when eyes don't speak

Ayan had always believed that love was something dramatic — like the movies. Sparks flying, music swelling, confessions in the rain. That’s what love looked like… or so he thought.

Until he met Zoya.

It started on an ordinary Thursday in winter. Ayan was in the park, escaping the noise of the city and the noise in his head. He sat on his usual bench with a lukewarm coffee and a book he pretended to read. That’s when he noticed her.

She sat across from him on the opposite bench, sketchpad balanced on her knees, pencil dancing across the page like it had a mind of its own. She wore headphones and a soft gray scarf that fluttered in the breeze. Her expression was still, focused — peaceful in a way he hadn't seen in a long time.

He saw her again the next day. And the next. Always the same time, always the same place.

One day, after several weeks of silent encounters, he mustered the courage to say hello. She looked up, startled. Her eyes met his — wide, brown, soft. She gave a polite smile but didn’t reply. Just a nod. Then returned to her drawing.

Confused, he tried again the next day. Still, no response.

It was the old gardener who finally told him:

“She’s mute, beta. Can't speak. But she hears. Kind-hearted girl, always comes here to draw. Doesn’t bother anyone.”

Ayan felt foolish, but somehow, more drawn to her.

From that day on, he stopped trying to talk and started being present.

He brought her tea on cold days and left it quietly on the bench. She began to nod in thanks. Once, she offered him a cookie in return — shyly, with a tiny grin. That was their first real exchange.

Soon, they fell into an unspoken rhythm. Ayan would read while she drew. Sometimes he’d hum a song softly under his breath. Occasionally, he’d leave her small folded notes — silly jokes, poetry, questions he knew she wouldn’t answer. But she responded in her own way — with drawings.

One day, she handed him a sketch of him reading, the scarf around his neck fluttering like hers did. It was stunning — not just in detail, but in warmth. He stared at it for minutes, unsure whether to speak or just smile. In the end, he only nodded. And she nodded back.

They never exchanged numbers. No social media, no calls. Just this quiet, sacred space they shared each evening.

But then, one day, she didn’t come.

He waited. One hour. Then two. He returned the next day — still no Zoya. The day after that, nothing.

Days turned into weeks. He asked the gardener, checked nearby art schools, even left notes on the bench in case she returned. But she was gone — like a page torn from a book.

The bench across from him felt empty, haunted by memories that refused to fade. Still, he came back. Every day. He brought tea. He read. And he waited.

Months passed. Seasons changed. Ayan kept coming — not because he believed she’d return, but because it felt like the only place he still felt close to her.

Then, nearly a year later, on a quiet rainy Tuesday, she was there.

Standing under the tree near their bench, holding a small umbrella, drenched in soft gray light.

Ayan froze. For a second, he thought he was dreaming. But no — it was her. Zoya. Older, maybe thinner. But the same warm eyes.

He walked toward her slowly, afraid to say anything, afraid she might disappear again. She didn’t speak. She just reached out and touched his hand — lightly, then firmly. Her fingers trembled.

He didn’t ask where she’d been. Didn’t need to. He simply handed her the thermos he still carried every day, just in case.

She took it with both hands and held it like something precious.

They sat in silence for a long time. The rain fell gently around them. There were no explanations. No apologies. Just two people, in the same quiet rhythm once again.

And in that moment, Ayan finally understood something he'd never grasped before.

Love isn’t loud.

It doesn’t need shouting from rooftops or extravagant promises. Sometimes, love is tea shared on a rainy day.

It’s showing up when no one else does.

It’s the space between two benches, filled with sketches and silence.

Love is not what you say — it’s what you keep showing up for, even when it’s hard. Even when no one else notices.

Ayan smiled gently and looked at Zoya. She looked back, her eyes glistening.

No words were spoken.

But everything had been said.