After she was gone, I couldn't stay still.
Love had no home anymore. So I became its traveler. I packed lightly-just some clothes, my sketchbook, and a notebook I never used.
Not to chase her...
But to find what love meant without her.
Sylhet was where it began. The tea gardens rippled like waves of soft memories-how she used to hum beside me on rainy days.
In Jaflong, the fog wrapped around me gently, as if trying to comfort the silence she left behind.
Bandarban showed me a different kind of love. In the hills, love wasn't loud. It was in tired footsteps, shared fruit, and strangers who smiled with no reason.
I met a tribal couple who had nothing, but laughed like they had everything..
I wrote about them that nignt:
("Maybe love isn't about holding on, but about sharing warmth, even when it's cold.")
In Rajshahi, the sunsets bled like unspoken feelings. I tasted mangoes that reminded me of her smile-bright, unexpected, sweet. I thought of our last conversation... the one I wish had ended in a hug.
Barisal's rivers taught me patience. Love here was slow. It didn't demand answers. I met a child whose laughter echoed hers. And for a moment, I believed maybe love doesn't leave-it just changes shape.
In Khulna, the Sundarbans whispered. The forest was wild, honest, and dangerous-just like love. I was alone,I didn't fell lonely,
Maybe because. for the first time. I let her memory sit beside me without fear.
And then-Cox's Bazar.
The sea was endless. So was my longing. But as I stood with bare feet in the tide, I whispered,
"Thank you... for loving me once. That was enough to keep walking."
And as I walked into the dusk of my sixth journey, I wrote something in my notebook...
The roads felt longer the closer I got to peace. It wasn't the walking that exhausted me-it was the waiting. I kept hoping for a sign. Something small.
Maybe a song on the radio that reminded me of her. Or a girl with the same perfume. But nothing came. In Cox's Bazar, I stayed one extra day. I didn't know why. I just... couldn't leave.
I walked through the local market in the morning. The air was thick with heat and the scent of fried snacks.
And then I saw her. Not her-but a girl who looked like her from behind.
The same black braid. The same curve of her neck.
She was laughing.
I didn't know whether to cry or smile.
I followed from a distance. Not like a fool chasing ghosts-but like someone watching a dream slip through his fingers one last time.
She turned around, Of course, she wasn't her. But she smiled at me. A kind stranger's smile. I nodded, pretending it didn't shake me.
That night, I went to the beach alone. The stars were hidden. The sky was heavy. And so was I. I sat near an old fishing boat, where no one else could see me. And I whispered, "Why did I wait for so long?"
I didn't get an answer. But I didn't need one. I pulled out her letter-the one I'd never opened. She gave it to me the day she left, with trembling hands and teary eyes.
"Read it when you're ready," she had said.
It was wrinkled now, the edges faded, but still sealed. I held it close to my chest. And then, without opening it, I set it down on the sand and let the tide take it.
I didn't need to read it.
I already knew what she wanted to say.
She loved me.
She just couldn't stay.
Later, an old man sat next to me. He wore a lungi and a shirt with missing buttons. His beard was white.
We didn't speak for a while.
Then he said,
"Son, sometimes we lose people not because they don't love us, but because the road we're on... doesn't lead to them."
I looked at him, startled.
"Did you lose someone too?" He chuckled.
"I'm old. I've lost everything. But I'm still here. So are you. Maybe that's what matters."
He left before I could thank him. And I sat there, the sky beginning to break into dawn.
The sea was no longer frightening. It was just... quiet.
Like me.
As the sun touched the horizon again, I wrote in my notebook:
"I thought love was something I had to hold onto." "But maybe... love is something you let live." "Even if it's not with you."
That's when I knew-this journey was not about finding her.
It was about understanding the thing we shared.
The kind of love that doesn't die... Even if the people do.
I stood up, brushed the sand off my legs, and whispered one last time:
"I didn't find her. But I found love... in its truest, most painful form."
"Love"
"What love is (And Isn't)"
**"Love"-a word with countless shapes, yet none fully captured. It's the most twisted curse of all, and the most powerful weapon ever created. Love can lift you above the skies or break you until you're nothing but pieces.
To love is to find perfection not in yourself, but in someone else. Two halves, becoming whole-what a bittersweet irony. But what is the true identity of love? Is it just loving someone and expecting the same in return? No... that's not love. That's desire.
True love isn't born from wishful thinking. It doesn't fulfill our desires-it challenges them. Love must be chosen with your will, not your wants. To love someone doesn't mean you'll be loved back.
Guardians love because they fear being alone in old age. Spouses love hoping for stability. Even children, in time, learn love from needs. So where is truth in that?
Real love... is sacrifice. It's letting go. It's protection in silence. It's staying even when you're forgotten. It's arguing, crying, breaking-but never expecting anything in return.
If you die, the world will not stop. Not even the ones you loved most will learn love from needs. So where is truth in that?
Real love... is sacrifice. It's letting go. It's protection in silence. It's staying even when you're forgotten. It's arguing, crying, breaking-but never expecting anything in return.
If you die, the world will not stop. Not even the ones you loved most will pause their lives. That's the world's truth. It does not honor love-it chases fantasies dressed as love.
But true love? That is loving with no return, no recognition. It's the purest form of pain-and the most beautiful thing one can ever feel."**