Silence That Says Too Much
It didn't rain today.
The sky was a soft, delicate blue, fading into hints of gold near the horizon. Andra arrived earlier than yesterday, taking his place on the same wooden bench by the lake. He held his camera in his lap, though he didn't intend to use it. Not yet.
He wasn't sure Dira would come.
He didn't even know why he cared if she did.
Maybe it was because, for the first time in years, someone had looked at him—really looked—and didn't see a man with a job or a past, but simply… a man trying to exist.
Then, the sound of quiet footsteps.
Andra turned. There she was.
Same gray sweater. Same loose hair. Same unreadable expression.
"What's the color of the sky today?" she asked, sitting beside him without invitation, as if yesterday had already erased all awkwardness.
Andra looked up. "Blue. But it's turning golden. Like the way you smiled yesterday."
Dira frowned slightly. "That sounds like something a poet would say."
He chuckled. "I'm not a poet. I'm just a guy trying to describe the world for someone who can't see it the way I do."
She didn't reply immediately.
But the silence between them wasn't empty. It was full of something warm and slow-building.
"I've never liked being photographed," Dira said suddenly. "I never understood why people love photos so much. What's the point of capturing a moment when it's going to fade anyway?"
Andra stared out at the lake. "Sometimes we just need proof. That something existed. That happiness happened. That we were there… and felt something real."
"Proof," she repeated. "But proof can hurt. It stays still while we move on. It reminds us of what we lost."
He nodded. "That's true. But sometimes, stillness is more honest than people who pretend to be okay when they're not."
Dira let out a small laugh. "You sound like a philosopher with a camera."
"Or just a broken man with no idea how to fix himself."
There was a pause. A gentle one.
"Who broke you?" she asked softly.
Andra hesitated. "Her name was Siska."
"She liked photography too?"
"No. But she loved looking at my photos. Said I had a way of capturing feelings in an image. Like I could read people's souls through my lens."
"And?"
"I didn't marry her. I was scared. Of commitment. Of failure. Of becoming someone I didn't want to be. I thought she'd wait. But love doesn't wait forever."
Dira was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "Do you regret it?"
"Every day. Not because she left, but because I let my fear speak louder than my love."
She bit her lip. Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve.
"I have fears too, Andra."
He turned to her. "About what?"
She didn't answer right away. Her eyes stared straight ahead, toward a sky she would never fully know.
"I'm afraid I won't get the chance to fall in love."
The words hit him like a slow, painful ache. Not sharp, but deep.
"Why would you say that?" he asked, his voice quiet.
"I don't know. Maybe because I've spent too long behind invisible walls. I can't see the world like other people. I don't get excited over colors or sunsets. I don't join the noise when people scream over a beautiful dress or a rainbow."
He wanted to say that love didn't need colors. But she wasn't asking for comfort. She was giving him a piece of her wound. And he knew wounds deserved silence, not stitches from strangers.
"I've never been in love," she said. "But if love feels like sitting next to someone who doesn't make me feel broken or pitied or different… maybe I'm starting to feel it now."
Andra swallowed hard. His throat tightened. He wasn't one for tears, but something about her voice made the edges of his heart soften and crack.
"I don't know if I'm healed either," he whispered. "But if healing means laughing again even when you're still hurting… maybe I'm learning how to love again too."
A light breeze swept through the trees.
Their silence returned, but it was fuller now—like two people listening to the same secret that didn't need words.
Then Dira reached into her bag and pulled out a folded paper.
"I opened the letter today."
Andra glanced at her. "What letter?"
"From the hospital. The test results. It's not just color blindness. It's something else."
He straightened, his face tense. "What is it?"
"A degenerative genetic condition. It affects the retina… and the nerves. They said I might lose all my vision. Completely. Within a year or two."
Andra's breath caught.
"Dira..."
"I'm not afraid of the dark. I've lived in shades of gray my whole life. But I'm scared I won't get to see someone smile at me when I tell them I love them. Even if I never see the color of their eyes."
Andra gently reached for her hand.
Warm. Real. Human.
"I'm here, Dira."
"For how long?" she whispered.
"As long as you need someone who won't run when you're afraid."
She turned toward the sound of his voice. Her dark eyes couldn't capture his features, but they locked onto something deeper.
"Tomorrow… will you take me somewhere high?"
"High?"
"A place where I can feel the shape of the world. Before it disappears from me completely."
He nodded, squeezing her hand gently.
"I'll take you to the highest place I've ever stood. And I'll describe every part of the view. Every light. Every color."