Whispers of the Heart.

The first time Aarav noticed her, she was sitting alone under the cherry tree behind the library, tracing the edges of a paperback with her fingers. Her name was Meera — quiet, observant, with eyes that seemed to carry entire stories no one else had read.

They were classmates but had never spoken. Meera rarely did. Rumor had it she’d moved schools after something that left her too scarred to speak — not physically, but emotionally. She communicated in nods, notes, and sometimes, a faint smile. To some, she was invisible. But to Aarav, she was impossible to ignore.

He didn’t know why he walked toward her that day. Maybe it was the way the wind carried petals around her like she was part of the tree. Maybe it was the quiet strength she seemed to hold — like silence wasn’t absence, but a language of its own.

He sat beside her, cautious not to break whatever calm surrounded her.

"Hi," he said, awkwardly.

She looked at him, startled for a moment, then tilted her head slightly — as if encouraging him to continue.

"I’ve seen you here a few times. I’m Aarav."

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small notepad, scribbling quickly.

"I know. You sit near the window in English class. You always draw in your margins."

He chuckled, surprised. “Busted.”

And just like that, they became… something.

They met often under that tree. Meera wrote; Aarav spoke. He talked about his favorite movies, how he hated math, how he once tried to bake cookies and nearly set his kitchen on fire. She laughed silently — her shoulders shaking, eyes glinting.

Over time, their connection deepened — not through loud declarations, but in pauses and glances, in the way Aarav would wait for her to finish writing before replying, or how Meera began carrying extra pages just for their conversations.

He never asked her why she didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Some truths are better honored than pried open.

Instead, he listened to her silence.

And in return, she listened to everything he never said out loud — his fears of being average, his longing for meaning, the way he sometimes felt like he was drifting through life waiting for something real.

She was real.

One rainy afternoon, Aarav arrived at their spot to find Meera already there, umbrella tilted over her sketchpad. She handed him a note.

"Can I show you something?"

He nodded, curious.

From her bag, she pulled a thin journal — worn, soft at the corners. She opened it to the middle.

It was filled with sketches. Of him. Of them. Of cherry trees, benches, raindrops. Of hands almost touching. Of a boy speaking and a girl listening, their words floating like petals between them.

Aarav felt his breath catch. His throat tightened with something too big to name.

"I didn’t know you draw," he said.

She didn’t reply. Instead, she reached for his hand — and for the first time, they really touched. Fingers intertwined, not by accident or hesitation, but by choice.

He looked at her, really looked.

"Meera," he whispered, "have you always been writing this story?"

She nodded once, slowly. Then handed him another page. Her handwriting was careful.

"I don’t speak out loud. But I’ve always been listening. And with you, I wanted to speak somehow. So I did — with my heart."

Aarav smiled, blinking away the warmth in his eyes. The rain kept falling, but neither of them moved.

Their story wasn’t made of dramatic moments or declarations in the rain. It was made of soft things — the brushing of shoulders, shared doodles, late-night texts with only emojis, and pages left in lockers saying “See you at our tree.”

One day, near the end of the school year, Aarav found a letter in their spot.

"You once asked if I’ve always been writing this story. I have. But now I want you to write with me."

She was leaving — moving to another city. But her words, her silence, her love — remained.

He sat for a long time under the cherry tree, then opened his sketchbook. For the first time, he didn’t draw alone.

He began with two figures. A boy with messy hair. A girl with knowing eyes.

And in the space between them — not emptiness, but a whisper. A whisper of the heart.

Years Later…

Aarav published his first book. It was titled "Whispers of the Heart."

The dedication read:

For Meera — who showed me that even silence speaks, when love listens.

And somewhere, perhaps under a new cherry tree, a woman smiled as she traced the cover with her fingers — and remembered the boy who never tried to fix her silence… only listened to it