सबसे सुंदर रिश्तें

रिश्ते किताबों की तरह नहीं होते जिन्हें एक बार पढ़ लिया और बंद कर दिया। रिश्ते तो रोज़ पढ़े जाते हैं — हर भाव, हर खामोशी, हर नज़र और हर थकावट में। और जो रिश्ते वक़्त की कसौटी पर खरे उतरते हैं, वो कभी बड़ी बातों पर नहीं टिकते… वो तो छोटी-छोटी चीज़ों में पलते हैं — एक-दूसरे के लिए रखा गया पानी का गिलास, बिना कहे समझ लेना कि आज बात नहीं करनी है, सिर्फ़ बैठकर साथ चाय पीना और चुप रहना।

पर इन रिश्तों की नींव जिन दो स्तंभों पर टिकी होती है, वो हैं सहनशीलता और सेवा।

सहनशीलता — जो अक्सर हमें कमजोर समझ ली जाती है, असल में किसी रिश्ते की सबसे मजबूत डोर होती है। जब आप किसी की कमज़ोरी को देखकर भागते नहीं, बल्कि उसे और कसकर थाम लेते हैं, वही सहनशीलता है। जब आप जानते हैं कि सामने वाला सही नहीं है, फिर भी उसे उस वक़्त सहारा दे देते हैं, क्योंकि आप उस इंसान को हारते हुए नहीं देख सकते — वही सच्चा प्रेम है।

रिश्तों में कई बार ऐसा समय आता है जब शब्द बेअसर हो जाते हैं। एक-दूसरे की थकान, चिड़चिड़ापन, और मन की उलझनों को न तो समझाना आसान होता है और न ही बयान करना। ऐसे वक़्त में सहनशीलता ही होती है जो उस खामोशी को भी सुन लेती है। ये वो प्रेम है जो लड़ाई के बाद भी रसोई में उसका पसंदीदा खाना रख देता है, जो कहता नहीं, पर हर बार इंतज़ार करता है कि वह ठीक होकर लौटे।

और फिर है सेवा — जो शायद इस भागदौड़ भरी दुनिया में सबसे कम समझी जाने वाली भाषा है। सेवा का मतलब सिर्फ़ किसी की मदद करना नहीं होता — सेवा का मतलब है, प्रेमपूर्वक किसी की ज़िम्मेदारी को महसूस करना। अपने स्वार्थों से ऊपर उठकर किसी के लिए जीना, बिना किसी गिनती के। जब आप उसके लिए वो करते हैं जो वो खुद भी अपने लिए नहीं कर पा रहा, जब आप उसकी उलझनों को बिना बताए सुलझा देते हैं — वो सेवा है।

सेवा प्रेम की वो चुप पराकाष्ठा है, जो कहती नहीं कि "मैं हूँ", लेकिन हर वक़्त दिखती है। वो रोज़ सुबह ऑफिस जाते वक़्त उसके टिफिन में रखा हुआ छोटा सा 'Have a good day' का नोट है। वो है — जब आप खुद थके हों, पर उसके दर्द को पहले राहत दो। ये सेवा कोई अहसान नहीं — ये वो प्रेम है जिसमें “तुम” का सुख, “मैं” की थकान से ऊपर होता है।

सच्चे रिश्ते कभी बराबरी नहीं माँगते। वहाँ कोई मोल-भाव नहीं होता। वहाँ कोई हिसाब नहीं होता कि "मैंने इतना किया, तुमने क्या किया।" क्योंकि वहाँ प्रेम, व्यापार नहीं — एक यात्रा होती है, जो हम साथ तय करते हैं। एक ऐसा सफ़र जहाँ हम एक-दूसरे की कमज़ोरियों को ढाँकते हैं, अच्छाइयों को थामते हैं, और जब कभी कोई बिखरने लगे — तो खुद को थोड़ा और जोड़ते हैं ताकि वो सहेजा जा सके।

