It was an ordinary day.
I was scrolling, half-distracted, when a notification lit up my screen.
A status.
A simple, sharp, cruel status.
"RIP."
Beside his name.
For a moment, my mind refused to understand.
No. It couldn't be.
It had to be a mistake, a prank, some sick joke.
My fingers shook as I dialed his number, again and again.
No answer.
I texted, prayed, begged—someone reply, tell me it isn't true.
But silence swallowed me whole.
My chest tightened, my breath grew shallow.
The world blurred.
I wanted to scream but no sound left my throat.
"How could this happen?" I whispered into the empty room.
We had plans.
We had fights.
We had unfinished stories.
And now he was gone.
I pressed my phone against my heart, like it could bring him back, like his voice might suddenly spill out from the speaker.
But all I heard was the ringing in my ears.
The sound of a life cut short.
For days, food had no taste, sleep never came.
My friends tried to ease the ache, but how do you heal someone who lost a love they never even touched with their hands?
The cruelest part?
I wasn't even allowed to stand by his grave.
Yes, I was in hostel, but unlike before, I no longer had the courage to take risks. I wasn't ready to end up locked away again, punished for loving.
The rules—my parents' rules—wrapped around me like chains, tightening even in my grief.
So I mourned alone. Quietly. Silently.
Crying for a boy I never met, yet loved with everything inside me.