Alright đź’›
Here's an original story inspired by the emotional, intimate, reflective style often seen in Shravya Bhinder's writing.
It is not claiming to be written by her, but written in that kind of voice.
Title as requested.
Something I Never Told You
I never told you how many times I almost texted you and deleted it.
I never told you how your name still feels heavy on my tongue, like a secret I'm afraid to speak out loud. I never told you that sometimes, in the middle of a perfectly normal day, I still stop—because something reminds me of you. A laugh. A song. A quiet evening sky.
I never told you… because some truths feel safer when they stay locked inside your chest.
1
The first time I met Aarav, I didn't think he would matter.
It was an ordinary afternoon, the kind that passes without leaving a mark. The café was crowded, noisy with clinking cups and half-finished conversations. I was there to escape—escape the chaos of home, the expectations, the constant reminder that I was supposed to have my life figured out by now.
I was scribbling nonsense in my notebook when he asked, "Is this seat taken?"
I looked up, irritated, ready to say yes even though it wasn't. But the words never came out.
He had kind eyes. Not dramatic or intense—just… kind. The kind you trust without knowing why.
"No," I said instead. "Go ahead."
He smiled and sat down, pulling out his laptop. For ten minutes, we existed in silence. Comfortable, strangely. Then his phone rang, and he stood up quickly.
"Sorry," he said, already halfway gone. "Nice meeting you."
Nice meeting you.
Two simple words. And yet, for reasons I didn't understand then, they stayed with me.
2
We started seeing each other after that.
Not intentionally. Not in the dramatic, fate-driven way people write about. It just… happened.
We kept meeting at the same café. Sometimes we talked. Sometimes we didn't. Sometimes we shared earphones, listening to the same song without discussing why it mattered to us.
Aarav never pushed. He never asked questions I wasn't ready to answer. He just existed—steady, calm, present.
And slowly, without realizing it, I started telling him things.
About my fear of disappointing my parents. About how I felt like I was always one step behind everyone else. About how love scared me—not because I didn't want it, but because I wanted it too much.
He listened. Always.
"You don't have to be perfect to be enough," he told me once, stirring his coffee absentmindedly.
I laughed. "That sounds like something people say when they don't really understand."
"Or," he said gently, "something people say because they do."
That was the first time I looked at him differently.
3
Falling in love isn't loud.
It's quiet. It's subtle. It's the realization that someone has slowly made space for themselves in your life without asking permission.
It's noticing that you save stories just to tell them later. That you check your phone hoping their name will appear. That your happiness starts depending on another human being—and that terrifies you.
I didn't want to fall in love with Aarav.
I wanted control. I wanted certainty. Love offered neither.
But love doesn't ask for your consent.
4
One evening, we were walking by the lake near his apartment. The sky was painted in shades of orange and purple, like it was trying too hard to impress us.
"Do you ever feel like you're holding back?" he asked suddenly.
I froze. "From what?"
"From… saying what you really feel."
I shrugged. "Sometimes."
He stopped walking and looked at me. Really looked at me.
"You don't have to be afraid with me," he said.
And that's when I realized the problem.
I wasn't afraid of him.
I was afraid of myself.
5
I wanted to tell him everything.
That I liked how he remembered small things. That I felt safe when he was around. That I was starting to imagine a future with him—and that it scared me more than anything else ever had.
But instead, I smiled and said nothing.
Because loving someone means risking heartbreak. And I had already survived too many almosts, too many goodbyes, too many promises that didn't last.
I told myself silence was safer.
I was wrong.
6
The night everything changed, it was raining.
We were sitting in his room, the lights dim, the world outside blurred by falling water. The air felt heavy, charged with words waiting to be spoken.
"I got an offer," he said quietly.
I looked up. "An offer?"
"Another city. A really good one."
My heart dropped, but I forced a smile. "That's great."
He nodded. "Yeah. It is."
There was a pause. Too long.
"Aarav?" I whispered. "What's wrong?"
He took a deep breath. "I wish you would tell me what this is."
"What do you mean?"
"Us," he said. "Whatever we are."