ऐसे रिश्तों में शब्द गौण हो जाते हैं और भावनाएँ बोलने लगती हैं। वहाँ "मैं सही हूँ, तुम गलत" नहीं होता — वहाँ सिर्फ़ ये होता है कि "तुम मेरे हो, चाहे जैसे भी हो।" और शायद इसी वजह से ये रिश्ते वक़्त के साथ पुराने नहीं होते — वो उम्र की रेखाओं में और भी गहराते जाते हैं।

क्योंकि अंत में, प्रेम ना तो शोर करता है, ना ही मंच माँगता है।

प्रेम तो वहाँ होता है — जहाँ आप थके हुए लौटें और कोई चुपचाप आपके सिर पर हाथ फेर दे।

जहाँ गलती होने पर डाँट नहीं, बल्कि आँखों में नमी मिले।

जहाँ आपकी खामोशियाँ किसी को परेशान कर दें, सिर्फ़ इसलिए कि वो आपकी खुशी को जीता है।

ऐसे रिश्तों को ना परिभाषा चाहिए, ना कोई प्रमाण।

उन्हें सिर्फ़ दो चीज़ें चाहिए — सहनशीलता का धैर्य और सेवा की निःशब्द भावना।

बाकी सब तो प्रेम खुद सिखा देता है…

Real Love : The Kind That Stays When The Sparks Fade.

 Sometimes, if we’re honest with ourselves, we realize that what we’re truly in love with is not always the person — it’s the feeling. The magic. The dream. The way our heart flutters when they text, the way our loneliness temporarily disappears in their presence, the way we imagine they’ll complete the empty corners of our lives. We fall in love with the idea of being in love — with being chosen, understood, seen. And in that rush of emotion, we begin to project — building castles from conversations, weaving futures from glances, shaping someone into the perfect character for a story we’ve already written in our minds.

But people are not stories. They are not characters created for our comfort. They are complex, ever-changing, deeply human — full of contradictions, insecurities, wounds we don’t understand. And so, when the illusion wears thin — when the fairytale falters and the reality of who they are begins to emerge — we sometimes feel disillusioned, even disappointed. Not because they did something wrong, but because they stopped matching the version we created of them. And that’s when we realize: maybe it wasn’t them we were in love with. Maybe it was the feeling. Maybe it was the love itself.

Real love — the kind that stays when the sparks fade — is less about being intoxicated and more about choosing someone again and again, even on the ordinary days. It’s seeing someone’s worst and still staying kind. It’s loving the person, not just the poetry they once made us feel. So yes, many times we love love more than the people. Because love is beautiful, flawless, limitless in our minds — but people, people require patience. They demand effort. They come with baggage. They change. And the deepest act of love is to let go of the fantasy, and choose them still — not for how they make us feel, but for who they truly are.

And He Still Choose Her

He wasn’t the kind of man who fell for a face.

Arav was the type who fell for silences — the kind people carry inside them, hidden behind practiced smiles. He observed more than he spoke, cherished things most overlooked — the way rainwater settled on windows, the way books exhaled memory when opened, the way someone paused before saying something that mattered.

And then came Meher.

She arrived into his life like a misplaced line in a poem — unfamiliar, unpredictable, unforgettable. She didn’t walk in; she collided with his world. Loud where he was quiet, restless where he was composed. But somewhere beneath her painted laughter and wine-colored lips, there was a grief — unspoken, unhealed, unclaimed.

They met by chance, or perhaps by design — fate never leaves signatures.

A coffee spilled, a shared table, a disagreement over a line in Sylvia Plath.

And then, without planning, without permission, their conversations stretched — from casual to confessional, from curiosity to comfort.

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Weeks passed. Their lives grew into each other like ivy on old walls — effortlessly, quietly.

But love, real love, doesn’t bloom only in light.

One night, with her eyes a shade darker than usual, Meher whispered a truth she'd rehearsed a hundred times but never dared to say out loud.

 “I’ve been with someone before... many times. It wasn't simple. I broke after that. I stopped believing in love, in myself.”

