That was the beginning. The silence broke like a dam, and the words flooded in. They spent hours talking about everything and nothing. He learned that she painted the dreams she couldn't remember once she woke up. She learned that he wrote songs for the people who were too quiet to speak for themselves.
"Why do you only write sad songs?" Meher asked one evening, sipping a latte with extra cinnamon.
"Because happy songs are a lie," Aryan replied, leaning in. The cafe was nearly empty, the warm yellow lights casting long, intimate shadows. "Happiness is a moment. Sadness... sadness is a legacy. It stays."
Meher reached across the table. Her skin was warm, and when her fingers brushed against his, Aryan felt a jolt of electricity that made the lyrics in his head finally align.
"I want to show you a different legacy," she whispered.
She led him to the back of the cafe, where an old, out-of-tune upright piano stood forgotten in the corner. She sat on the bench and patted the spot next to her. As Aryan sat down, the space between them vanished. He could feel the heat radiating from her shoulder, the soft rise and fall of her breath.
"Play something," she commanded.
Aryan placed his hands on the keys. He played a soft, lingering melody—the kind that sounds like a goodbye before it's even started. Meher didn't move. She leaned her head on his shoulder, her hair brushing against his neck.
"Now," she whispered, her lips inches from his ear. "Make it hurt less."
Aryan shifted the key. He added a major lift to the chorus, a spark of hope in the middle of the gloom. Meher turned her face toward him. In the dim light of the cafe, she looked like a masterpiece he wasn't worthy of painting.