A love story 💖

                  A LOVE STORY ❣️ 

When Maya first met Aarav, he was clutching a bouquet of sunflowers while standing in the rain without an umbrella, seemingly oblivious to the weather. He was about to turn to go when she ran into him, like she often does when she is late. Petals scattered like golden confetti as the bouquet fell. She exclaimed, "I'm so sorry!" and reached down to assist. He brushed his wet hair off his forehead and grinned. It's all right. This was fate, I believe. There was no line. He was disarmingly sincere. Before he said, "Would you like to get a coffee?," they stood there looking uncomfortable. You might as well dry off.

Laughter replaced the coffee. Bring humor to lengthy strolls. enters late-night calls. Maya soon came to the realization that her life had been split into two periods: before and after Aarav. Photography was Aarav's profession. He thought that images could express things that words could not. Color and contrast, light and shadow, encapsulated his world. "A good photo is a feeling you can hold," he once said to her. He captured Maya laughing, reading, napping, and dancing barefoot in the kitchen in thousands of photos. With silent awe, each one was framed. As a literary editor, Maya was a word person. "If I can't write about it, it's not real," she used to say. However, Aarav caused her to doubt that. His quiet was never meaningless; rather, it was the stillness of comprehension.

They were diametrically opposed. She liked the convenience of scheduled weekends, while he enjoyed the unpredictability of travel. She aimed for perfection; he found beauty in every imperfection. However, in some way, love blossomed in the void between them. Aarav used a picture album rather than a ring to pop the question three years later. There was one line and a picture on each page:

Maya sobbed so hard that she was unable to talk. She did, however, nod. Again and again. In front of those who were most important to them, they were married in a modest ceremony by the lake. That day, Aarav didn't take any pictures. He declared, "I want to live this." "Don't just keep it in mind." It wasn't an ideal life. Arguments arose over dreams, deadlines, and dishes. But underlying it all, like the steady heartbeat, love persisted. Aarav took less trips. Maya gained the ability to relinquish control. Time and time again, they met halfway. Then the day arrived when everything was different. Aarav was in the highlands on assignment. An unexpected storm. a signal that is lost. Then comes a call that nobody ever wants to get.

The next few days were a haze. Maya didn't think it was true. She stood at the entrance and waited. called his name. His camera was next to her pillow while he slept. She skipped meals. unable to write. Food and sympathy were left behind as friends came and went. But the silence he left behind was empty. Weeks went by. A parcel came one morning. The trek had worn it down. Not a word. All that was written on the front was Aarav's handwriting: For Maya. My last picture. She opened it, her hands shaking. There was a camera inside. His camera. A memory card, too. It was plugged into her laptop.

Hundreds of pictures were included. Mist-covered mountains. Locals with bashful smiles. A young youngster presents a flower. Then— pictures of her. It was gathered from the past, not recently. He caught moments she was unaware of. She was staring out the window. In the sun, she read. Her head was cocked back as she laughed. And finally, the last picture. Aarav's self-portrait. Grinning. A stunning vista of the sunrise over snow-capped peaks could be seen behind him. "I want this to be the picture you remember me by if I don't make it back," reads the caption beneath the photo. nor the grief, nor the death. Only this—love, light, and your remembrance." Maya cracked. However, it wasn't the kind of shattering that leaves you permanently broken.It was the kind that breaks you open to allow for the growth of something new. She sobbed. Days. Weeks later. She finally picked up the camera one morning. To live, not to remember. She set off on foot. taking pictures. I'm writing once more. A Thousand Words for Aarav is her memoir. It had numerous pictures, each accompanied by her comments. Not flawless. but authentic. Years went by. Maya didn't get married again. She didn't, however, live in sorrow either. She took a trip. Under his identity, she offered photography classes. Light & Love is the name of the gallery she opend. There was a little plaque in one corner

Words are used to tell some stories. A few in photos. We had both. She also went to the lake annually on the anniversary of their marriage. She brought sunflowers. "It's still the best picture I've ever held," she muttered.