“Paint Me in Patience” In the Silence of Tawakkul
A story of extreme emotional pain but No bitterness.
This is a story of two souls who never planned to meet—but destiny had something healing in mind.
An artist, gentle and full of unspoken feelings, walks into a therapy room looking to experience bec that artist belief in spiritual healing and who is in practice of healing since years. On the other side sits a therapist, calm and grounded, carrying strength in her silence. What starts as a session slowly becomes something deeper—a connection that words could barely hold.
They talk for hours.
They laugh, reflect, sometimes cry.
It begins to feel like they are mirrors of each other—two broken hearts drawing light out of one another.
The artist, moved by her presence and the way she makes him feel understood,both starts falling in love. Not the loud kind, but the quiet one—the kind that grows with gratitude and respect.
One day, he gathers the courage to tell her.
He shares his heart, softly… like a sketch on a blank page.
And with just as much softness, she says Hold.
too much drama. emotional pain .. No bitterness. Just a pause.
And then… silence
They part on good terms. No promises. Just Tawakkul
Chapter 1: When Paths Cross!
The first meetup
The artist had never believed much in therapy. As a spiritual healer himself, he had always leaned on faith, meditation, and silence to soothe the cracks in his soul. But that day, something in him whispered that it was time to see what science had to say about healing.
He opened the glass door to the quiet therapy room, clutching his journal in one hand. The faint scent of lavender floated through the air, and soft light fell through half-closed blinds. Sitting at a wooden desk was a woman — the therapist — who looked up and met his gaze with a calm smile.
“Welcome,” she said simply, standing to shake his hand. Her voice was warm, but there was an unspoken strength behind it, like the steady weight of the earth.
For a moment, he just stood there, noticing her presence — the kind of presence that made the air feel less heavy. He introduced himself: an artist, a photographer, someone who spent his life capturing fleeting beauty but lately had tired capturing beautiful face and he liked to capture nature because nature has peace
“And you?” he asked quietly, sitting across from her.
“I’m a therapist,” she replied with a small shrug. “And a listener, mostly. Someone who believes in quiet more than noise. I help people find their way back to themselves.”
Something in those words disarmed him.
At first, the conversation was polite and measured — the usual questions and answers. Why are you here? How do you feel? What are you looking for? He told her about his restlessness, his insomnia, his constant ache to create and yet never feel complete. She listened, occasionally nodding, sometimes gently challenging him, her eyes steady and kind.
But minutes turned into hours.
They talked about his art, about how colors spoke to him in ways words never could. He asked about her work, how she stayed so composed while carrying the weight of other people’s pain. She laughed — the first time he heard her laugh — and admitted she often walked barefoot in her garden at night just to feel real.
When the session ended, neither of them moved right away. There was something left hanging in the air, something unspoken but undeniable.
That evening, he found himself thinking of her quiet confidence, the way she seemed to understand even the things he hadn’t said aloud.
And then his phone buzzed.
It was a message from him:
"If you’d like to talk more, sometimes it helps to continue the conversation beyond the room. No obligation."
she hesitated only a second before replying:
"Yes. I’d like that."
What started as an exchange of thoughtful messages became hours-long conversations over the phone and on messages — about healing, about grief, about the strange ways people come undone and stitch themselves back together.
They spoke late into the night, their voices soft in the darkness, as though sharing secrets with the stars. They laughed about little things — her love of old poetry, his obsession with sunsets — and sometimes they fell into comfortable silence that felt more intimate than words.
It was supposed to be about therapy, but something deeper was already at work.
Each call left him feeling lighter, yet more tangled inside. He couldn’t tell if she felt it too, but he caught himself smiling at his phone whenever her name lit up the screen.
Somewhere between the therapy room and those midnight calls, destiny quietly began to weave its thread through them.
What neither of them realized then was that the first step toward healing was not about fixing what was broken — it was about meeting someone who saw you exactly as you were.
And she did.
And for the first time in years, he felt seen.
Chapter 2: Tea with the Inner Child
“Between sips of tea, stories unfold — a quiet ceremony where strangers become familiar, and hearts begin to speak.
The artist had been thinking about her since that night.
Not constantly, not obsessively — but in the quiet moments, she slipped into his mind like the faint scent of rain on warm stone. The way she sat at the edge of the room during their friend’s gathering, listening more than speaking, her eyes darting between the laughter and the door — that stayed with him.
She had a presence he couldn’t photograph. Not yet.
So, he found himself driving to the same neighborhood a few evenings later, telling himself it was nothing more than tea. Just tea.
He texted her — If you’re free, would you join me? Just chai. No noise. No crowd. Just us. No expectations.
The dots blinked for a long time. Then came her reply:
Fine. But don’t make it heavy.
By the time he pulled up outside the house where she was finishing a friend’s dinner, the rain had already begun. She slipped into the passenger seat with a faint smile, clutching her shawl close.
He didn’t say much. Just handed her a napkin to wipe her damp hands and drove.
They stopped at a roadside tea stall. He stepped out into the drizzle, ordered two cups of chai thick with cardamom, and came back to the car where she was staring out into the rain.
Instead of starting the engine again, he set the cups down, switched off the headlights, and let the car become their little island — lit only by the faint gold of a streetlamp.
