I don't know why I settled things with him when I didn't need to. I could have just let it go then and there, but there was this constant urge inside me to give us a chance. Even when every sign, every whisper of my gut screamed, "Charu, stop. Please don't do this. You won't get anything out of it." I was still determined.
What more hints did I need? Didn't he already make it clear he wasn't into me? Maybe not with words, but with silence. Didn't he make me feel unwanted at times? Maybe he didn't mean to, but he did.
And yet, when I looked at the whole picture, he wasn't entirely wrong. Let me explain.
He loved a girl—Samriddhi. He really did. He committed to her, made promises, tried his best to hold on. Their story didn't end because of a fight or betrayal, but because her parents caught her. It wasn't his fault, it wasn't hers. And that's something he carried quietly.
When it came to me, he tried to explain, to convince me in his own way. He couldn't say it directly, of course not—we were childhood friends. How could he just stand in front of me and admit such things? But one thing about Shresth was that he was always respectful, always straightforward when it came to me.
That fight we had—it was a reality check. Maybe a wake-up call for me to move on. And why couldn't I? Life is long, filled with so many people. I was just seventeen. He wasn't the last man on earth. Just because I liked him didn't mean no one else existed.
But here's the catch.
I never dated him. Yet he became the second person I ever liked—and the first person I ever genuinely loved.
It wasn't his looks, nor his smooth flirting—though he had plenty of that. Back then, his DMs were always full. He even casually flirted with Priyanka once; she told me herself. They were close, yes, but even they both knew it was nothing serious. Just Shresth in his "prime." But after Samriddhi, he left all that behind.
And with me? He confessed things he never had to. He told me I was the only girl he talked to after her. That even when he was busy, he still made time. That if I ever thought he didn't like talking to me, it would be a lie. He always explained his late replies—habitually, almost like it mattered to him that I didn't feel ignored.
I wasn't the kind of girl to just fall this easily. I wasn't someone who would hurt her own self-respect for someone else. I wasn't someone who gave up so much of myself without meaning. But with him, it was different. It wasn't forced. It was his aura. The way he thought, the way he carried himself.
That night, after our fight, we ended up on a call. He was too irritated to argue anymore. We drifted off to random topics instead, and eventually, things were sorted with Priyanka too. Prem was furious, but how long could he really stay angry?
Later that night, I made him promise. "Shresth, don't hide things from me anymore. Please."
He replied calmly, "There's nothing to hide now, Charu."
I sighed. "Maybe, Shresth, we just aren't meant to be. The art of loving is to let go."
And then he said something I will never forget. "No, baba. Listen. The art of loving is not letting go. It's keeping yourself motivated for your goal. I do the same. Destiny will decide. Trust me—if it's meant to be, it will be. We have a life ahead. Careers to build. Understood?"
And he was right. Completely right.
From then, we became each other's motivation. His term exams were near, and I kept reminding him to study. Balancing his business with school wasn't easy, but he still managed. He always did, though he hated accounts. Meanwhile, I was drowning in the chaos of biology, chemistry, math, and endless assignments. But I tried my best.
Whenever I lost focus, he reminded me to meditate. "Charu, sometimes things just need time. Everything will fall into place," he said.
Slowly, comfort grew between us. He knew my family stories, my silly arguments with mom and dad. I knew his. And somewhere, it became a routine. School. Coaching. Him. Always him.
Prem didn't approve. Many didn't. But I didn't care. People in my school knew about Shresth, even though he wasn't from there. My blushes gave me away too easily. And yes, I liked him. Maybe more than liked. But I wasn't sure I wanted a relationship. I just knew this bond gave me comfort, attachment, and understanding. It was like friendship—except with the silent tension of what could be, but wasn't.
I remembered how things were with Raj too, but this was different. Shresth made me feel secure, understood, less lonely. And so, even in the madness of 12th grade, I found myself craving his presence.
We met often—before or after classes, at bus stops, sometimes near his shop, sometimes on random streets. Always short moments. Always meaningful. Friends don't always take time out of their schedules like this. Friends don't double-text when you're late home. Friends don't ask, "You aren't back yet?" the way he did.
I even met his family once. A veneration was happening at their shop, and though Shresth wasn't there, I met his dad, his mom, his sister Aditi di, and Vidya. They already knew about me. And the twist? They all liked me. It was strange, but it made me smile.
And oh, his love for cars. He loved cars more than anything—maybe even people. And slowly, because of him, I began to love them too. The way he'd talk about engines, long drives, speed—it was his passion. His first love. And it made me crazy about him.
I loved the way he carried responsibility, the way he was attached to his culture, the way he balanced business and studies, the way he knew what he wanted from life.
But I hated how he skipped meals. Breakfast, lunch—sometimes both. I scolded him endlessly. It made me tense, worried he'd get weak. But he always listened, and somehow, he always made time to talk. Whether while driving, managing the shop, or after his coaching classes, he made sure to be there.
I once told him, "Your father must be proud to have a son like you." And it was true. Shresth wasn't perfect, but sometimes he really did sound like it.
I was never a call person, but he turned me into one. He couldn't always text—he was busy. I'd send bulk messages; he'd reply hours later. His replies were dry, but I knew why.
And still, the more I knew him, the more I realized—he wasn't exactly who I thought he was. There were layers. Secrets. Things yet to unfold.
And some of those things… were storms waiting to crash into my life.