There was no drama in her voice, only a careful tremor, like a wound learning how to breathe in open air.

She looked at him not for forgiveness, but for the certainty of rejection.

She had seen decency disappear when her truth was spoken.

But Arav? He didn’t blink.

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t turn away.

He reached for her hand — not to hold it, but to anchor her.

“Your past isn’t a debt. It’s a journey. And I don’t need to know where you’ve been to walk with you from here.”

That night, something sacred happened. Not sex. Not romance. But acceptance — the rare kind that doesn’t try to cleanse or claim, but simply stays.

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They built a relationship not on fantasies, but on small, deliberate acts of choosing one another.

She still had nights when her demons came back.

He learned to recognize the silence in her texts.

She sometimes recoiled from intimacy.

He held space without questions.

He didn’t fall in love with a perfect woman.

He fell in love with a real one — one who had suffered, scarred, survived, and still somehow carried the warmth of a monsoon afternoon.

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Then, suddenly — she left.

No confrontation. No betrayal in the conventional sense. Just a single message:

 “Please don’t hate me. I never knew how to be loved this gently, and I’m afraid I’ll ruin it.”

And she was gone. Like the last page of a book torn out.

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Friends said he was a fool. That he was "too good," that she had "used him," that love shouldn’t be blind.

But Arav only smiled — that quiet, devastating smile of someone who loved without regret.

“You don’t regret giving someone light. Even if they run from it.”

He still kept her favorite poetry book in his shelf — untouched, but not unloved.

He never hated her. He couldn’t.

Because he had loved her with the kind of love that doesn’t keep score. That doesn’t demand to be remembered. That doesn’t die just because it wasn’t returned.

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In the quiet truth of it all..

She had given him a wound, yes — but he had given her something rarer: a love so gentle, so forgiving, so real that even her leaving couldn’t erase it.

And in that, he wasn’t the man she left behind. He was the man who loved anyway.

© Abhishek Pathak 

She Called, I Stayed.

She called me one evening—without warning, without pretext—just her breath on the line, trembling like a candle in the wind. And I answered, not with words, but with presence. Some calls you don't ignore. Some voices carry the weight of unshed tears, and hers did.

“I just needed someone to talk to,” she whispered, barely holding herself together. And so, I became her someone.

She unraveled slowly—thread by thread—telling me about him, about how he played with her hope, dangled the idea of love just close enough to keep her craving, but never real enough to hold. He never promised her a forever, only borrowed moments—convenient silences, half-hearted affection, temporary warmth.

And while she poured herself out, I listened.

Not because I was supposed to. But because I wanted to.

Because when someone’s soul is crumbling, you don’t ask questions. You don’t rush healing. You just sit with their pain and hold space for their brokenness.

I gave her my time. My stillness. My peace.

I paused my world to steady hers.

Even when my own mind was a maze of unanswered questions. Even when I had stories inside me aching to be heard—about my quiet griefs, my untold anxieties, the nights I couldn't sleep, the mornings I didn’t want to wake up. I never shared those. I made space for her storms and folded my own away like unfinished letters no one would ever read.

I sent her poetry when she felt unlovable, sent her voice notes when silence was too loud, sent her bits of light when she couldn’t find her own.

Not once did I ask her to choose me instead.

I simply chose her, every time.

Then, one day, the calls stopped.

No fights. No farewells. Just absence—quiet and cruel. Like I’d been a waiting room, and her turn for happiness had finally arrived somewhere else.

She ghosted not just my inbox, but the parts of me she once occupied with laughter and pain. And I? I didn’t beg. I didn’t text.

I just… let her go. As gently as I had held her.

Because love, to me, wasn’t about claiming or confessing. It was about showing up—when it was inconvenient, when it was one-sided, when it hurt.

I was never her lover.

Just the pause between her heartbreaks.

But I hope—truly, silently—that someday, when she scrolls through old chats or finds a forgotten photo, she remembers me. The one who never asked for anything but gave her everything he could.

