The gallery was tucked away in a quiet lane off MG Road, its entrance framed by bougainvillea and a rusted iron gate that creaked like an old memory. Inside, the air smelled of varnish and stillness. Paintings lined the walls—some abstract, some aching with realism—but all seemed to hum with stories waiting to be heard.
Aanya walked ahead, her steps slow, deliberate. Vihaan followed, notebook in hand, though he hadn't written a word since they arrived.
They stopped before a canvas splashed with blues and greys—rain over rooftops, a lone figure beneath an umbrella, faceless but familiar.
"It's called 'Solitude,'" Aanya read from the placard.
Vihaan tilted his head. "Looks more like surrender."
She glanced at him. "You see surrender. I see survival."
They moved on. Aanya paused before a painting of two hands reaching for each other, suspended in mid-air, never quite touching.
"This one hurts," she whispered.
Vihaan nodded. "It's called 'Almost.'"
The silence between them grew heavier, but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that asked questions without demanding answers.
They reached the final room—a small alcove with a single painting. It was a swirl of colors, chaotic yet tender. In the center, a figure stood in the rain, arms open, face turned upward.
"No title," Aanya said.
Vihaan stepped closer. "Maybe it doesn't need one."
She turned to him. "Do you ever feel like we're all just unfinished paintings? Waiting for someone to add the final stroke?"
Vihaan looked at her, eyes soft. "Or maybe we're the ones holding the brush."
Aanya smiled, but it didn't erase the ache in her chest. She wanted to believe in beginnings, but the shadow of Meera still lingered—like a watermark on every page Vihaan wrote.
As they left the gallery, the rain had stopped. The city was quiet, washed clean.
Vihaan reached for her hand. She let him.
And in that moment, silence became a language they both understood.