Her answer that night—"I too liked you"—had lit something inside him he thought he
had lost forever. She blushed at his compliments, often teasing him, "You look
so cute when you're serious." And he, as always, returned to her eyes: "Your
eyes hold galaxies, I could drown in them." Their words became small bridges
they crossed every day, closer, warmer.
Durga Puja Holidays
The long break arrived, and both returned to
their hometowns. But distance did little to weaken their bond. If anything, the
calls and texts became their lifeline.
Him (text):
"How was your day? Did you eat properly, or skipped like always?"
Her: "(laughing emoji) Maa won't
let me skip here. Too many sweets though, I'll get fat."
Him: "Good. I'll still say
you're perfect, fat or not."
Her: "Shut up. Send me a picture, I want to see what this
'perfect' guy looks like at home."
Him:[sends selfie]
Her: "See! Cute. Just like I
said."
Him: "And you? No excuses."
Her:[sends photo in puja outfit]
Him: "Beautiful… but your eyes
still outshine everything."
Their laughter, their shy confessions, their
pictures shared across miles—they stitched together memories even in absence.
After the Holidays
When college reopened, life seemed brighter.
Rahul and Riya found him sitting under a tree, scrolling his phone, and
exchanged a mischievous glance.
Rahul grinned, waving four tickets in his
hand. "Bhai, guess what? Aquatica. Four tickets. Double date. What do you say?"
Riya chimed in, teasing, "Don't pretend you're
not happy. We all know you want this."
He tried to hide his smile, but failed. "You two are unbelievable… but fine,
let's go. Just don't expect me to scream on the rides."
Rahul clapped his back. "Deal!"
For the first time in years, the future
looked… hopeful.
The Call
For the first time in a long while, he let himself dream. The thought of
being with her, out in the world, laughing freely, made his chest warm. He
couldn't resist calling her to share the news.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. His heart drummed against his ribs. By the time
she finally picked up, he was already frowning.
"Hey… where were you?" he asked, his voice light but searching.
Her reply was fragile, trembling like a cracked note in a melody. "I—I was
in the hostel kitchen. I burned my hand a little while cooking."
His blood ran cold. "What? How bad is
it? Tell me right now!"
She tried to laugh it off. "It's nothing,
really. Just a small burn. Don't overreact."
"Overreact? Do you even hear yourself?" His
voice shook with panic. "I'm coming right now. Stay where you are."
"No!" she said quickly. "The warden will
notice. Please, don't."
"I don't care about the warden. I'm not
sitting here while you're in pain. I'll bring ointment. Wait for me."
For a moment, silence filled the line. Then, softly, she whispered, "…Okay.
But don't be obvious."
He ran. Through the busy streets, past the
stares of strangers, until he reached the medical shop. His hands shook as he
bought the ointment, his only thought being the pain she might be hiding behind
her voice.
When she finally appeared outside the hostel
gate, his chest loosened. She stood in the dim light, clutching her dupatta
around her wrist, her face pale.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asked, softer now, but still trembling.
She lowered her gaze. "Because… you always
worry too much."
Kneeling slightly, he uncapped the ointment
and gently applied it to her burn. She flinched but didn't pull away. His
fingers moved with infinite care, his heart aching at every wince.
"I'll always worry," he murmured, "because
it's you."
Her cheeks flushed. She looked away, her lips
parting as if to speak, but the words stayed trapped inside.
They lingered there, in the hush of night, speaking little but feeling
everything. Before she left, he placed a hand gently on her shoulder.
"Promise me you'll take care," he said.
She nodded once, quickly, before hurrying back
inside.
Later that evening, they met again—this time
to buy him a new pair of spectacles. The shop lights glowed warm as she
playfully picked up frame after frame, holding them against his face.
"This one," she declared, sliding a square frame onto his nose. "You look
like a professor."
He laughed. "Too serious. I don't want to
scare juniors."
She giggled, handing him another. "Try this.
Oh, wait—no, this one! You look… perfect."
Her words caught him off guard. He stared at
her, not at the mirror. "If you keep saying things like that, I'll never stop
smiling."
She ducked her head, suddenly shy, but her
lips curved into the smallest smile—the kind he wanted to remember forever.
That night, he went to bed lighter than ever, her laughter still echoing in
his chest.
But by morning, something had changed.
Her replies grew slower. Then shorter. Then
nothing. His calls went unanswered. His messages left unread. The warmth of
last night had turned to a silence colder than winter.
He stared at his phone, waiting, hoping,
breaking.
And just like that, the girl who had set his
world alight slipped into shadows.