Some people change loudly. They dye their hair, change their walk, laugh differently just to feel new.
She changed quietly.
One morning, she wore anklets. Tiny silver ones that made a soft sound when she moved her feet. Not music, not noise — just a whisper of her being there.
The next day, she brought a book. Its cover was plain, the pages yellowed with time. She didn't read it fast — just turned a few pages, then sat with it open in her lap, like the words were enough even unread.
Another morning, she cried.
Not loudly. Not with shaking shoulders.
But I saw it. The way her hand stayed still on the sketchbook. The way she blinked slower. How she pressed her lips together to hold something in.
I wanted to walk over. Say something — anything. But I didn't.
Not because I was afraid…but because I didn't want to ruin what we had. And what we had was nothing.
But it was the kind of nothing that feels gentle. Like knowing the moon is always there, even if it never speaks to you.
I drew her again that day. But this time, I didn't focus on her face.I drew her hands. The way one gripped the edge of the bench. The other curled around the corner of the book.
I titled the sketch:
"Quiet Storm."
She never looked at me again after that day. Not even when the pencil dropped again.Not even when I sat a little closer.
But she still came. Same time. Same spot.
And I still sketched her.
Because sometimes, you don't need to be seen back to keep seeing someone beautifully.