The homestay's attic had been unused for years—a dusty space with cracked windows and forgotten canvases. Lakshmi offered it to Aanya and Vihaan when she saw them sketching together one morning.
"You two look like you're painting something invisible," she said. "Maybe it's time to make it visible."
They spent the next few days transforming the attic. Vihaan brought his watercolors. Aanya brought charcoal and acrylics. They didn't plan the project. It unfolded organically—like a conversation without words.
The first canvas was chaotic. Vihaan painted rain. Aanya painted silence. The colors clashed, bled into each other, but somehow held.
"Is this us?" Vihaan asked.
Aanya smiled. "It's the beginning."
They worked side by side, sometimes speaking, sometimes not. Vihaan sketched a bridge. Aanya added two figures—one hesitant, one reaching.
They laughed over spilled paint, argued over shading, and shared stories they hadn't told before. Aanya spoke of her father's absence, the way she learned to be strong without knowing how to be soft. Vihaan spoke of guilt, of the weight of surviving when someone else didn't.
One evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, they stood before their final canvas. It was unlike the others—gentle, layered, full of light.
Aanya had painted a girl standing in the rain, arms open. Vihaan had added a boy beside her, not shielding her, but standing with her.
"No umbrellas," he said.
"No more hiding," she replied.
They didn't kiss. They didn't need to. The painting said everything.
Lakshmi hung it in the homestay's main hall. Guests asked about it. She always smiled and said, "It's called Sketches of Us. The artists are still figuring out the ending."
And sometimes, love isn't a declaration. It's a brushstroke shared in silence.