The gallery was empty again.
After the noise and light of the exhibit, the silence felt sacred, almost too still to breathe in. The overhead bulbs buzzed faintly; the leftover scent of varnish clung to the air. Meera stood in front of one of her own photographs — a boy running through rain — and couldn't tell whether she loved it anymore or resented what it had cost to show it.
Aarav was taking down name cards at the far end, sleeves rolled up, movements precise. Even in ordinary things he had a rhythm that suggested control. The echo of his footsteps filled the space.
"Everyone left," she said quietly.
"I know," he replied without looking at her.
"You don't have to stay."
"I do." He straightened, eyes flicking to hers. "You hate empty rooms."
She tried to laugh. "You think you know that?"
"I've seen it," he said simply, crossing toward her. "You talk too much when you're uncomfortable. You don't, when you're scared."
Her throat tightened. "And which am I now?"
He stopped a few feet away. "Both."
The word hung there like the low hum of electricity.
They worked in silence for a while, unhooking frames, stacking them neatly. Every sound — the click of a latch, the slide of glass — felt too loud. She didn't want to look at him, but she couldn't stop tracking his movements: the way he stood, the way his eyes softened when he studied her face between tasks, the way he seemed so calm that she hated it.
When the last frame was packed, he said softly, "You should be proud. They saw you."
"They saw what you wanted them to see," she murmured. "Not me."
He tilted his head. "Then what do you think they saw?"
"A version of me you built. The girl from your narrative."
He took a step closer. "You think I wrote your story?"
"You edited it." The words came out sharper than she meant. "You made sure every frame, every success, every moment had your fingerprints on it."
He nodded, not denying it. "Because I didn't want to watch you disappear."
Meera stared at him, her heartbeat a sharp, erratic rhythm. "You talk about losing me like you ever had me."
His expression didn't change. "Haven't I?"
The question was quiet, almost tender. But the weight of it pressed into the air until she felt it in her chest. He wasn't asking for an answer; he was offering a truth she didn't want to face.
She moved past him, reaching for the light switches. "Don't do that," she said. "Don't talk like this is something it's not."
"What is it, then?"
"Complicated," she said, voice shaking.
"Complicated," he repeated, tasting the word like it was both a curse and a prayer. He stepped closer, close enough that she could see her reflection in his eyes — the trembling version of herself she didn't want to meet.
"Can I ask you something?" he said softly.
Meera didn't move. "You're going to anyway."
He smiled faintly. "If I stopped — stopped showing up, stopped helping, stopped being there — would you still look for me?"
Her breath caught. She wanted to say no. She wanted to say she'd finally sleep better, breathe easier, that she'd be free. But the truth rose, bitter and undeniable.
"I don't know," she whispered.
Aarav nodded slowly, as if he'd expected nothing else. He reached out, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek — not possessive this time, just a touch so careful it almost broke her.
"Then we're both trapped," he murmured. "You in not knowing, me in not stopping."
Meera's eyes burned. "That's not love, Aarav."
"I never said it was," he replied. "But tell me it doesn't feel like something."
The air thickened. Neither moved. The lights hummed low, and outside, the world blurred into the glass — their reflections suspended like ghosts.
He took one step closer, waiting, not assuming.
Meera didn't move back.
When his lips brushed hers, it was slow, hesitant — like both were testing the limits of a fragile truce. It wasn't passion; it was exhaustion, surrender, recognition. His hand trembled when it touched her jaw, as if afraid she'd vanish.
The kiss barely lasted a heartbeat before she pulled back, eyes shining, breath ragged. "We can't," she whispered.
"I know."
"You don't stop."
"I'm trying."
"You're failing."
"I know," he said again, quieter.
They stood there, inches apart, the words between them raw and trembling. He looked at her like he was memorizing a language he'd never be fluent in.
"I wish you'd never taken that photo," she said softly.
"I wish you'd never looked at me," he answered.
Her laugh broke halfway through, turning into something like a sob.
When they finally left the gallery, the air outside smelled of rain — the soft, warning kind that comes before a storm. She walked a few steps ahead of him, refusing to look back, knowing he'd follow anyway.
Behind her, his voice carried through the quiet:
"You'll see me in everything, even when I'm gone."
She hated how true it sounded.