Chapter 4

I used to believe silence was safe.

But lately, silence feels heavier — like it’s holding secrets I’m too scared to name.

It’s been two weeks since Rand kissed me under the rain. Two weeks of colour, laughter, and quiet glances that say more than words ever could.

The mural was almost complete now — golds, blues, and deep strokes of grey sweeping across the wall like waves of emotion. It was beautiful, but it terrified me too. Because when something this perfect starts to feel real, that’s when the fear creeps in — fear of losing it.

Rand noticed it before I said a word. Of course he did.

“Something’s off,” he said one morning while I was mixing paint. His voice was soft but firm — the kind that could see straight through me.

“I’m fine,” I lied, focusing too hard on stirring the colour.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “You always say that when you’re not.”

I forced a smile. “I just want to finish this before the rain ruins it again.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Then he said, “You know you don’t have to do this alone, right?”

The brush in my hand stilled. “I’m not alone.”

“You keep saying that,” he said, stepping closer. “But every time I look at you, I see someone still fighting old ghosts.”

His words cut deeper than I expected. I looked away. “You don’t know everything about me, Rand.”

He was quiet for a long moment before replying. “Then tell me.”

But I couldn’t. Not yet.

Instead, I dipped my brush back into the paint and said, “Let’s just work.”

He sighed but didn’t push further. The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful this time — it was the kind that builds walls.

---

That evening, the clouds returned, dragging a storm across the city. I stayed late at the site, determined to finish the mural’s last section — a rising sun breaking through a dark sky.

The rain began softly, tapping against the scaffolding. I didn’t stop painting. Maybe I needed the rain to drown out the noise inside my chest.

“Elena!”

I turned, startled. Rand stood by the entrance, umbrella forgotten, rain dripping from his hair.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I said. “It’s late.”

He stepped closer, his eyes searching mine. “I was worried.”

“About what?”

“You,” he said simply. “You disappear into your work when something’s wrong.”

I looked away, heart racing. “I just… I need to finish this.”

He came closer, his voice gentler now. “Elena, talk to me. Please.”

Something in me broke open.

“You want honesty?” I said quietly. “I’m scared.”

He blinked. “Of what?”

“Of this,” I said, gesturing between us. “Of how real it’s starting to feel. Every time I start to love something, it leaves. My father, my art, people who said they’d stay — they all left. I can’t go through that again.”

Rand didn’t move for a moment. Then he stepped closer, his soaked shoes echoing softly against the floor.

“I’m not them,” he said.

“I know,” I whispered. “But what if I still lose you anyway?”

He took my paint-stained hands in his, his touch steady and warm despite the cold. “Then love me while I’m here.”

The words hit me so hard I couldn’t breathe for a second.

He smiled faintly. “We don’t control how long things last, Elena. But we do control how real they feel.”

I wanted to believe him. I really did.

But my heart had been broken before — by people who promised permanence and left anyway. So I did the only thing I knew: I pulled back.

“I need some space,” I said softly.

Rand froze. “Space?”

“Just for a while,” I said, avoiding his gaze. “To think.”

He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Alright.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t beg. He just gave me a small, pained smile. “I’ll wait.”

Then he turned and walked out into the rain.

The sound of his footsteps faded, and the storm filled the silence he left behind.

---

The next few days felt empty.

The mural stood finished, glowing with colour — but I couldn’t bring myself to go see it. My apartment was too quiet; even my brushes seemed to miss him.

Everywhere I went, I saw pieces of him — the coffee shop window, the sketchbook on my table, the scent of rain that lingered long after the clouds cleared.

I tried to paint again, but everything I made came out grey.

Then one evening, I found a folded piece of paper slipped under my door.

It was from Rand.

> Elena,

I don’t want to rush you. I just want you to know the offer still stands — the art centre’s opening next week. You don’t have to come for me. Come for what you built.

The world deserves to see your voice again.

— Rand

I read it three times before tears blurred the ink.

He wasn’t asking for love. He was reminding me of mine.

That night, I went to the balcony. The air smelled like a storm again, and I whispered into the wind, “Maybe I’ve been quiet for too long.”

---

A week later, I stood in front of the art centre — now finished, shining under the soft glow of lanterns. The mural towered behind the stage, alive and breathtaking. People were everywhere, admiring, taking pictures, laughing.

And then I saw him.

Rand stood near the entrance, talking to one of the organisers. When his eyes met mine, his expression softened — surprise, then relief.

I walked up to him slowly. “You didn’t think I’d miss it, did you?”

He smiled. “I hoped you wouldn’t.”

I took a deep breath. “You were right,” I said quietly. “Silence isn’t peace. It’s just fear pretending to be strength.”

He stepped closer. “And now?”

“Now…” I smiled faintly. “I think I’m ready to speak again.”

He didn’t say anything. He just took my hand — gently, like he was holding something fragile — and together we tu

Turned toward the mural.

For once, I didn’t see the flaws or the cracks in the paint.

I saw us — two storms that finally found calm in each other.