A PIECE OF SUNSET IN YOUR EYES

Sunsets had never been Andra’s favorite time of day. To most people, sunset meant romance, beauty, poetry. To Andra, it meant loss. Sunset was the hour of goodbye, the moment the world dimmed slowly never in a rush, as if prolonging the pain. It had been three years since Siska married someone else, yet her shadow lingered in Andra’s memories like dust on an old photo. Now, ironically, he made a living photographing other people’s joy—weddings, engagements, birthdays. He captured happiness frame by frame, though he no longer recognized it in himself. That evening, he was at a small lake on the city’s outskirts. A prewedding shoot had just ended. The couple had been nervous, awkward, but Andra had worked his usual calm magic. “Hold her hand tighter. Don’t look at the camera—look at her eyes. You're in love, not in a job interview,” Andra had said, his voice light but certain. Click. Click. Click. Three shots. The smiles he caught in those photos felt more real than anything he’d experienced in years. "Photos will be ready in two weeks," he said as he packed his gear. “Thank you, Mas Andra! We love how you work!” the bride-to-be chirped. Andra offered a small smile and walked toward the far side of the lake. He rarely left immediately after a shoot. He needed time. Time to detox from other people’s happiness before returning to his empty apartment. The sky was soft orange, spilling gold across the water like melted sunlight. And that’s when he saw her a woman sitting alone on a wooden bench, wearing a gray sweater and black jeans. She held a notebook but wasn’t writing. Just… sitting. Staring at the sky. Something about her silence resonated in Andra. He wasn’t the type to bother strangers, but she looked like someone who carried a quiet similar to his. He lifted his camera, purely out of habit. Just one shot, from afar. No harm. No ill intent. Click. Then, she turned. “Hey!” she called out. Busted. Andra raised his hands. “Sorry! I… I just…” “You took a picture of me?” she asked, her tone calm but direct. “Yeah, but it wasn’t for anything. I swear. I just” “Do you know what color the sky is right now?” she asked suddenly, cutting him off. He blinked. “What?” “The sky,” she repeated. “What color is it?” He glanced upward. “Orange. A bit of purple near the edges.” The woman nodded slowly. “Sounds pretty.” Andra tilted his head. “You can’t see it?” “I was born completely colorblind. The world has always been black and white for me.” Silence stretched between them. “I’m Dira,” she added. “And you’re the photographer who stalks people with your lens?” He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Andra. And yeah, I deserve that.” She grinned. “Well… let me see the photo, then.” He approached and showed her the picture. The screen glowed faintly in the fading light. “That’s me?” she asked. “Yeah.” “I look… sad.” He glanced at the screen, then at her face. “Not sad,” he replied softly. “Empty.” Her smile didn’t falter. “That’s honest. People rarely are.” Andra sat down at the edge of the bench, maintaining a polite distance. “Do you come here often?” he asked. “Every sunset. I like the sound the water makes when the sun disappears. It’s like the world taking its final breath before sleep.” He was quiet. That line it pressed against his ribs, too gentle to bruise, but impossible to ignore. “I usually hate sunsets,” he admitted. Dira turned her head slightly toward him. “You’re lying. There’s bitterness in your voice when you say that.” He blinked. “You can hear bitterness?” “When you can’t see colors, you learn to listen deeper than most people.” “That’s… impressive.” “Not really. It’s exhausting. Because then I can tell who’s lying, who’s pretending to be okay, who’s falling apart while trying to look composed.” He swallowed. “What about me?” “You’re broken. But you hide it well. You think photographing other people’s joy might somehow patch your own cracks.” It struck him square in the chest. He exhaled sharply. “Are you psychic or something?” “No. I just spend too much time in silence. And silence is a brutally honest mirror.” The sun had nearly vanished. A chill crept in with the dusk. “I should go,” Andra said, rising. “It was nice meeting you, Dira.” “You too, Andra the Bitter Photographer.” He laughed under his breath. “Will you be here tomorrow?” “I’m always here. Unless it rains.” “Then if it doesn’t rain… can I sit here again?” She smiled. “Sure. But next time, don’t sneak a photo. Just ask.” They both laughed. As Andra walked away, his steps felt different lighter, like he’d left a part of his burden on that bench. Behind him, Dira remained seated, staring at the water. In her bag was an unopened letter from the hospital. The latest medical report. Inside, were words that would change everything. Even if she’d never seen the colors of the world, she was about to lose the little light she still had left. Silence That Says Too Much It didn’t rain today. The sky was a soft, delicate blue, fading into hints of gold near the horizon. Andra arrived earlier than