The Light
I used to think words could save people. Not grand speeches or poetry -just small sentence tucked inside the quiet of everyday life.
That's probably why I became writer: to make silence say something.
The first time I met Rehan, he was reading on the floor of a second-hand bookshop, surrounded by towers of forgotten stories. He looked up, held out a book like an offering, and said, "if you ever want to know someone's heart, check the pages they highlight."
that single line was enough. we spoke for hours, and by closing time, he'd written his number on my palm with a fountain pen because, he said, "ink lasts longer than pixels".
we started seeing each other at cafe's that smelled of paper and cinnamon. I wrote short stories on napkins; he edited then in the margins. Sometimes he'd replace my words with his own, and the sentences became ours-tangled, imperfect, alive.
