Aisha had never wanted to come to the village. She was a city girl — malls, Wi-Fi, coffee shops, late-night drives. The dusty lanes and endless fields felt like another world. But on her first evening there, everything changed.
She heard music.
The sound of a guitar floated across the fields, raw and beautiful. Curious, she followed it and found him — Aarav. He sat under a banyan tree, eyes closed, fingers dancing over the strings of an old guitar.
Aisha stopped in her tracks.
"That… sounds beautiful," she said softly.
Aarav looked up, startled, then gave a small smile.
"It's nothing. Just an old song."
"No," Aisha shook her head, stepping closer. "It's more than that."
From then on, they kept meeting. By the riverbank, on rooftops, in the narrow streets that smelled of earth and smoke. Aarav would play, and Aisha would listen, sometimes humming along. They teased each other, shared stories — her tales of glowing city lights, his of nights filled with fireflies.
One evening, under the stars, Aarav strummed slowly and said,
"Life is like strings, you know. All attached together, making music. But if you put too much pressure on one, they snap. And the whole song changes."
Aisha laughed, brushing her hair from her face.
"Since when did you become a philosopher?"
Aarav smiled shyly. "Maybe since I met you."
Her cheeks warmed at his words. She didn't reply, but her silence spoke louder than anything.
Days melted into weeks. Their laughter filled the village air, their friendship blooming into something unspoken, something more. But unspoken things are the most fragile.
Her parents reminded her of her "future" — studies, career, responsibilities. Aarav's family pushed him to work, to forget about music. Slowly, meetings grew rare. Calls went unanswered. Messages faded. The strings between them stretched thin… until they broke.
—
Years later, Aisha returned — not as the carefree girl she once was, but as a married woman. Her husband, Rohan, took her to a cultural festival in the village. She walked through the crowd, distracted, until a familiar sound froze her in place.
A guitar.
Her heart raced. On stage stood Aarav. Older, sharper, but still him. His fingers moved with confidence, each note rich and alive. The crowd clapped, but his eyes searched — and found hers.
Aisha's breath caught. Aarav smiled, soft and bittersweet, before leaning toward the mic.
"This one… is for an old friend," he said.
Then he sang. The song wasn't just words. It was their story — summers by the river, whispered dreams, promises left behind. A song of memory, of love never spoken yet never lost.
Tears stung Aisha's eyes. She wanted to smile, to cry, to say something. But her husband cheered beside her, unaware, and she stood frozen, every beat of the song piercing her heart.
When the last note faded, Aarav bowed. His smile was wet with tears, but his eyes glowed with peace. He had given her their memories back in music.
And then, guitar in hand, he walked off the stage.
Aisha didn't call his name. Some strings, once broken, can't be tied again.
But as she stood in the crowd, she understood what Aarav had once tried to teach her — even broken strings make a song. And sometimes, that song stays forever.
........ End .......