Chapter 21 — WHISPERS BETWEEN PAGES
The morning sunlight streamed into Cathy’s small apartment, falling across a half-finished sketch and an open notebook. Her handwriting curved gracefully over the paper — neat, delicate, full of feeling.
She didn’t write much these days, only when words grew too heavy to keep inside. And lately, those words had all begun with the same name.
Dear Adrian,
There are things I wish I could tell you — not with my hands, not with signs, but with sound. I wonder if you would still understand them the same way you understand my silence.
Her pen hesitated before continuing. You make the world quieter, not because it stops talking, but because I stop needing to explain myself.
She paused, reading the lines over, then smiled faintly. She never planned to show these letters. They were small secrets, pieces of her heart tucked safely between pages.
A soft knock came from her door. She looked up quickly, surprised. When she opened it, Adrian stood there holding a small paper bag that smelled faintly of cinnamon.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice low and a little uncertain. “I brought breakfast. I thought maybe we could eat together before heading to the studio.”
Her face brightened. She stepped aside, motioning for him to enter. He placed the bag on the table, and his eyes caught the edge of her open notebook.
Before she could close it, a gentle breeze from the window turned the page. His gaze fell on her handwriting — a few simple lines, nothing revealing yet still intimate.
Cathy froze. Her fingers brushed the paper, hesitant, but he didn’t reach for it.
Instead, he smiled softly. “You write beautifully,” he said quietly. “Your words look like they’re painted.”
She met his eyes, uncertain. Then slowly, she wrote on a clean page of her sketchbook: They’re only thoughts. Nothing important.
“Everything you think is important,” he replied. “Even the quiet things.”
Something in his tone made her chest tighten. She turned away slightly, pretending to arrange the breakfast. He watched her in silence, his expression full of that gentle patience she’d grown used to.
They ate together by the window, sharing warm rolls and steaming tea. Outside, the world was already waking — the murmur of people, the soft song of distant bells. Yet inside the small apartment, time felt slower, wrapped in morning light.
Adrian glanced at her again. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About your art exhibition idea. The one Luna mentioned.”
Cathy blinked, surprised. You remember? she signed.
“Of course,” he smiled. “You said you wanted to show paintings that speak without sound. I think it’s time you did.”
Her eyes softened. She shook her head lightly, but he could see the flicker of longing there — the dream she hadn’t dared to chase.
“You don’t have to decide today,” he added. “Just think about it. The world needs what you create.”
She nodded slowly, her fingers tracing words on the table, invisible but felt. Thank you.
When he finally left for a meeting, the apartment felt strangely full. His warmth lingered in the air, the echo of his voice resting gently in her thoughts.
Cathy returned to her notebook and looked at the letter again. After a long pause, she added one more line.
You said my words look painted. Maybe that’s why I trust you — you see beauty even in silence.
She closed the book, tucked it back under her sketchpad, and smiled to herself.
Outside, the city moved forward in its quiet rhythm. And somewhere between the pages of that notebook, love had already begun to write itself.
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