“Some silences aren’t empty—they’re just waiting to be trusted.”
By the third afternoon, the rooftop feels different.
Not because the sky’s changed. It’s still pale and voiceless, stretching over Rajshahi like a washed-out canvas.
But now… there’s something else here.
A quiet presence.
A second shadow.
A paper moon that turns gently in the wind like it's learning how to breathe.
I arrive just after the last bell rings. Jyoti’s already there, sitting on the same slab of concrete. She doesn’t look up when I sit beside her.
But she doesn’t have to.
Somehow, the silence between us has shifted—no longer hesitant. More like… comfortable.
She flips through her sketchbook. I catch glimpses of pages—figures drawn in soft pencil, buildings blurred at the edges, eyes that seem to carry unsaid things.
“You draw people too,” I say, watching her lines.
She nods. “Sometimes.”
“Are they real?”
“Mostly. Sometimes I draw them the way I wish they looked.”
I watch her draw for a while. The way her fingers move, slow and precise. She erases a line, redraws it, erases again. I know that feeling—the search for something that never quite lands right.
“I tried to draw you,” I say, before I can stop myself.
She looks at me, curious. “You did?”
I nod, suddenly awkward. “Not really you. Just… a silhouette. From the first night. The way you looked against the sky.”
There’s a long pause.
Then: “Can I see it?”
I hesitate. Then hand over my sketchbook, flipping to the page. It's rough. Unfinished. But honest.
She looks at it for a long time.
“You made me look braver than I felt,” she says softly.
“You looked brave to me.”
Her eyes flick to mine. There’s a stillness there, not uncomfortable—just real. Like a held breath. Like a word waiting for permission.
“You know,” she says, “most people just think I’m quiet. Or weird. Or hard to talk to.”
I tilt my head. “I don’t think any of those things.”
She smiles faintly, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not saying it to be nice,” I reply. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”
She looks down at her knees, brushing some dust off her skirt. “I guess I stopped trying to explain myself a long time ago. It’s easier to just let people believe what they want.”
There’s something about the way she says it—like she’s not sad, just tired. Like a person who’s been misunderstood so often that silence became a defense.
I want to say something. Anything. But I don’t know what could matter more than just staying.
So I do.
A few minutes pass.
She pulls out a second paper moon—this one smaller, its edges folded with more care.
“You can hang this one,” she says, handing it to me.
I take it, and this time she helps me tie the string. Our fingers touch for half a second—light, unintentional—but something in my chest stirs like the wind has changed direction.
We hang the moon beside the first. Two now. Like quiet company.
The sun is dipping lower. The sky turns the soft shade of late afternoon—our version of gold, even if we can’t see it.
She stands up, brushes off her skirt, and looks at me.
“Thanks for not asking too many questions,” she says.
“You’re welcome,” I reply. “And… thanks for answering the ones I didn’t ask.”
She smiles again, and this time it reaches her eyes.
She leaves a few minutes later, her footsteps echoing down the stairwell.
I stay behind, looking at the two paper moons spinning above me.
Maybe this is how color feels—
Not something you see,
But something you start to believe in.
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