Tara had once read somewhere that silence is not the absence of sound, but the presence of everything that's been unsaid. She hadn't quite understood it back then — chalked it up as one of those overly romantic Instagram captions floating above latte art. But now, with the apartment unusually quiet and the late evening settling in like a reluctant guest, the silence felt thick. It was not empty. It was echoing.
Rhea was still away. And strangely, her absence wasn't just about the missing footsteps or the lack of impromptu kitchen concerts. It was the absence of interruption — no sarcastic quip mid-thought, no exaggerated sighs about the existential crisis of online shopping. The silence had become... vivid.
Tara sat on the living room floor, surrounded by a half-eaten pack of banana chips, a sketchbook she hadn't touched in days, and her mother's voice still replaying in her head.
"You didn't reply to my texts yesterday."
She hadn't. Not because she was trying to be cold or distant — but because she didn't know how to answer a message that only said:
"Take care of yourself. I won't always be around to remind you."
Mothers had a way of dropping guilt bombs in such short, poetic sentences. And somehow, her mom managed to make even a text sound like a warning wrapped in affection.
Tara had promised herself that this visit would close a chapter. But instead, it had reopened things — old hurts, unanswered questions, and strangely, a soft kind of comfort. Her mother was still difficult. Still folded in her own quiet pride and laced with passive-aggressive warmth. But she'd held Tara's hand, briefly. And that had made all the difference.
She reached for her phone now, fingers hesitating.
Maybe just a quick text? A casual "Reached home, safe and not starving" kind of message?
She opened the chat, typed... and then backspaced it all.
Too early. Too late. Too complicated.
---
Suddenly, the door creaked.
Tara looked up.
No Rhea.
Just the wind. Or maybe the ghost of a hinge that desperately needed oiling. Honestly, the flat had character — the kind of character that should probably come with a toolbox and a therapist.
She sighed, curling up on the couch with her chai. The cup was chipped at the rim — probably from that day Rhea had declared herself an opera singer and nearly dropped it mid-high note while drying the dishes.
Tara smiled at the memory, letting it melt into the room.
---
A soft buzz.
Her phone screen lit up.
Rhea:
"Guess who just found out that Parle-G guy thinks 'Shinchan' is a documentary about rebellious toddlers."
Tara snorted so hard she spilled a bit of chai on her notebook.
Finally.
She typed back,
"Does that mean you're coming back? Or should I send you a subscription to Cartoon Network and holy water?"
The reply came instantly.
Rhea:
"Still deciding. But keep the water ready. I might need it if his mom asks me to make mango pickle again."
---
For the first time in days, Tara laughed — a proper, belly-deep one. Not because everything was fixed, but because the world, in its chaotic, absurd way, still had pockets of joy.
She reached for her sketchbook, flipping to a clean page.
A new idea was forming — not dramatic, not intense. Just a soft scene:
Two girls, a chipped chai cup between them, sitting under a sky that hadn't decided whether it was night or morning.
A little awkward. A little warm. Just like life.
And for the first time in a while, Tara didn't feel like running from the silence.
She was painting with it.