yesterday, taking his place on the same wooden bench by the lake. He held his camera in his lap, though he didn’t intend to use it. Not yet. He wasn’t sure Dira would come. He didn’t even know why he cared if she did. Maybe it was because, for the first time in years, someone had looked at him—really looked—and didn’t see a man with a job or a past, but simply… a man trying to exist. Then, the sound of quiet footsteps. Andra turned. There she was. Same gray sweater. Same loose hair. Same unreadable expression. "What's the color of the sky today?" she asked, sitting beside him without invitation, as if yesterday had already erased all awkwardness. Andra looked up. "Blue. But it’s turning golden. Like the way you smiled yesterday." Dira frowned slightly. "That sounds like something a poet would say." He chuckled. "I'm not a poet. I'm just a guy trying to describe the world for someone who can’t see it the way I do." She didn’t reply immediately. But the silence between them wasn’t empty. It was full of something warm and slow-building. "I’ve never liked being photographed," Dira said suddenly. "I never understood why people love photos so much. What's the point of capturing a moment when it’s going to fade anyway?" Andra stared out at the lake. "Sometimes we just need proof. That something existed. That happiness happened. That we were there… and felt something real." "Proof," she repeated. "But proof can hurt. It stays still while we move on. It reminds us of what we lost." He nodded. "That’s true. But sometimes, stillness is more honest than people who pretend to be okay when they’re not." Dira let out a small laugh. "You sound like a philosopher with a camera." "Or just a broken man with no idea how to fix himself." There was a pause. A gentle one. "Who broke you?" she asked softly. Andra hesitated. "Her name was Siska." "She liked photography too?" "No. But she loved looking at my photos. Said I had a way of capturing feelings in an image. Like I could read people’s souls through my lens." "And?" "I didn’t marry her. I was scared. Of commitment. Of failure. Of becoming someone I didn’t want to be. I thought she’d wait. But love doesn’t wait forever." Dira was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Do you regret it?” "Every day. Not because she left, but because I let my fear speak louder than my love." She bit her lip. Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. "I have fears too, Andra." He turned to her. "About what?" She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stared straight ahead, toward a sky she would never fully know. "I’m afraid I won’t get the chance to fall in love." The words hit him like a slow, painful ache. Not sharp, but deep. "Why would you say that?" he asked, his voice quiet. "I don't know. Maybe because I’ve spent too long behind invisible walls. I can’t see the world like other people. I don’t get excited over colors or sunsets. I don’t join the noise when people scream over a beautiful dress or a rainbow." He wanted to say that love didn’t need colors. But she wasn’t asking for comfort. She was giving him a piece of her wound. And he knew wounds deserved silence, not stitches from strangers. "I’ve never been in love," she said. "But if love feels like sitting next to someone who doesn’t make me feel broken or pitied or different… maybe I’m starting to feel it now." Andra swallowed hard. His throat tightened. He wasn’t one for tears, but something about her voice made the edges of his heart soften and crack. "I don’t know if I’m healed either," he whispered. "But if healing means laughing again even when you're still hurting… maybe I’m learning how to love again too." A light breeze swept through the trees. Their silence returned, but it was fuller now—like two people listening to the same secret that didn’t need words. Then Dira reached into her bag and pulled out a folded paper. "I opened the letter today." Andra glanced at her. "What letter?" "From the hospital. The test results. It’s not just color blindness. It’s something else." He straightened, his face tense. "What is it?" "A degenerative genetic condition. It affects the retina… and the nerves. They said I might lose all my vision. Completely. Within a year or two." Andra’s breath caught. "Dira..." "I’m not afraid of the dark. I’ve lived in shades of gray my whole life. But I’m scared I won’t get to see someone smile at me when I tell them I love them. Even if I never see the color of their eyes." Andra gently reached for her hand. Warm. Real. Human. "I’m here, Dira." "For how long?" she whispered. "As long as you need someone who won’t run when you’re afraid." She turned toward the sound of his voice. Her dark eyes couldn’t capture his features, but they locked onto something deeper. "Tomorrow… will you take me somewhere high?" "High?" "A place where I can feel the shape of the world. Before it disappears from me completely." He nodded, squeezing her hand gently. "I’ll take you to the highest place I’ve ever stood. And I’ll describe every part of the view. Every light. Every color."