembled.
---
The next morning, she went to his rented flat near the harbor.
The landlady opened the door, sighing.
"He left last night," she said. "Didn't say where."
Sjha felt the world tilt again — not violently, just enough to make her stumble.
"Did he leave a message?"
The woman hesitated. "He said if anyone came asking… to give this."
She handed a small envelope.
Inside was a single photograph — the two of them at the studio, her laughing mid-sentence, him looking away.
On the back, his handwriting:
> "Don't come looking.
I'll return when the noise inside me dies."
---
Days blurred after that.
Lightspace continued.
Children came, colors spilled, and she smiled when needed.
But inside, she was collapsing quietly.
At night, she'd sit with his sketchbook and trace every page — trying to read what he didn't say.
Sometimes, she'd write replies in the blank margins:
> The sea can be kind, but so can waiting.
> Some noise never ends — we just learn its rhythm.
> Come back before silence becomes habit.
---
Weeks passed.
Then, one morning, a letter arrived — no return address.
It smelled faintly of sea salt.
> "Sjha,
I didn't mean to disappear.
But the truth caught up — the one I never told you.
Mia didn't die in the fire by chance.
I caused it.
I lived with the guilt of it for years, and when I met you, I thought maybe kindness could erase it.
But kindness isn't forgetfulness.
I had to face what I'd done — the family I broke, the lives I burned.
Don't wait for me. Not until I forgive myself.
— A."
The paper shook in her hand.
Her chest felt hollow — not from anger, but from understanding.
She finally knew why he'd been afraid to breathe freely.
She whispered, "You fool. Healing doesn't mean hiding."
---
That night, she wrote him a reply she couldn't send:
> *You think guilt makes you human.
But love does too.
You can't fix the past, Arin.
You can only stop letting it ruin what's left.
Come home. Not to me — to yourself.*
She folded the letter, slid it into the back of his sketchbook, and locked it away.
---
Days turned into weeks again.
The monsoon faded into gray skies and drifting leaves.
She learned to laugh again, though sometimes the sound surprised her.
And then — a small twist of fate.
One afternoon, while helping a student clean up, she found a news clipping tucked inside one of the old art books Arin had donated.
It was about a community center by the coast — rebuilt after a fire, now turned into a free art school for children.
At the bottom, in small print, was a name.
"Founder: Arin Das."
Her hands trembled, but her lips curved into a faint smile.
---
That night, she stood on the balcony, watching the stars break through clouds.
She whispered, "You didn't vanish. You found a way to make peace."
For the first time, the silence didn't hurt.
It felt… full.
---
> "Sometimes, love doesn't end.
It just changes the address where it waits."
---
Still, a part of her hoped.
Not for him to come back —
but for them to meet again, someday,
not as broken souls trying to heal,
but as two people who finally learned how to live.
---------------------------------------------