The soothing rain outside matched the row in the stomach of Zoya. Lying by the window of a small room, she drew round and round marks on the dirty window. The metropolitan lights softened to streaks of gold and white, just as the memories of Arman have become pieces of a long-ago dream.
“It’s not you; it’s me.”
Zoya didn’t understand. What, if any, is the method by which someone she loved so hopelessly in the distance has departed so quietly? She stayed behind, hoping he’d come back, replaying every moment to find where she went wrong.
The first week was the hardest. She’d get up and grab for her phone, grabbing for her phone to text him a good morning. She’d catch herself, looking at the white screen, her finger poised above his name. The silence was unbearable.
Her friends tried to drag her out of the shell. “Let’s go out, Zoya. You need to move on,” they said. Yet, how could she let go when her heart was still bound to a ghost, in a man who was not coming back?
While cleaning her apartment, she stumbled upon his old sweater in her back storage closet. It still smelled faintly of his cologne. She held back everything and locked herself in her shop, rosy cheeks and dry tears. Grief came in waves and Zoya learned to fully feel each crest.
Months passed. Zoya began to rebuild her life, piece by piece. She joined a painting class, something she’d always wanted to do but never found the time for. On her first day, as she nervously dabbed paint onto her canvas, a voice broke her concentration.
It’s quite a daring combination of colors,” the gentlemen remarked, eyes kind and inquiring.
Well, I’m just having a little fun, she said, wiping her hands on a cloth. “I’m not very good at this.”
“Art isn’t about being good. It’s about how much it resonates, for instance,” he reported, with their hands tenderly touching. “I’m Imran.”
Over the next few weeks, Imran became a constant presence in her life. He had an easy charm and a way of making her laugh that felt effortless. Logically, Zoya came to anticipate their talks, the fact that he encouraged her to take risks, and the lightness he infused in her life.
One evening, after class, they decided to grab coffee. The cozy café was almost deserted, the gentle thrum of an acoustic guitar playing in the background. Sitting across from one another, Imran queried, “Why do you paint?
Zoya hesitated. “It helps me feel. As soon as Arman walked out, the whole place was empty…” She paused, blushing.
Imran’s expression softened. “You don’t have to explain. Everyone heals in their way.
“How about you? Why do you paint?” she asked, deflecting.
“To remember,” he said simply. “My mom used to paint. I wished I could hold onto a part of her after she died, “I wish I could keep a part of her alive.
The otherness in his voice resonated with Zoya. For the first time in months, she felt like someone truly understood her pain.
“Can we meet?”
Her heart raced. She envisioned this moment a thousand times before getting ready for what he might say if he did arrive. Nevertheless, being it was indeed actually happening it was not something she quite knew what to make of it.
They did look identical, but not identical when they met at the park, they both liked. His eyes had lost the spark she once knew.
“I made a mistake, Zoya,” he began. “Losing you was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced to live. Can we start over?
Zoya’s chest tightened. This was something that she had wished for in silence on and on. Nevertheless, as soon as she set eyes on him, she realized that things had changed. She wasn’t the woman she used to be when he left.
Arman, I loved you with all of me, she told him, “Her voice was unwavering. “But when you left, I stayed. I put myself back together, to find my resilience once more. And in the process, I realized that someone should not just run out of the door as soon as things get difficult.
Tears streamed down his cheeks, but Zoya found herself at ease. At last, with a shift away from the pursuit of closure, she was now the one closing the gap.
Walking out of Arman that night felt like ripping off a previous disguise. Back at home, Zoya’s heart had not felt that way for months, if not years. She thought of Imran, the way he’d made her laugh, the way he’d encouraged her to find joy in the little things.
She sat in class the day after that relatively late as she did in the norm. When Imran walked in, his face lit up when he saw her.
“Hey, early bird,” he teased. “What’s the occasion?”
Zoya smiled. “I just wanted to thank you. For coming home, for teaching me how to rediscover the pleasure of the every day again.
Imran tilted his head, studying her. “Anytime, Zoya. But you did the hard part. You chose to stay.”
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When their gaze locked, Zoya got the feeling of coziness that she hadn’t felt in a while. Maybe love wasn’t about holding on to someone who left. Perhaps it was about the courage to return and watch freedom unfold.
And in that moment, Zoya knew she was ready to start a new chapter one painted in vibrant colors, filled with laughter, hope, and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.