He grabbed my hand—he was trembling. I saw it in his eyes: helplessness and powerlessness, like he was compelled by his heart, yet his mind was blaming him. I was witnessing both sides; both were helpless. His eyes were saying something, while his facial expressions told a different story. His eyes revealed the truth, while his face was bound by the logic of his mind.
And somehow, he was blaming me for his condition, as if I was the one who made him fall for me.
"I will come to you after a while," he said.
I met his gaze and replied, "Okay, sure. I'll be waiting."
That was a smooth and beautiful moment.
He came an hour after I got home. When he knocked, I already knew it was him—so I was already on my feet, ready to open the door.
He walked through the lounge and into the drawing room without even looking at me. He sat down, eyes fixed anywhere but mine.
I stood in front of him, waiting—hoping he'd look up. But I sensed something unusual in his silence, something heavy in the air between us.
So I quietly moved away and sat on the opposite sofa, facing him. Still, he avoided my gaze. The room filled with awkwardness so thick it was almost unbearable.
Not knowing what else to do, I stood up again and went to get him a glass of water. It was the only way to keep myself moving when everything inside me felt still and tense.
As I came back and offered him the water, he reached out to take the glass. In that moment, his hand brushed against mine—and two things happened at once.
First, the soft touch startled me. Instinctively, I pulled my hand back in hesitation. And as I did, one of my rings slipped off my finger and fell to the ground.
The moment froze. The sound of the ring hitting the floor echoed louder than it should've, like time itself was slowing down.
I was still in the moment, but everything was happening so fast I couldn't even process what reaction to give. My mind blanked.
The ring kept spinning on the floor, a sharp, ringing sound cutting through the silence. My eyes were fixed downward, following the ring. His eyes, on the other hand, looked upward—toward me, but not quite meeting mine.
We were both frozen in that awkward, delicate pause. Not saying a word. Not understanding what we were supposed to say. Just stuck—between a touch, a fall, and a silence too loud to ignore.
And then the ring stopped. Silence settled. I stood still, staring up at the ceiling, trying to gather myself—anything to anchor me in that moment.
He looked down at the ring lying quietly now, no longer spinning. The spell broke. Time began to move again. Slowly, he bent down, picked it up, and raised his eyes to meet mine.
I looked down too, locking eyes with him.
There was something in his gaze—something soft, broken, helpless. And somehow, that reflection etched itself deep into my memory.
He didn't say a word. Just silently lifted his hand toward me, offering the ring. Then… he gently tried to place it back on my finger.
But in that moment, a sharp jolt of realization hit me.
This wasn't how it should happen. Not like this. Not with this weight hanging in the air.
I instinctively pulled my hand back, almost as if something burned me. The ring, halfway through slipping onto my finger, slid off again—falling for the second time.
I looked at him quickly, almost anxiously. He looked stunned too, yet still didn't speak.
And all this time… not a single word passed between us.
It felt like we were having a full conversation without speaking—our minds saying everything our mouths couldn't. Our silence was louder than any scream, and heavier than any touch.
After that moment, time seemed to race ahead, blurring everything around us. For almost fifteen minutes, we didn't exchange a single word. The room was heavy with unspoken thoughts, and the silence between us grew thicker with every passing second.
Of course, I was the one who had to break it—who else would? I always do.
So I asked him, directly but gently, "What happened to you?"
He looked at me, as if searching for the right words, but what came out… it wasn't clear. His words stumbled over each other, like they didn't belong together. The sentences were broken, scattered—fragments of a mind too clouded to speak clearly.
I couldn't understand what he was trying to say. Maybe he was using the wrong words, or maybe the emotions inside him were too jumbled to form proper sentences.
So, I filled in the blanks. I made up meanings. I created explanations in my own mind—some that made sense, others that hurt.
And just like that, I convinced myself... its all my fault.
Because when someone doesn't speak clearly, you start to hear your own insecurities louder.
Everything began to fall apart from that moment. I interpreted his words the way I wanted them to be, not as they truly were. The truth is, I never really understood anything he said that day — and I don't even remember his exact words now, because only what we truly comprehend leaves a mark on our memory.
It was my own assumptions that misled me for years. I believed something existed between us that, in reality, never did. It had always been one-sided love. I just convinced myself that somehow, it had become mutual.
And the most painful part? He never corrected me. He never shattered my illusion — maybe because he saw how deeply I loved him. Maybe he pitied me. And I told him that day too… that I know it was always just me.
And in the end, he said nothing at all. And that silence is what I remember most.