"You are the art that fills my heart."

Roohi's pov:

I woke up to the soft hum of morning. The room felt lighter, warmer somehow, like it had absorbed all the quiet joy of the previous day. Vivaan was still asleep, his face relaxed, a strand of hair brushing his forehead. I couldn’t help but smile.

After breakfast, we decided to take a slow morning. I was folding some clothes in the bedroom when Vivaan walked in, holding his sketchbook. He looked hesitant but determined, his gaze shifting between the book and me.

I moved to kitchen to make a tea for myself.

The morning light filtered through the windows as I sipped my tea. Vivaan sat across from me, his fingers idly drumming the table. He seemed lost in thought, his gaze fixed on the cup in his hand.

“Roohi,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was soft, almost hesitant.

“Yes?” I looked up, surprised by the tone of his voice.

“Are you free tomorrow?” he asked, his eyes meeting mine briefly before shifting away.

I smiled. “I think so. Why?”

He cleared his throat, a faint pink tint coloring his cheeks. “There’s an art exhibition in the city... I was wondering if you’d like to come with me?”

I blinked in surprise. “You want me to come with you?”

He nodded, his fingers fidgeting with the corner of the book. “Yeah... if you’re free, of course.”

He nodded, his fingers tightening slightly around his cup. “Only if you’re okay with it.”

My heart swelled at the thought. Vivaan, the reserved and quiet man I was getting to know, wanted me to share something so personal with him. “Of course, I’d love to!” My enthusiasm must’ve surprised him because his lips curved into a shy smile.

His lips curved into a small smile, one that made my own cheeks warm. “Thank you,” he said simply.“It’ just...it  means a lot to me.”

The way he said it, soft but laden with meaning, made my heart clench.

______________________________________

The next day, the city buzzed as we made our way to the gallery. Vivaan drove quietly, his fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel. I noticed how he glanced at me once in a while, as if searching for reassurance.

“Why do you look nervous?” I teased lightly.

He gave a short laugh. “Not nervous. Just... curious.”

“Curious about what?”

“About how you’ll feel when you see it.”

Now I was curious. “See what?”

“You’ll know soon enough,” he replied, a mysterious smile playing on his lips.

When we arrived, I was immediately struck by the sheer beauty of the place. The gallery was filled with vibrant colors, intricate brushstrokes, and emotions captured on canvas. I could see Vivaan relax as we stepped inside, the art around us almost like a sanctuary for him.

He turned to me, his voice softer than usual. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” I said, my eyes scanning the paintings. “Each piece feels... alive.”

Vivaan’s lips twitched into a small smile. “That’s the magic of art. It speaks without words.”

Paintings of all sizes adorned the walls, each one more captivating than the last. I was struck by the sheer brilliance of it all. But then, as we moved further inside, I spotted it , a section labeled “Expressionism” The name “V.C.” was scrawled on the placards.

“Wait,” I said, pausing mid-step. “These are yours?”

Vivaan turned, his expression unreadable. “Yeah.”

I stared at the paintings. They were breathtaking - landscapes that felt alive, portraits so vivid they seemed to breathe. Each stroke held emotion, depth, and something unspoken.

“They’re... Amazing,” I whispered. “Vivaan, you’re Amazing.”

“Thank you,” he said softly, his voice tinged with both pride and humility.

As we lingered near one of his pieces, a couple walked up beside us. The woman pointed at the painting and turned to her companion. “Look at the way the light falls here,” she said. “It’s like the dawn breaking after a storm.”

“It’s stunning,” the man agreed. “This artist has a gift.”

I glanced at Vivaan, expecting him to look flustered, but instead, he had the faintest of smiles on his lips. “Does it feel strange?” I asked. “Hearing people admire your work like that?”

He shrugged lightly. “It’s... fulfilling. Art has always been a part of me. Hearing it resonate with others, it’s like sharing a piece of myself without words.”

I reached for his hand instinctively, giving it a squeeze. “You should be proud of yourself. I’m proud of you.”

His eyes softened as they met mine. “That means more than you know.”

As we moved to the next section, I couldn’t help but notice the way people admired his work, their hushed whispers and awe-filled expressions. “Doesn’t it feel strange?” I asked. “Being here, hearing people talk about your work but not knowing it’s you?”

Vivaan shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “It’s freeing, in a way. The art speaks for itself. It doesn’t need my face to validate it.”

I looked at him, my heart swelling with admiration. “You’re amazing, Vivaan. Truly.”

He glanced at me, his eyes holding a warmth that made my breath catch. “I’m not sure about that,” he said softly. “But having you here makes it... special.”

My cheeks flushed, and I looked away, pretending to focus on the painting in front of me. “You’re welcome,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

As we left the exhibition, I couldn’t help but feel a deeper connection to Vivaan. He had shared a piece of his world with me, a world that was as intricate and beautiful as the man himself.

In that moment, I realized something: Vivaan wasn’t just an artist of canvas and colors - he was painting his way into my heart.

______________________________________

That evening, as we returned home, I found myself replaying the day in my mind. Watching Vivaan step into the light, seeing people admire his work - it was a side of him I hadn’t seen before, and it made me fall for him a little more.

After dinner, as we got ready for bed, I turned to him. “Vivaan?”

“Hmm?” he murmured, already halfway under the covers.

“I’m glad you took me with you today. It meant a lot to me.”

He turned to face me, his expression tender. “I’m glad you were there for me, Roohi. It made everything... better.”

As we settled into the quiet comfort of the night, I realized that Vivaan’s art wasn’t just on canvas. It was in his presence, his words, the way he made me feel seen and cherished. He wasn’t just creating masterpieces; he was creating a life I was grateful to be part of.

A QUESTION FOR READERS :
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