Three weeks passed and there was not even a single word between them. Maya thought the silence would be of great help. She reassured herself that time would reduce the pain and eventually she would wake up one day without the urge to reach for her phone to check for his name, and without thinking of his voice.
However, in reality, time did not heal the pains, it only extended it. The days weighed on her like elastic bands, each one pulling her back to the same question:
"Why was I not enough for him to reach out?"
Her new apartment was small, located above a coffee shop that always smelled like cinnamon and roasted beans. The walls were thin, and the floors made noise when she walked across it. But it gave her the feeling that it was hers. There was no marble floor, no city views and no elevators. Just paint-stained jeans, sunlight through old windows, and a quiet she was still learning to live with. She painted every day but unlike the careful pieces she had created in the past, her paintings had become messy and rough, expressing feelings of rage and heartbreak on canvas.
Sometimes she would stop and look at the canvas, with a feeling of tightness in her chest. Each piece seemed to be similar to him; his eyes hidden behind the colors, his jawline cast in shadows,his voice in the shadows, his presence in every line she tried to control.
One afternoon, her friend Clara came visiting with two coffee cups wearing her usual smile.
"Still alive?" Clara asked, smiling as she dropped her bag on the couch.
"Barely," Maya replied, forcing a smile.
Clara handed her a cup. "You should stop checking your phone every ten seconds. It's not a good look."
"I'm not," Maya lied.
"Of course you aren't," Clara said, sitting down. "You know, silence can also be an answer."
Maya stared into her coffee. "He doesn't even care enough to call."
"Or maybe he's too proud to call," Clara said. "You dated a man who thinks feelings are meetings you can schedule."
Maya let out a small laugh, but it faded fast. "He was not all that bad, you know. He had moments when he was... genuine. Quiet."
"Right," Clara murmured. "Until his phone rang,"
Maya remained silent. There was no need for her to respond.
In the city, Adrian sat in his office, looking out over the city skyline. His team believed he was doing well; he was showing up, closing deals, and even smiling at the right times and when needed. However, they were unaware that each night he returned to an apartment that still smelled like her. He had attempted to remove her things; the paintings, the chipped coffee mug, the blanket she always stole when she stayed late. Yet, he could not bring himself to do it. They were the only proof that she had ever been part of his life.
Each night, he poured a drink and stood by the window, watching the flickering lights below, reminiscent of opportunities he had missed. He had considered calling her many times. But whenever he picked up thephone, he hesitated. What could he say? He struggled with expressing himself unless it involved formal writing.
Despite this, he checked her art page daily. She had resumed posting, showcasing bold new paintings that are different from the softer ones she used to create. The colors were striking. The titles were evocative:
Almost Seen, Quiet Goodbye, Closed Eyes II.
He bought them all under fake names, just to have a piece of her near him again. The gallery owner had contacted him stating that the artist was gaining recognition and had moved out of the city for a fresh start. He re-read the phrase 'a fresh start' more times than he wanted to admit.
Maya tried to do just that. Start over.
She joined a local art group that met in a dusty old hall by the sea. The members there did not care about who she had dated or how much money he had. They cared more on her use of color and the emotions conveyed in her artwork.
One evening, after the meeting, she stayed back to help clean up. The ocean breeze passed through the open door. She paused for a moment to absorb and breathe it in. For the first time in weeks, she felt a sense of relief in her chest. She could almost convince herself that she was free. Then her phone vibrated. Her heart raced before she checked it. It wasn't him. It was an email from the gallery, another anonymous buyer had purchased 'Closed Eyes II'. She gave a bitter smile as she murmured "Good for them". But deep inside, something in her stirred. The buyer's message read
"Your art deserves to be seen"
It was simple. But the words felt familiar. Too familiar.
Later that night, Adrian sat in his office again, staring at the screen showing the sale confirmation. He did not care about the price. He just wanted to know that she was still out there, still painting, still adding color to a world he had painted gray.
He closed the laptop, leaned back in his chair, and whispered to the empty room,
"You deserve to be seen."
Then, for the first time in his life, he left work early.