Unknown sparkle

Esha adjusted her scarf as she stepped out of the art gallery, her mind still tangled in the chaos of her latest exhibit. Her cane tapped lightly on the cobblestones, navigating her familiar route. She liked her routines—they kept the unpredictable world at bay.

But today was different.

Turning a corner too quickly, she collided with a solid frame. The impact sent her sketchbook tumbling to the ground, papers scattering like fallen leaves. She stumbled, but strong hands caught her waist, steadying her before she could fall.

"I'm so sorry," came a voice—deep, warm, and rich, like the sun cutting through a cold morning.

For a moment, the world held its breath.

Esha froze, her hands gripping his arms instinctively. Her senses sharpened—the faint scent of sandalwood, the crispness of his shirt under her fingers, the steady rhythm of his breathing. She couldn't see him, couldn't even picture him, but something about his presence was electrifying.

She tilted her head upward, an unusual ache stirring in her chest. For the first time, she felt an unexplainable need to see someone.

"It's okay," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Your sketchbook," he said, letting her go to crouch down and gather the scattered papers. His movements were careful, as though the sketches were sacred artifacts. He stood and handed them to her, his touch lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

"These are... incredible," he said, his tone laced with awe.

Esha tightened her grip on the sketchbook. "Thank you," she replied, her guard going up instinctively. Compliments were familiar, but his felt different—sincere, unfiltered.

"I'm Aarav," he introduced himself. "A photographer. I guess I have an eye for beauty."

Esha wanted to scoff, to retreat behind her usual walls, but instead, she found herself asking, "Do you capture faces or moments?"

He grinned, though she couldn't see it. "Moments, mostly. But faces have their own stories."

Esha’s heart clenched. If only she could see those stories. If only she could see his.

Something shifted in her then—a flicker of curiosity, of longing. For years, she’d told herself she didn’t need to see anyone to know them. But in that fleeting moment, Esha realized she desperately wanted to see Aarav. Something in her heart wanted him if only he could see her desperate heart which was hidden in the mist of isolation and longingness of stories that he could see in those faces.

"I’m Esha," she said finally, her voice softer now. "And I paint stories."

"Then we’re not so different," Aarav replied, his voice light but layered with meaning. "Maybe one day, we’ll exchange them."

As he walked away, Esha clutched her sketchbook to her chest. For the first time in years, the blank faces in her mind didn’t feel like enough.

And for the first time, she felt a spark she didn’t want to extinguish.

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