Morning sunlight filled the room, but it didn't feel like warmth.
It felt like noise — too bright, too sudden, too unaware that something was missing.
Sjha hadn't slept.
Arin's note lay beside her bed, edges folded, words memorized.
She read it again just to be sure it still said the same thing — it did.
But she kept reading anyway, as if the letters might shift and reveal more.
> "Don't wait too long if I don't show up."
She whispered, "I'm not waiting. I'm just… here."
But the truth felt heavier than the words.
---
At the studio, dust had already started to gather again.
The brushes stood in a jar, stiff with dry paint.
His sketchbook still lay on the table — the one with her portrait.
She sat there for hours, doing nothing.
Sometimes she thought he'd walk in again, teasing her for "stealing his bench."
Sometimes she imagined his voice saying, "You came early again, dreamer."
But the door stayed silent.
---
By the third day, she couldn't take it anymore.
She packed her bag and went searching.
She started with the only place that made sense — the park.
The swing creaked in the wind; the puddles had dried.
The tea seller recognized her.
"Your friend hasn't come for days," he said.
"You know him?" she asked.
"He'd sit right there — same time every evening. Talk less, drink more tea."
"Did he say where he went?"
The man shook his head. "He looked... like someone carrying rain inside."
She thanked him, but the words stayed with her.
Carrying rain inside.
Maybe that's what Arin always was — a storm pretending to be calm.
---
Later that night, she sat on her balcony, scrolling through her old messages with him.
It was all simple words — chai, sketches, light jokes — but reading them now felt like looking at sunlight through water.
Then she saw something she hadn't noticed before.
One message weeks ago —
> "Studio Iris was supposed to open branches near the coast someday. She wanted that."
She blinked. The coast.
A small thought started forming — wild but possible.
---
The next morning, she told her mother, "I'm going out for a few days."
"Where?"
"Just... somewhere near the sea."
Her mother didn't argue. She just said, "Come back with peace, not answers."
---
The bus ride took six hours.
Outside, the city melted into smaller towns, then empty fields, then the endless stretch of water that shimmered under a gray sky.
When she reached the small coastal town, the air smelled of salt and wet wind.
She walked without knowing where to go, clutching her sketchbook like a map.
Finally, she saw it — a faded board near the beachside:
"Iris Coastal Studio — Under Renovation."
Her heart skipped.
The door was locked, but through the glass she saw canvases stacked against the wall — fresh paint, footprints on the floor.
Someone had been here recently.
"Excuse me," she said to a man nearby repairing nets. "Do you know who runs this place?"
He nodded. "A quiet man. Came about a week ago. Said he used to know the founder."
Her breath caught. "Where is he now?"
The man pointed toward a small house near the shore. "He stays there."
---
She ran.
Each step felt unreal — like chasing a shadow she wasn't sure existed.
When she reached the house, she stopped.
It was small, white walls weathered by salt, one window open, curtain fluttering.
She hesitated. Then knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again.
The door opened slightly with the wind. Inside, the room smelled faintly of turpentine and rain.
A half-finished painting stood on an easel — two figures facing the sea.
Her chest tightened. It was his style.
"Arin?" she called softly.
Only the sound of waves replied.
---
She stepped inside, heart racing.
On the table, she found another note.
> "If you're here, you found me.
I didn't leave to disappear. I left to remember.
Some guilt only forgives itself when seen from the water.
Don't worry — I'll come back.
Till then, keep the studio alive.
— A."
She sank to the floor, the note trembling in her hands.
She didn't know whether to cry or laugh.
He was alive. He hadn't vanished.
But he wasn't here either.
---
She stepped outside.
The sea wind whipped her hair, stinging her eyes.
She whispered to the horizon,
"You better come back, Arin. Because this time, I'm not the one who's lost."
She stood there until the tide reached her ankles.
For the first time, she didn't feel small.
---
That night, she stayed in a cheap lodge near the shore and began sketching again.
Her lines were stronger this time — not trembling, not hesitant.
She drew a man standing by the sea, facing away, and a girl behind him, holding a candle against the wind.
Under it, she wrote:
> Some lights don't wait for return. They just keep burning.
---
The next morning, she boarded the bus back home.
The sea faded behind her, but something inside her had changed.
She didn't feel abandoned anymore.
She felt connected — not to him, but to the thread that held them both.
Whatever came next, she would keep painting.
Keep breathing.
Keep living.
Because Arin was right — beginnings don't die.
They just change places.
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