It started with a text, then another, and soon the days felt incomplete without her name lighting up his screen. The more they talked, the more he found himself slipping, willingly, into her world.
He began writing again—something he thought he had left behind after the scars of the past. The words came naturally now, shaped by her smile, her voice, her eyes that still haunted him from that first meeting.
One evening, he sent her this:
Him:
"Teri aankhon mein jo roshni hai,
Woh chand se bhi adhik noor hai.
Jab tak unhein dekhta hoon,
Lagta hai jaise duniya zaroor hai."
(The light in your eyes outshines even the moon;
As long as I look into them, the world feels certain, real.)
For a moment he regretted pressing send, afraid she might find it too much. But her reply made his chest ache with warmth.
Her: "Wow… you write this? About me? 😳"
Him: "About the girl who made me write again."
Her: "That's… beautiful. Honestly, no one ever wrote for me before."
Him: "Then maybe you deserved to hear it first from me."
She sent no reply for a while, but when it came, it was a simple heart emoji. Yet for him, it was enough—it meant she hadn't pushed him away.
Their chats became calls. First short, then longer, until midnight bled into morning.
Her (on call, softly laughing): "You talk so much when it's about random things… but when I ask about you, suddenly you go silent."
Him (grinning, lying on his bed in the dark): "Maybe I'm afraid you'll get bored."
Her: "I don't get bored. Not with you. You make even boring things sound… I don't know, different."
Him: "Then let me bore you for a lifetime."
Her (laughing, flustered): "You're impossible."
They spoke of everything—dreams, fears, childhood mischiefs, and the quiet loneliness of hostel nights. Somewhere between jokes and silences, he found himself falling harder than he intended.
And then came the night he could no longer hold it in.
The campus was bathed in twilight, the lake reflecting the last embers of sun. He had asked her to meet, under the pretense of "just a walk." She came, in her simple white kurti, the same one that had first made him pause all those months ago.
They walked quietly, the sound of their footsteps mingling with the rustle of leaves. His heart pounded louder with each step. Finally, by the lakeside, he stopped.
"Can I tell you something?" he asked, voice low.
She tilted her head, curious. "What is it?"
He swallowed, every word trembling before it left him. "I don't know when it happened. Maybe the first day I saw you. Maybe after the late-night talks. But… I've fallen for you. I don't just like talking to you—I need it. I need you."
Her eyes widened, caught between surprise and silence. The world seemed to hold its breath.
He continued, his voice almost breaking. "I don't want to keep this inside anymore. I love you. I really do. And I had to tell you… even if you don't feel the same."
For a long moment, she said nothing. The lake rippled quietly, the wind tugged at her dupatta. He searched her face for an answer, for hope, for anything.
Finally, she whispered, almost too softly: "I don't know what to say…"
And in that hesitation, he felt both the weight of his confession and the ache of the silence that followed.