The next morning, Mumbai was soaked in silver light.
The sea outside the window looked alive again — restless, glittering, breathing.
Sjha woke to the sound of gulls and faraway horns. She hadn't planned to stay, but something about that city made her pause.
She spent the next few days helping Arin at the gallery.
Nothing grand — just arranging paints, organizing student sketches, laughing at his messy handwriting.
It felt… steady. Ordinary in the best way.
Sometimes, he'd hum while mixing colors.
Sometimes, she'd sketch quietly by the corner window.
Neither said what they were really thinking.
But silence has its own language — and theirs had started to sound like comfort.
---
One afternoon, rain came without warning.
The glass fogged, and thunder rolled far over the ocean.
Arin looked up from his easel. "You still hate rain?"
She smirked. "I never hated it. I just didn't like what it reminded me of."
"And what's that?"
She thought for a second. "The feeling of waiting for something that doesn't come."
He smiled faintly. "Then maybe today it finally did."
---
That evening, they walked to the pier.
The air smelled of salt and wet earth.
A group of kids splashed near the water, shouting with laughter.
For a moment, it felt like they were watching life instead of living it — and that was somehow enough.
Arin stopped near the railing, looking out to the waves.
"You know," he said quietly, "I used to think people heal when they find love again. But maybe… they just learn to love differently."
She glanced at him. "You talk like someone who's already let go."
He exhaled, eyes still on the horizon. "I'm trying to."
---
The next day, a letter arrived for her — forwarded from Delhi.
An art institute wanted her to lead a full-time program starting next month.
It was everything she'd dreamed of — a stable job, recognition, a fresh start.
She stared at the paper for a long time, the words blurring.
She'd spent months waiting for a door to open.
Now that it had, she didn't know if she wanted to walk through it.
When she told Arin, he said only,
"You have to go."
She looked at him, her voice small. "Every time I go, I lose something."
He shook his head. "No, Sjha. You just make space for something new."
---
The night before she was supposed to leave, they sat on the gallery floor surrounded by unfinished canvases.
There was no music, no wine, just rain tapping against the window.
She picked up a half-painted canvas. "You never finished this one."
He smiled. "Maybe it's not meant to be finished."
"Maybe nothing ever is."
He looked at her then — really looked, as if memorizing her face for the times he'd miss it.
"You'll write?" he asked.
She nodded. "I will."
He smiled faintly. "And if you don't?"
"Then you'll still read between the raindrops."
---
When she boarded the train the next morning, he didn't come to the station.
She didn't expect him to.
Some goodbyes are too heavy to share in public.
But as the train began to move, she saw something on the seat beside her — a folded sheet of paper, slipped between the pages of her sketchbook.
She opened it carefully.
> "Don't come back to finish anything.
Just come back if you ever want to begin again."
— A
She folded the note and placed it over her heart.
For the first time in years, she didn't cry when leaving.
She just smiled quietly, watching the raindrops race down the glass, colliding and parting — like people who meet, change, and move forward.
---
Back in her small flat in Delhi, life began to move fast again.
Work, classes, deadlines, students — her days filled up before she could think.
But sometimes, in the middle of a lecture, she'd pause —
and for no reason, she'd imagine the sea, the pier, and the faint hum of Arin's voice.
Maybe that's how people stay — not through presence, but through echoes that refuse to fade.
---
Weeks later, she got a parcel — a canvas, wrapped neatly.
Inside was a painting.
Her studio, the first day they'd met.
She stood in the doorway, sunlight spilling through the window, and beside her — a blurred figure, half-finished, holding a brush.
There was no note. Just a faint signature in the corner: A.
---
That night, she stayed up painting again.
The city outside roared with noise, but her room was quiet, filled with the smell of turpentine and memory.
For the first time in a long while, her strokes were confident, free.
Every color felt alive.
Every line had meaning.
She didn't realize she was crying until a tear mixed with the paint and spread into a soft blue stain.
She didn't wipe it away.
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Some people don't leave marks on your skin — they leave them in your silence.
And sometimes, that silence becomes the loudest thing you ever carry.
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