She finally glanced at him, eyebrow arched.
“Why the car?”
He shrugged, a faint grin on his eyes
“Cafés have too many ears. Cars are safer for certain conversations. No audience. Just rain.”
She held her tea in both hands, still guarded.
He took a sip of his, watching her quietly, before he spoke.
“I wanted to see you again,” he said.
“Because there’s something about you… I can’t quite name yet. But I keep thinking about it. About you. About the part of you you’re not letting anyone see.”
Her laugh was sharp, though her hands tightened around her cup.
“My inner child? That’s what you want to see?”
He nodded once, calm and sure.
She shook her head, looking away.
“No one can handle her,” she said flatly.
“She’s loud. Broken. Sad. Too much of everything. I let her out once, and people ran. Everyone runs. Why would you stay?”
Her words hung in the car, heavy but fragile.
He set his tea down, leaned back into his seat, and — for the first time — let out a quiet breath.
“Then don’t tell me yet,” he said gently.
“Let me go first.”
She frowned faintly, surprised.
He didn’t look at her as he spoke. Just out at the rain, his voice low and even.
“My inner child hides behind my camera. Pretends to be strong because people expect it. But he’s scared you’ll see how small he really feels. Scared of being forgotten. Invisible.
When I was a boy, he loved colors and stories — but people laughed. Told him to grow up. So he hid. And he poured himself into photographs where no one could touch him.
But he’s still there. Waiting. Hoping someone will say: It’s okay. You can come out now.”
He glanced at her then, his eyes steady, though his hands trembled slightly where they rested on his knees.
She stared at him for a long moment, silent.
And then — as the rain slid down the windows and the chai grew cooler in her hands — she whispered, almost to herself:
“Maybe… maybe she wouldn’t mind meeting him.”
The artist smiled faintly. Not triumphant. Not relieved.
Just… patient.
They sat there a little longer, in their quiet island of rain and cardamom, not saying much more.
And though she didn’t notice it yet, he did — the smallest crack in her walls, letting in the first soft beam of light.
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Chapter 3: Voices Between the Silence!
Chapter 3: Voices Between the Silence
The artist didn’t plan it.
At least, not at first.
It was only after that night in the car — the rain, the tea, the quiet admission of their hidden children — that something began to take shape in his mind. A way for them to speak without walls, a space big enough for both of their voices, yet intimate enough to remain theirs.
A podcast.
It came to him one morning as he sat in his studio, tinkering with an old microphone and listening to the sound of static crackling in his headphones. He thought of how her voice had trembled at first but steadied when she whispered that maybe her child wouldn’t mind meeting his.
So he sent her another message.
This time, shorter, lighter:
You’ve got something to say. So do I. Let’s say it. Together. Over a podcast. A series. You and me. We can design it however we want.
She didn’t reply immediately. But later that evening, she called him — which surprised him — and her voice was curious, but also cautious.
“A podcast?” she asked, as if testing the word.
“Yes,” he said simply. “Not interviews. Not noise. Just… conversations. About the children we hide. The things we carry. Whatever feels real.”
There was a long pause before she spoke again.
“I’ve done a few before,” she admitted softly. “Special series. Mental health. Healing. People said… I did them well.”
The artist smiled into the receiver, though she couldn’t see it.
“I don’t doubt that for a second,” he said.
They met a few days later at his studio. He’d already set the stage: a wooden table, two microphones, warm lamps casting a gentle glow. A kettle whistled softly in the corner, filling the room with the familiar scent of chai.
She walked in with quiet confidence this time — different from the woman who’d curled into herself in his car. She even smiled as she adjusted her chair and tested the microphone.
“You’ve really planned this,” she said, teasing lightly.
He shrugged, pretending not to care.
“It’s just a table,” he replied. “The real show starts with your voice.”
And it did.
Once they began recording, she came alive in a way that stunned him. Her words flowed — thoughtful, deliberate, yet full of warmth and clarity. She spoke of pain and hope without flinching, of the children we hide and the ones we slowly learn to hold.
Her voice had a way of softening even the hardest truths, and listeners — if they could have heard her that night — would have felt as though she were speaking just to them.
The artist sat opposite her, listening, occasionally adding his own stories, his own quiet questions. But mostly, he watched her — the way she leaned into the microphone, the way her hands moved when she spoke, the way her eyes sometimes shimmered when she forgot to guard them.
When they finally switched off the recorder hours later, she leaned back in her chair and exhaled, as if she’d just set down a heavy suitcase.
“I’d forgotten,” she murmured, “how much I liked this.”
He smiled faintly, closing his notebook.
“And?” he asked.
“And what?” she replied.
“Would you…,” he paused, choosing his words carefully, “do this with me? Make it a series. Not just tonight — but something that belongs to both of us?”
She didn’t answer right away. But she didn’t look away either.
Finally, she gave him the faintest nod, a soft grin curving her lips.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s tell our stories. One episode at a time.”
And as they sat there in the quiet afterglow of what they’d created, the artist couldn’t help but think:
Sometimes the most beautiful art wasn’t something you could capture with a lens.
Sometimes it was a voice, cracking just enough to let the light through.
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