Between Karma And Silence

She had never prepared a gift like this before.

For years, love existed between them in the form of silence. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It lived in their late night conversations, in silences that felt comfortable, and in promises never announced but understood. This time, she wanted to express that love differently in a way she never had. She wanted to surprise him with a hand – made gift. Every night, once everyone fell asleep and the noise of the world quietened, she sat on the floor of her room, paints scattered all around. A blank canvas lay in front of her. Sometimes she stared at it longer than she painted, imagining what to pour out on it.“What do I even start with?” she whispered to herself, biting her lip. “How do I show him what he already knows…. what he already feels?”Her movements were slow, careful. She painted two lovebirds on a tree branch, resembling her and him. The branch was their safe space. They weren’t pressed together, but sat close – like they had chosen each other without needing to prove it. She painted their calmness in the colors, and the background suggested they belonged exactly where they were. Some nights, hours slipped by unnoticed. Other nights, she stopped to study the canvas. “Does this…. really show what I feel?” she murmured, tilting her head. She mixed colors again and again, cleaned her brushes more times than necessary, desperate not to make a mistake. She wanted it perfect – not because she was a perfect painter, but because her feelings were perfect, at least. Memories made her smile. She remembered the first flower he gave her, unplanned, awkward, shyly held out. She felt her hands tremble as she accepted it. “I …. I didn’t expect this,” she had whispered that day. He smiled nervously. “I just…. thought you’d like it.”Conversations that became routine, messages that arrived at the same time every night, jokes only they understood. He listened to her. She listened to him. It felt balanced. Utmost, it felt safe.Sometimes he sang for her. His voice wasn’t perfect, and he often forgot the words, laughing at himself. She never laughed. She just listened, holding those moments like something fragile and precious. She had written poems for him, never read them aloud but folded them and hid them where he might stumble across them. Simple line, honest words. Things she, as an introvert, was too shy to say out loud. “You’ll understand,” she had told herself countless times. They had exchanged gifts before – small, thoughtful things: a bracelet, a notebook, a scarf, a pen. Each resembling a living proof that they saw each other deep within the soul. Promises too – quiet promises: to be honest, to support each other, to stay even when things got hard. She believed them with all her heart. There were places that became theirs: a hill outside town where the air felt lighter, a café where they always chose the same corner, a riverbank where he held her hand for the first time, softening her fear. The day he asked her to be with him felt simple and perfect. No crowd, no noise. Just him holding flowers with his nervous and smiling expression. “Will you…. be with me?” he had asked quietly.“Yes,” she said without hesitation, feeling chosen just for him by destiny. Now carrying the wrapped painting in her bag, she walked towards him, reliving memories, carefully inside her. She had imagined this moment so many times: his surprised expression, his cute smile, the quiet understanding in his eyes when he saw the painting. But when she saw him, something felt terribly wrong. “Hey …. I …. We need to talk,” he said, avoiding her eyes. His words felt heavy, unsure. “Talk?” she asked softly. “About what?” There was a pause. Then unexpectedly, he said, “There’s someone else. I’ve been …. seeing her for a while. Since…. you were busy with your entrance prep.”The world around her froze. Sounds faded. Her body felt heavy. She controlled her trembling hands, the painting suddenly feeling like a huge mistake. “I …. I see,” she whispered, forcing a faint smile. “Its okay.” He looked at her confused, searching for anger or tears. She didn’t argue. Didn’t ask questions. She just nodded and turned away, walking home as if her legs carried her but not her heart. Her room felt unfamiliar. The walls looked different. The air - heavier. Memories of painting began haunting her. She sat on the floor and unwrapped the canvas. The lovebirds were still there, sitting close, calm, and certain. She stared at them for a long time.“Maybe it was my fault,” she murmured. “Maybe I was too shy…. Too emotional …. Too much. Maybe I…. wasn’t enough.”Her chest tightened. Anxiety clawed at her. She replayed everything, searching for mistakes she might have made. Every word, every silence.“What does she have that I don’t?” she whispered to the empty room. “Why wasn’t I enough?”Her poems felt foolish now. Her gift …. Embarrassing. Trust shattered. She hugged her knees, staring at the painting that no longer felt real. “Was I wrong about love? Was it never meant for someone like me…. someone who gives too much and hopes too quietly?”The night passed slowly. She didn’t cry loudly anymore. She just felt empty – completely empty. Questions kept flooding her mind. Why did love leave so easily? Why wasn't she enough?She stayed on the floor, broken and small, holding the weight of every memory, every promise, and every doubt. The painting rested nearby, untouched, holding a version of love that was no longer hers. And she sat there, shattered, feeling smaller than she had ever felt before.