The rain stopped before dawn, leaving the city soaked in silence.
Drops still clung to the window bars, trembling like they didn't want to fall.
Sjha woke up to the faint smell of earth — that soft, living scent that only comes after heavy rain.
The clock said 6:15 AM. Too early.
But something in her refused to go back to sleep.
She sat up, wrapped herself in a blanket, and watched the world outside her window. The street dogs were asleep under a car. A milkman's bicycle creaked past. Everything looked softer than usual.
For a second, she wondered if peace always came dressed like this — quiet, hesitant, easily breakable.
Her phone buzzed.
> Arin: "Couldn't sleep. The rain got too poetic."
Sjha: "You're not supposed to text before sunrise."
Arin: "You're not supposed to reply either."
She smiled.
> Sjha: "Touché. Tea later?"
Arin: "Always."
She didn't know when their small rituals had begun — just that they made the days less empty.
---
By afternoon, the city had dried.
The park grass was damp, but the sky had turned a shade of silver-blue.
When she reached, Arin was sitting cross-legged on the bench, eyes closed, sketchbook in his lap.
"You meditate now?" she teased.
He opened one eye. "Trying to remember the shape of silence."
"That's your weirdest line yet."
"I mean it," he said, smiling. "Silence has different shapes. Sometimes it's heavy, like a locked room. Sometimes it's wide, like a field after rain."
"And now?"
He looked at her. "Now it's soft. Feels like a blanket."
She sat beside him, half laughing, half moved. "You talk like you've lived twice."
"Maybe I have," he said quietly.
There was a pause — the kind that made her want to know more, but also made her afraid to ask.
---
They spent hours sketching.
He drew the sky. She drew the ground.
At one point, Arin looked over her shoulder.
"You always draw trees," he noticed.
"They're alive even when they don't move," she said. "Like people who don't show what they feel."
He looked at her for a moment longer than usual. "You're describing yourself."
She didn't answer. She didn't need to.
---
When the sun began to dip, Arin said, "There's something I want to show you tomorrow. Not far from here."
"What is it?"
"You'll see."
She rolled her eyes. "Mysterious again."
"Only mildly," he said, grinning.
---
That night, back home, Sjha couldn't focus.
Her sketches lay open on the desk, but her eyes kept drifting to her phone — waiting for another text that didn't come.
It felt strange how quickly Arin had become a part of her rhythm.
She didn't want to admit it, even to herself.
Because feeling close also meant feeling afraid again — and she remembered how fear had ruined her last time.
She closed her eyes and whispered,
"Don't ruin this. Not again."
---
The next day, Arin met her near the park gate.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Just follow," he said.
They walked through narrow lanes, past chai stalls and laundry lines, until they reached a small, abandoned art studio.
The nameplate was faded — Studio Iris.
"It used to belong to my friend," Arin said. "We studied design together. This was our dream — a place for people to paint, talk, exist."
"What happened?"
"She died," he said simply. "Two years ago. The place closed after that."
Sjha's voice softened. "Mia?"
He nodded.
For a while, they stood inside the empty studio. The walls were cracked but still carried faint colors — brushstrokes, old handprints, sunlight sneaking through the broken roof.
"I come here when I forget what creation feels like," he said.
"And today?"
He looked at her. "Today I didn't forget."
Her eyes met his. Something unspoken passed between them — not love, not yet, but something that knew how to wait.
---
They spent the afternoon cleaning a corner of the studio — wiping dust, collecting fallen frames, opening the windows.
At one point, she found an unfinished canvas — two hands almost touching, the space between them filled with light.
"She painted that?"
"Yeah," Arin said softly. "Said it was about distance that still loves."
Sjha traced the outline of the hands. "It's beautiful."
"You could finish it," he said.
"Me?"
"Why not? Maybe it's time someone else completes what she started."
Her chest ached in a way she couldn't explain.
"I'll try," she whispered.
---
By the time they stepped out, the sun had turned orange.
Dust floated like glitter through the air.
"Thank you for showing me this," she said.
He smiled faintly. "No. Thank you for seeing it."
---
That night, she couldn't sleep.
The canvas kept flashing in her mind — the space between the two hands, the unfinished light.
She got out of bed, took her pencil, and began to sketch again.
Her fingers moved like they remembered something old and tender.
When she was done, she looked at the drawing — two figures sitting on opposite benches in the rain, a distance between them, but their reflections touching in the puddle below.
She smiled. It wasn't perfect, but it was alive.
---
Days passed. They visited the studio again and again.
Sometimes they painted, sometimes just sat in silence.
It became their place — where grief didn't need to hide and hope didn't need to pretend.
One day, as they packed up, Arin said, "You know what I think?"
"What?"
"Maybe silence isn't the opposite of love. Maybe it's how love learns to listen."
She didn't reply, but her hand brushed against his — just lightly, unintentionally — and neither of them moved away.
---
Later that evening, she wrote in her journal:
> The silence between words feels like a heartbeat.
Maybe that's what connection really is — not what's said, but what stays unsaid.
And below that, she added:
> Arin said love listens. Maybe he's right.
She closed the book and looked outside. The sky was clear — no rain, no thunder, just quiet stars.
And in that quiet, she realized something — she wasn't afraid of silence anymore.
Because it no longer reminded her of loss.
It reminded her of him.
----------------------------