I opened my mouth.
And closed it again.
Because the truth was sitting right there, burning my chest, begging to be released.
But fear won.
"I don't know," I said.
And just like that, something broke.
7
He left a month later.
We said goodbye like people who pretend it doesn't hurt. Like people who don't want to admit they meant more to each other than they were brave enough to say.
No dramatic confession. No last kiss. Just a hug that lasted a second too long.
"I'll miss you," he said.
"Me too," I replied.
What I didn't say was: I love you.
8
Time passed.
Life moved on the way it always does—without waiting for your heart to catch up.
I got busy. I smiled. I laughed. I pretended.
But some nights, when the world was quiet, I thought about all the things I never told him.
That he changed me. That he mattered. That losing him hurt more than I ever admitted.
I wondered if he knew.
I wondered if he ever felt the same.
9
Years later, I ran into him again.
Same café. Different people.
He looked older. Happier. Or maybe just better at hiding things.
We talked like strangers who shared memories they weren't sure they were allowed to revisit.
Before leaving, he said, "You know… I used to think about you a lot."
"Yeah?" I asked, my heart pounding.
He smiled softly. "Yeah."
And for a moment, I considered telling him.
Everything.
But some truths belong to the past.
"I'm glad," I said instead.
10
Now, sitting alone with this notebook, I finally write the words I never said out loud.
I loved you.
I loved you quietly. Imperfectly. Fearfully.
I loved you enough to let you go, and foolishly enough to never tell you why.
Maybe some stories aren't meant to be completed.
Maybe some loves exist only to teach us what it feels like to almost be brave.
And maybe…
Something I never told you was never meant to be heard—only felt.Alright 💛 here's Part 2 of the story: Something I Never Told You
(soft, emotional, story-flow style)
Part 2: The Quiet Between Us
I watched you laugh that day—really laugh—like nothing in the world had ever hurt you. And I remember thinking how strange it was that I knew your favorite color, your coffee order, the way your voice changed when you were tired… yet there was still so much I had never said.
There were words sitting heavy in my chest.
Not angry words.
Not dramatic ones.
Just honest ones.
Every time you asked, "Are you okay?"
I smiled and said yes.
What I never told you was that sometimes I stayed awake at night replaying our conversations, wondering if you ever felt the same pause I felt—that tiny silence where something important wanted to be spoken but never was.
I never told you how your absence felt louder than any argument.
How even when you were right next to me, I missed you.
You talked about your dreams so freely, and I listened like it was enough. But inside, I was afraid—afraid that one day you'd walk straight into your future and I'd be just a memory you smiled about.
The truth is, I didn't stay quiet because I didn't care.
I stayed quiet because I cared too much.
And maybe that's the saddest part of all—
that the things we don't say often matter more than the things we do.
If you want, I can:
write Part 3 🌙
make it romantic, sad, or hopeful
simplify it for school level
or turn it into a short story / poem
Just tell me 💬✨Alright—here's Part 3 đź’
I'll write it so it flows even if someone hasn't read the earlier parts, and it still hits emotionally.
Part 3: The Quiet Truth
I never planned to tell you.
Some truths live quietly inside us, like locked rooms we pass every day but never open.
Every time you laughed, I almost said it.
Every time you asked, "Are you okay?" I nodded, because the truth felt heavier than the moment could carry.
What I never told you was this:
I was afraid of losing you more than I was afraid of losing myself.
I learned how to hide pain behind jokes, how to turn silence into strength. I became good at being "fine." Too good. And somewhere along the way, you stopped seeing the cracks—because I stopped letting them show.
There were nights I typed messages and deleted them.
Confessions written and erased.
Truths that stayed trapped between my heart and my courage.
I thought protecting you meant staying silent.
I didn't realize it was also keeping you distant.
Now, standing on the edge of honesty, I understand something I never did before:
Some things hurt more when they're left unsaid.
And maybe…
Just maybe…
It's time to open that locked room.
If you want, I can:
make Part 4 🌙
rewrite this in simpler words (for school level)
turn it romantic, sad, or hopeful
or match it exactly