Evening had begun early that day.
The sky was still blue, but the light had thinned — that soft kind of brightness that looks tired, like it has said too much.
Sjha sat by her window, sketching absentmindedly.
She drew stars, small and uneven, scattered like pieces of a thought.
Outside, the first streetlights were coming on.
Her phone vibrated.
> Arin: "Studio tomorrow?"
Sjha: "Of course. But why not today?"
Arin: "Got something to finish. Promise I'll explain tomorrow."
She smiled faintly. "You sound mysterious again."
> Arin: "I prefer poetic."
> Sjha: "You prefer avoiding questions."
> Arin: "Maybe. See you soon, dreamer."
The word dreamer lingered longer than the message.
It wasn't a label — it was a reminder.
And it made her heart hum quietly, like a forgotten tune returning.
---
The next morning, she woke early and decided to buy colors — real ones this time, not the cheap pencils she'd been using.
She spent most of her savings on small bottles of acrylics, brushes, and a new canvas.
It felt like investing in her own heartbeat.
When she reached the studio, Arin was already there.
He looked different — same gentle face, but eyes heavier, like he hadn't slept much.
"Morning," she said.
He smiled. "You came early."
"I brought colors."
"You always bring color," he said softly.
She laughed. "Smooth."
He shrugged. "Truth sounds smooth sometimes."
---
They painted in silence for hours.
She worked on the unfinished canvas — the one with two hands reaching toward each other.
Arin sat by the window, sketching something on paper.
He seemed lost — not in creation, but in memory.
After a while, she asked, "What are you drawing?"
He hesitated, then turned it around.
It was a portrait — not hers, not Mia's. Someone older.
"My father," he said quietly. "Haven't drawn him in years."
"Where is he now?"
Arin looked away. "Gone. Long ago. We didn't part on good terms."
She didn't push. The air between them grew soft again, filled with quiet understanding.
Sometimes, words aren't needed. Some silences speak fluently.
---
When they took a break, she opened a small flask of chai.
They shared it, sitting on the steps outside.
"Do you ever think pain has a pattern?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Like… it comes, teaches you something, and then leaves traces. Not scars exactly. More like constellations."
He smiled faintly. "The distance between stars."
"Yeah," she said. "Maybe that's where memory lives — in the spaces between what hurt and what healed."
Arin looked up at the pale afternoon sky. "You always find poetry in pain."
"Only because it's honest," she replied.
He nodded slowly. "That's what I like about you."
The words slipped out, simple but heavy.
She blinked. "You like me?"
He didn't look away. "I think I do."
A soft silence followed — the kind that made her chest tighten, not from fear but from recognition.
She whispered, "You're not supposed to say that so easily."
"Maybe I've learned not to wait too long," he said. "Life doesn't always give you tomorrow."
Something in his tone felt too knowing — too final.
---
Later that day, when she went home, her thoughts wouldn't stay still.
The line replayed over and over:
> Life doesn't always give you tomorrow.
Why did he sound like goodbye wrapped in kindness?
---
That night, she dreamt of the studio — the hands on the canvas finally touching, light spilling out from between them.
But when she looked closer, Arin's face faded into the background, turning into mist.
She woke with a jolt, heart racing.
---
The next afternoon, she reached the studio early, hoping to shake off the dream.
Arin wasn't there.
His sketchbook was still on the table, open to a half-finished drawing — her face, eyes closed, hair blending into rain.
She smiled softly, but it didn't last long.
A folded letter lay under the book.
She hesitated, then unfolded it.
> **"Sjha,
I might not come tomorrow. There's something I need to settle — something from before you knew me.
Don't wait too long if I don't show up.
The world didn't stop for me before; it shouldn't stop for you either.
— Arin."**
Her fingers trembled as she read it again and again.
There was no clue, no reason, no promise. Just a quiet absence disguised as gentleness.
---
For the rest of the day, she sat inside the studio, staring at the empty bench, the open window, the fading light on the wall.
She wanted to be angry, but she couldn't.
She just felt — hollow.
She whispered to the air,
"You said beginnings don't die."
Only silence answered.
---
That night, she opened her journal and wrote:
> Maybe distance isn't always cruel.
Maybe it's the universe teaching us how to wait without losing ourselves.
And below that, almost as if she were writing to him, she added:
> If you ever come back, I'll be here.
Not waiting — just still breathing.
She closed the book, wiped her eyes, and turned off the light.
Outside, the sky was clear again — thousands of stars scattered across the dark, each shining alone, yet together.
And for the first time, she understood what Arin meant.
The distance between stars doesn't mean they're apart.
It just means they're still finding their way back to each other.
-----------------------------