And maybe, just maybe, she’ll wonder why she never asked if I was okay, too.

But by then, I’ll have grown used to being the one who listens… even when no one listens back.

Because that’s who I am.

The one who stays. Even when everyone else leaves.

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© Abhishek Pathak 

The Stranger I Knew

It was a city of echoes—old walls, older stories, and people too busy to listen. But Vihaan listened. To rustling leaves, to forgotten benches, to songs the wind carried. He was a writer, not by profession but by heart. Every evening, he wandered to the riverbank, hoping the silence would whisper him a story.

That’s when he saw her.

She sat on a moss-covered bench, sketching something in a little brown diary. Her hair was tied loose, like her thoughts, and a red thread bracelet hung from her wrist. A stranger, but familiar. The kind of familiar you don’t understand—you just feel.

He passed her without a word that day. But returned the next. And the next.

Until one day, she looked up and said, 

“You come here often, don’t you?”

“I do,” he replied. “And you?”

“Only when I’m lost,” she smiled. “But maybe I’ve been found now.”

That was the beginning.

They met every evening, sharing pieces of their past like puzzle fragments. She told him about her love for sketching people she never knew. He spoke of dreams that kept him awake more than his reality ever could. They never exchanged last names. Never asked too much. Just enough to fall—not suddenly, but like a feather drifts before it lands.

Vihaan had never believed in destiny. Until her.

Then one day, she didn’t show up.

He waited. One day. Two. A week.

Nothing.

He asked around. No one had seen a girl like her. Not the vendors. Not the tea stall man who always smiled at her. No sketches left behind. No thread bracelet. Just silence.

Months passed. He wrote about her—page after page. The stranger who painted his soul.

One day, while traveling to a nearby town for a literary event, Vihaan visited an old bookshop. The owner, an old man with trembling fingers, handed him a book from a shelf in the back.

“You might like this one,” he said. “It was written by my daughter. She passed a year ago. She used to sit by the river in your city, drawing faces and writing stories about strangers.”

Vihaan opened the book. His own name stared back at him in the first line of a story titled:

“The Boy Who Listened to the Wind.”

His heart froze.

There, on the dedication page, it read:

"To the one I met only in passing, but loved like I’d known forever."

He realized then—he had been her muse, her story. And she… she had always been more than just a stranger.

Hope

Hope is gentle, like the softest touch of the wind on your face, a whisper that dances in the corners of your heart. It is the quiet promise of a new dawn, breaking through the darkest night, casting its golden warmth on the coldest of fears. Hope is a song that hums in the silence, a lullaby sung by the universe, cradling your soul when the world feels too heavy to bear. It is the breath that fills your lungs after you've been suffocating in despair, the steady hand that pulls you from the abyss, one fragile step at a time.

But hope is also a knife—sharp, glinting with the intensity of truth, cutting through the layers of self-deceit we wrap around our hearts. It is the blade that pierces the quiet comfort of our complacency, ripping through the safety of illusions we’ve so carefully built. Hope does not allow us to hide from what we must become. It is the searing heat of realization, the sting of awakening, and the painful yet necessary wound of growth. It cuts deeply, not to hurt, but to heal, carving away the parts of us that are broken and rebuilding something more beautiful, something stronger in their place.

Hope is not soft and safe. It is a force that burns and breaks, that demands everything from us. But in that fire, we find ourselves reborn—transformed, a more vivid, more passionate version of the person we were before. Hope, in all its beauty and brutality, teaches us that to reach for the stars, we must be willing to climb the jagged rocks beneath us. It is a delicate dance of tenderness and strength, of love and loss, of light and dark. Hope is the blade that slices open your heart, and in its wake, it leaves you whole again, but in a way you never imagined.

Hope is both the softest breath and the sharpest edge, the promise of something beautiful, and the price we must pay to get there. It is the quiet strength to endure, and the fierce courage to become.

