The monsoon had ended by the time the invitation arrived.
An art collective in Kerala was hosting an exhibition titled "Still Water."
Sjha received the flyer in the post — folded neatly inside an unmarked envelope.
At the bottom corner, in small print, it read:
Curated by: Arin.
She didn't know whether to smile or to sit down.
Instead, she did both.
---
For weeks, she debated whether to go.
Delhi was far, work was busy, excuses were easy.
But some silences deserve to end — not in words, but in presence.
So she booked a train, packed lightly, and carried only one canvas — her newest work, "Rain Between Us."
---
The journey took two days.
Endless green fields blurred past, towns came and went, and for the first time in years, she felt a strange peace — as if every mile was gently untying something in her chest.
When she arrived in Kochi, the air was different — soft, heavy with salt and the smell of wet earth.
The collective was built near the backwaters, surrounded by palms and quiet.
People moved like a painting there — slow, deliberate, with meaning in every motion.
She walked through the open halls, looking at the artworks.
And then she saw it.
His painting.
"The Studio, Empty."
Same window, same light, but this time the room was vacant — no figures, just sunlight touching dust in the air.
She stared at it for a long time.
No caption, no explanation.
But she didn't need one.
---
She turned and found him standing a few feet away.
Older somehow — a little more tired around the eyes, but still him.
"Didn't think you'd come," he said quietly.
"I almost didn't," she replied.
He smiled. "You always say that before doing the impossible."
She looked at his painting again. "It feels strange, seeing our silence hanging on a wall."
He nodded. "I thought it would hurt more. But it doesn't."
"Why?"
"Because maybe it's not silence anymore. Maybe it's memory."
---
They walked along the backwater path afterward — quiet, except for the sound of oars and the call of distant birds.
The air smelled like wet leaves and calmness.
"So, the Arin Collective," she said. "You finally did it."
He shrugged lightly. "It's small. But it's honest."
"That's enough."
He looked at her, smiling faintly. "And you? Still teaching?"
"Yes. Still telling kids not to fear empty canvases."
"Do you?"
She hesitated. "I still do. But less than before."
---
They stopped near the water.
A small boat drifted past, carrying children who waved as they passed.
She waved back absentmindedly.
He said softly, "I kept meaning to write to you."
"I know."
"But I didn't."
"I know that too."
"Why are you not angry?"
She looked at the sky, thinking. "Because sometimes silence says enough.
And maybe… I didn't need your words to know what they'd mean."
He smiled faintly. "I missed you anyway."
She didn't look at him when she said, "I know that too."
---
Later, they sat at a small tea stall by the canal.
The owner recognized Arin and brought them cups before they could order.
Steam curled into the air; the sunset burned gold over the water.
He asked, "Do you ever regret it? Us… choosing peace over people?"
She sipped her tea, thoughtful.
"Maybe once. But not anymore."
"Why not?"
"Because peace stays longer."
He nodded slowly, understanding.
---
That night, at the exhibition's closing event, she stood beside her own painting.
People stopped, whispered, analyzed — the way art lovers do.
But when Arin walked by, he didn't say anything.
He just looked at the painting — a woman sitting by a window, watching rain blur the world beyond.
It was simple, quiet, and unfinished at the edges.
He smiled.
"It's you," he said softly.
She looked at him. "And every brushstroke is you."
---
The next morning, before she left, he handed her a small box.
"Don't open it here," he said.
She nodded, took it, and didn't ask why.
The train moved again, cutting through mist and distance.
Hours later, when she was finally alone, she opened the box.
Inside were postcards.
Old ones — slightly yellow, edges soft with time.
Each one had a single line on it.
> "I almost wrote to you today."
"You'd have liked the sky this morning."
"The studio smells like rain again."
"Still waiting for your silence to speak."
She closed the box gently.
Every word felt like a breath she'd been holding for too long.
---
Back in Delhi, she placed the box beside her paints.
She didn't cry.
She just sat quietly, letting the stillness wrap around her like a blanket.
Some love stories don't end; they just become letters that never find their address.
---
That night, she painted again.
This time, she didn't stop to think or plan.
The strokes came naturally — like she wasn't creating, but remembering.
When the painting was done, she wrote one line on the back before hanging it to dry:
"For the postcards we never sent —
they still found their way."
---------------------------------------------
> Some silences travel faster than sound.
And some goodbyes arrive in the shape of peace.
--------------------------------------------