When I kept the call, I sat there in silence, replaying everything. What just happened?
It hadn't even been long—barely three days. Logically, it should've been easy to let go. But that single sentence he spoke had somehow planted roots inside me.
I remember every thought from that day because it shaped the decisions that led me here. Should I let it go? Should I walk away now before it's too late? Or… should I keep holding on, hoping that maybe, months later, he'd finally forget her?
And then came her.
The girl whose name would echo in my head more times than I'd ever admit—Samriddhi Sabrawal The girl he "really, really loved" and was still waiting for.
I asked my brother that evening, casually pretending it was just random curiosity.
"Is there any Samriddhi in your batch?"
"Yeah," he said, "She's in humanities. Why? You know her?"
"No, just asking… where does she live? How does she look?"
He thought for a moment, then replied,
"She looks… average. But she's nice, sweet, kind-hearted. Everyone likes her."
Those words stung.
Kind. Sweet. Nice.
I've always been the kind of girl who carried an invisible weight on her shoulders—the feeling of never being enough. Never the prettiest, never the smartest, never the one chosen first. I hated that part of me, the insecurity that curled around my ribs and whispered, See? She's better. She's someone he'd wait for.
And his words kept replaying in my head like a haunting tune:
> "I really, really love her. I'll wait for her, as long as it takes."
That night, when Shresth texted me, I tried to sound playful.
"Was she really pretty? Like a fairy?"
He didn't laugh. He didn't dodge. He answered honestly.
"Charu… it wasn't about her looks. She wasn't an angel or some dream girl. She was just an average girl. But I didn't love her face… I loved her soul. Her goodness."
I froze.
It hurt—God, it hurt—to see how deeply he felt for someone who wasn't even there anymore. But strangely, it healed a part of me too. Because maybe love wasn't about perfection.
At least he confessed it all early. Maybe it was better this way than months of confusion.
Still, some small, foolish part of me whispered—They're not together anymore. Maybe there's a chance.
But I didn't wish for it. Because the same day, when Priyanka spoke to him, he told her,
"I'm waiting for her to come back. If she does, I'll celebrate. I'll throw a party."
And Priyanka—ever the realist—just replied,
"Sure, you will."
Deep down, I knew. He wasn't looking for anyone new. He wasn't ready for another story. Their breakup wasn't because of betrayal or a fight—it was because her parents found out. A silly reason. A reason that meant there was still hope for her to come back.
So what was I supposed to be? A filler? A friend? Or someone waiting in line to get hurt?
At the very least, I thought we could stay friends. But even friendships can break you.
I told myself one thing—I could forgive many things, but not lies. I value honesty above all, even in friendship. At least he was honest at the start. At least he didn't hide her. But there would come a day when lies would start cracking the little trust we had.
Life before him was simple. I had a big friend circle. A supportive family. Parents who weren't strict. Luxury, comfort, parties, academics—I was doing well. Everything was smooth.
But after him? I didn't know what I was getting myself into.
Priyanka warned me.
"Charu, you can back off. Be his friend, but don't expect anything. He's waiting for her, and the longer you stay, the more you'll hurt yourself."
She was right. But my heart refused to listen.
Why not give it a try? Why not just see where this goes? If it doesn't work, fine. I'll forget him in a few weeks. After all, Shresth wasn't the only boy in the world. He wasn't some fictional prince. He was a real person, flawed and human.
And yes, he wasn't the kind of boy who turned heads instantly. But he had something different.
He was tall, close to 5'11, with an easy, unbothered charm. His frame wasn't perfect, but it was real—neither carved like an athlete nor frail like someone who never lived. His skin was a quiet in-between of fair and tan, kissed by sunlight just enough to hold warmth.
His eyes—black, deep, and framed by long lashes—carried a mystery they'd never explain. His hair, straight and silky, always seemed effortlessly in place. A faint beard traced his jawline, giving him a maturity beyond his age.
And the way he moved—years of sports and the thrill of driving etched into his every gesture—left a silent confidence in his wake.
He wasn't someone you noticed instantly in a crowd. But once your eyes found him… they stayed.
Talking to him made me believe he valued souls more than faces. That he cared for kindness more than beauty. And that made me fall harder.
My brain screamed, You're going to hurt yourself. Back off.
But my heart whispered, Not yet.
And then came the worst part— I wanted to see her.
Samriddhi The girl who held his heart.
So, my insecurity took over. I told my brother—the one who studied in her school—
"Find me a picture of her. Somehow. Anyway. Search and send it."
Because yes… she had deactivated Instagram.
And I just needed to know.