The Silent Afternoon Loveđź–¤
The winter afternoon was strangely silent. Rahim was sitting under the old banyan tree in the college campus, reading a book, though his mind was elsewhere. Suddenly, his eyes caught sight of her—Eva.
Eva had always been different. She didn't talk much, but there was a depth in her eyes, as if she could say a lot without uttering a word. That day, she was walking briskly with some papers in her hand. Her hair fluttered in the wind, and Rahim felt as if time itself had paused in that moment.
The next day, they met again in the library. Sitting at the same table, their first conversation was simple, very ordinary.
"Have you finished this book?"
Eva smiled softly and said, "Yes, but I didn't like the ending."
That small phrase—"I didn't like the ending"—was the beginning of their story.
Day by day, their conversations grew—sometimes about poetry, sometimes about dreams, sometimes about life's small regrets. Rahim realized that Eva didn't just want to love someone; she wanted to understand them. And Eva understood that Rahim, though quiet, felt deeply.
One day, they stood together under a single umbrella in the rain. People, noise, and bustle surrounded them—but within themselves was a strange calm. Rahim said nothing, Eva said nothing. Yet, both knew—their silence was their greatest confession.
Love doesn't always happen in grand words.
Sometimes—it's in a glance, a wait, and the quiet moments shared together that love is complete.
And Rahim and Eva's story was beautiful, just like that.