Rain had been falling since dawn—thin, endless, tired.
Sjha sat on the edge of her bed, watching drops crawl down the window. Her mug of coffee had gone cold hours ago.
Outside, the city kept moving—horns, voices, footsteps—but her room stayed still, trapped between yesterday and tomorrow.
She heard her phone buzz again. She didn't look.
Another message. Another vibration. The world was always asking for answers she no longer had.
A soft knock came at her door.
> "Sjha, you didn't eat again?"
Her mother's voice was gentle but worn.
> "In a bit, Ma."
The answer came automatically. A lie shaped by habit.
Her mother waited, sighed, and left.
Silence returned. The rain went on.
Sjha leaned back and stared at the ceiling. The ache behind her ribs pulsed like a second heartbeat. She reached under a stack of old notebooks and pulled out a faded journal.
The first page still read:
> Dream like it's breathing.
She almost laughed. That sentence belonged to another girl—the one she used to be.
In the mirror, her reflection stared back: pale skin, sleepless eyes, hair tied in a careless knot.
> "Who are you?" she whispered.
The girl in the mirror didn't answer.
---
By evening the rain had stopped, leaving the city glossy and shivering. Sjha wrapped a shawl around her shoulders.
> "Ma, I'm going out for a bit," she said.
> "At this hour?"
> "I'll be back soon."
Her mother didn't protest further; concern had turned into quiet resignation.
The street smelled of wet dust. Light pooled in puddles, stretching like broken mirrors. She walked with no destination—just moving because staying still hurt more.
Blocks later, she found herself near the park she used to visit after college. The swings rusted in place. The benches glistened with rain. She sat on one and pulled her knees close.
For a while, she listened—to leaves dripping, to the distant hum of traffic, to her own uneven breathing.
> "Cold evening, huh?"
The voice startled her.
A man stood a few feet away, paper cup of tea in his hand, hood pulled low.
> "Yeah," she said quietly.
He smiled faintly.
> "You look like someone waiting for a reason to stay."
She frowned. "That's a strange thing to say."
> "Maybe. But people don't sit alone in parks after rain unless they're running from something."
He sat on the opposite bench, took a sip, and added,
> "I come here when I forget what I'm supposed to feel."
His tone was calm, not prying.
> "What do you forget?" she asked.
> "Mostly who I used to be."
The honesty in his words unsettled her.
Minutes passed in shared silence. Then he stood.
> "Tea's getting cold."
He began to walk away.
> "Hey," she called.
He turned.
> "your name?"
> "Arin."
He smiled once—small, real—and disappeared through the park gate.
---
That night, Sjha sat again by her window. The city lights shimmered like restless thoughts. Arin's words echoed:
> I come here when I forget what I'm supposed to feel.
She opened her journal, hand trembling slightly, and wrote:
> Today I spoke to someone who didn't ask me to smile.
Maybe I still remember how to breathe.
---
Days slipped by.
She began noticing small things again—the color of morning sky, the taste of her mother's chai, the sparrows outside the balcony.
Sometimes she returned to the park. Sometimes Arin was there too. Their exchanges were simple but heavy with meaning.
> "You ever feel like you're standing in the middle of life, just watching it move?" she asked once.
> "All the time," he said. "But I've learned something."
> "What?"
> "Life isn't always about moving forward. Sometimes it's just about not letting go."
She looked at him—steady eyes, kind smile.
> "Were you always like this?"
> "No. I used to think pain meant I was broken. Now I think it means I'm alive."
Those words stayed with her long after she left the park.
---
At home, her mother began to notice.
Sjha ate small portions again, cleaned her desk, opened windows.
> "Feeling better?" her mother asked one evening.
> "A little," Sjha replied. "I went to the park."
> "Met someone?"
> "Maybe."
Her mother smiled softly. "Then go again tomorrow."
---
Weeks passed. The city warmed. Rain came less often.
But something inside her kept softening.
She started sketching again—clumsy lines that turned into faces, hands, branches. She pinned notes on her wall:
> Hope is quiet.
Even silence can heal.
Start again, even if it hurts.
One golden evening, she reached the park before Arin.
When he arrived, he carried two cups of tea.
> "You came early," he said.
> "Wanted to see the light before it fades."
> "And?"
> "It looks like it's learning to forgive itself."
He chuckled. "You sound like a poet."
> "maybe I was one," she said.
They sat side by side. After a while, she asked,
> "Why do you really come here?"
He hesitated.
> "Someone I loved used to say this park feels like a beginning. She's gone now. I guess I come back to remember that beginnings don't die—they just change faces."
Her chest tightened.
> "And now?"
He looked at her.
> "Now I think it's time for another beginning."
---
That night, Sjha didn't feel empty. T
he pain was still there, but softer, like a scar no longer bleeding.
She opened her journal once more and wrote:
> The world didn't change I did
For the first time in months, she smiled—not because everything was fine, but because she finally believed it could be.
---