The gallery was smaller than most, tucked between a flower shop and a tea café. Its walls were painted a soft cream that reflected light without glare. The sign above the door read Aurora, in thin gold letters that caught sunlight at certain hours of the day.
It was the kind of place Meera liked — intimate, self-contained, more about the work than the spectacle. She'd been invited to consult on the upcoming exhibit for local minimalists, a phrase that still amused her, because minimalism wasn't an aesthetic in India, it was an act of survival.
When she walked in that morning, a man stood near the main wall, rearranging frames with practiced hands. He was older than her by a few years, tall, his shirt sleeves rolled up neatly. He turned at the sound of the door and smiled the way people do when they recognize someone's name before the face.
"Meera Joshi?"
She nodded, extending her hand. "You must be Rayan Kapoor."
"I've read about your last show," he said, shaking her hand lightly. "The Space Between — beautiful work. You made silence feel visible."
It was the kind of compliment that might have sounded rehearsed from someone else. From him, it felt quietly genuine.
"Thank you," she said. "Though I'm still learning what to fill the silence with."
He smiled. "That's what all artists do. We build shapes around what we can't name."
The next few days slipped into a rhythm — lighting checks, layout tests, small creative debates about spacing and balance. Rayan was easy company: thoughtful, meticulous, calm. He didn't interrupt when she spoke, didn't press when she disagreed.
He carried the kind of composure that wasn't authority but attentiveness. He asked questions like:
"What does the negative space mean to you?""Do you shoot to understand or to forgive?"
They were questions that would've irritated her coming from anyone else. But something about his tone—quiet curiosity instead of judgment—made them feel like an invitation rather than an intrusion.
And she noticed small things:The way he adjusted his glasses when thinking.The habit of checking if everyone had eaten before meetings.The calm with which he said no to pretentious suggestions.
It was easy, too easy, to like him.
One afternoon, they lingered in the empty gallery after hours. The light had thinned to the pale gold of six o'clock. Meera sat cross-legged on the floor, rearranging photos for sequencing.
Rayan crouched beside her. "You don't watermark your photos," he said, glancing at the prints.
"No. Art shouldn't come with fences."
He smiled. "And yet, you're careful where you place your signature."
She looked up. "Habit."
"Or boundary?"
The question hung between them. For a moment, she thought of Aarav — how boundaries had once been lines he treated as invitations. The thought arrived quietly, like a reflex memory.
Rayan noticed her pause but didn't pry. "You seem like someone who had to learn distance the hard way."
She laughed softly. "That's one way to put it."
He tilted his head, studying her with the gentle caution of someone who's learned not to push. "I hope the lesson didn't take all the joy out of closeness."
Her breath hitched — not because of what he said, but because of how kindly he said it.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I'm still testing the theory."
Rayan nodded, not smiling this time. "Then let it take its time. No one heals by hurrying."
They worked until the janitor turned off half the lights. Outside, rain had begun again — a steady drizzle, not the storming kind. Rayan offered her a ride. She hesitated, then accepted.
The drive was quiet, filled with the kind of silence that doesn't demand explanation.
At one red light, he glanced at her and said, "I'd like to photograph you sometime."
Meera's stomach tightened. "Why?"
"Because you see things like someone who's used to being seen. I want to know how that looks from the outside."
She smiled faintly. "You think that's safe ground to walk on?"
"I think safety's overrated," he said. "But consent isn't."
That stopped her for a second — the careful line, the simple truth of it.
"Then maybe," she said, "one day."
He didn't push for when.
When she got home, she stood by her window, watching headlights blur in the rain. Her camera sat on the table, the last photograph she'd taken still loaded — an empty chair by the café window. She thought of Aarav for a moment, but the thought didn't sting this time. It drifted through like a tired song half-forgotten.
She picked up the camera, adjusted the lens, and pointed it at the mirror. For once, she didn't lower her eyes.
Click.
The flash caught her mid-smile — soft, unguarded, alive.