A postcard affair

Neha had always loved the quiet comfort of her routine. She worked at a publishing house, spent her weekends painting by the window of her cozy apartment, and indulged in her favorite coffee at the quaint café down the street. Life was simple, predictable—until the postcards started arriving.

 

The first one came on a cloudy Tuesday morning, tucked neatly into her mailbox. The postcard was a delicate piece of art, depicting a serene watercolor of a lake surrounded by trees. On the back, in elegant handwriting, were the words:

 

“Your thoughts flow like the ripples on a lake—calm, yet endlessly deep. Keep painting your world with those colors only you can see.”

 

Neha frowned as she turned the card over in her hands. There was no sender’s name, no clue to who might have sent it. She dismissed it as a random act of kindness, something whimsical in a world too focused on screens.

 

But the postcards didn’t stop.

 

Every week, a new one arrived, each more beautiful than the last, with messages that seemed to peel back the layers of her soul.

 

“Your favorite table at the café is a canvas of its own—scribbled notes, coffee stains, and dreams waiting to take flight.”

“The way you smile when you talk about your paintings could light up a stormy sky.”

“Even the rain envies how gracefully you carry your storms.”

 

Each card felt intimate, as if the sender knew her deeply, saw things about her that even she didn’t. It wasn’t just the words—they noticed her routines, her habits, the little details she thought no one else ever saw.

 

Neha’s curiosity grew, and so did her obsession with finding out who was behind the postcards. She studied the postmarks, the handwriting, even asked the café barista if anyone had been asking about her. But no one seemed to know anything.

 

Her mind wandered to those closest to her:

•Could it be her colleague, Aditya? He was always kind, always attentive, but their conversations never strayed beyond work.

•Perhaps it was her childhood friend, Ananya, who often encouraged her to put herself out there. But the messages felt… different. Personal. Romantic.

 

One Friday evening, Neha decided to confront Aditya. They were working late at the office, the hum of computers and the occasional rustle of papers filling the air.

 

“Aditya,” she began hesitantly, “can I ask you something?”

 

He looked up from his screen, his sharp features softening as he met her gaze. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

 

“These postcards I’ve been receiving… do you know anything about them?”

 

Aditya’s expression didn’t give anything away. He leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowing slightly. “Postcards? No, what kind of postcards?”

 

Neha studied his face, trying to read the truth. But his confusion seemed genuine, and she felt a pang of disappointment she didn’t fully understand.

 

As the weeks passed, the mystery deepened, but so did Neha’s connection with the postcards. They became a source of comfort, a reminder that someone out there saw her, admired her. Slowly, she started noticing Aditya in a new light. He was thoughtful, always remembering the little things about her—how she took her coffee, the way she liked to keep her books perfectly aligned.

 

Then, one day, a postcard arrived with a message unlike the others:

 

“Meet me where the sunflowers bloom, where dreams once took root but never faded.”

 

Neha’s breath caught in her throat. She knew exactly where it meant.

 

The sunflower field on the outskirts of the city was a place she hadn’t visited in years. It was where she used to go to paint when she was younger, where she once confessed her dream of becoming an artist to a boy who had laughed and told her she could do anything.

 

The memory of that boy—Aditya—rushed back to her. Could it be?

 

On a crisp Sunday morning, Neha stood at the edge of the sunflower field, her heart pounding. Among the sea of golden blooms, a figure waited, his back turned to her.

 

“Aditya?” she called out softly.

 

He turned, his smile warm and nervous. In his hand was a final postcard, this one blank on the front.

 

“I didn’t know how else to say it,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with vulnerability. “You’ve always seen the world in a way that inspires me. I’ve been in love with you for years, Neha. I just didn’t know how to tell you without scaring you away.”

 

Neha’s heart swelled, the pieces falling into place. She took the postcard from his hand and smiled.

 

“I think you found the perfect way to tell me,” she whispered.

 

As the sunflowers swayed around them, Neha felt her predictable, simple life bloom into something far more beautiful than she had ever imagined.