Lost Echoes of Love – Part 3: The Lives We Built, The Love We Left

Ansh had built a life far from the wreckage of his past. Journalism had become his anchor, his escape, his purpose. He chased breaking news across cities, uncovered stories buried in silence, and brought voices to pages that the world needed to hear. Yet, in the quiet moments between deadlines and interviews, in the hush of a late-night newsroom or the solitude of a hotel room in an unfamiliar city, she still lived somewhere in his thoughts.

Akshita. The woman who had once spoken about a future with him, who had dreamed out loud about a life they could have built together. The woman who had once whispered, “My father will be impressed by you,” only to disappear into the fog of her own unspoken reasons.

She had moved on, or at least, she had learned how to. A medical professional now, her world revolved around saving lives, mending broken bodies. But could she mend the broken pieces she had left behind?

Their conversations had grown sparse, but not absent. They spoke in measured tones, two people who once knew each other’s hearts now reduced to exchanging small glimpses of their present lives. She spoke of long hospital shifts, the exhaustion of caring for patients who hovered between life and death, the weight of responsibility on her shoulders. He spoke of newsroom chaos, of truth and deception, of the power and burden of words.

And yet, beneath it all, there was always something missing. Something unsaid.

The Truth That Never Came

Ansh had spent years replaying their past, searching for the moment she had decided to walk away. Was it when she asked if he would meet someone more beautiful at the academy? Was it when she hesitated before telling him he’d talk to her brother someday?

Or was it something he never saw coming at all?

And then there was the lie.

“I don’t need any man in my life besides my dad and brother.”

It had been a clean, sharp exit line. A closure neatly wrapped in detachment. He had believed it once, forced himself to accept it, but now, with time and distance, he knew better. It had never been the truth. It had been a shield, a way to push him away without revealing what truly lay beneath. But if not that, then what?

Was it fear? Was it guilt? Was it something she could never bring herself to admit?

He had once wanted to ask. He had once burned with the need to know. But now, as life had carved him into someone else, he wasn’t sure if the truth would bring peace or only reopen old wounds.

Some truths don’t heal. They just linger like ghosts.

The Life She Left, The Love He Kept

In one of their rare conversations, she had asked, “Do you still believe in love, Ansh?”

He had smiled, a hollow kind of smile, and said, “I believe in what love should be, not in what it became.”

She had gone silent then, a silence that spoke louder than any words could. She never asked him if he had moved on, never asked if he had found someone else. Maybe because she already knew the answer. Maybe because she was afraid of it.

She had let go of the past, but he had carried it with him. He wasn’t trapped in it, but he had never been able to completely set it down either. Some nights, he wondered if she ever looked back, if she ever regretted the love she left behind. Or if, to her, he was simply a phase—something temporary, something that filled the void until she found a way back to whatever it was she had been searching for.

And yet, no matter how much time passed, no matter how much life pulled them in separate directions, Ansh knew the truth.

He had never gotten closure.

And maybe, some stories were never meant to have one.

Because some love stories don’t end. They just remain… lost echoes in time.

----To Be Continued 

Part 1

Part 2

Lost Echoes of Love: The Aftermath

1. The Void She Left Behind

The hardest part wasn’t that she left. It was how she left.

Without closure. Without a fight.

Like a whisper dissolving into the wind, like a candle blown out too soon.

For days after Akshita's last call, Ansh found himself trapped in the hollow space between what was and what could have been.

She had loved him. Or so she said.

She had painted dreams with him. Spoke of a future where her father would be impressed. Asked him if he would talk to her brother.

Then, in one breath, she took it all away.

"I never stopped loving him."

Ansh lay awake at night, those words replaying in his head like a cruel melody stuck on loop.

He thought of the nights they had talked until sleep stole their voices. The way she used to laugh softly when he teased her. The way she would say "Promise me you won’t leave."

Irony had a way of cutting deep.

Because, in the end, she was the one who walked away.

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2. The Cruelty of Hope

Hope is not gentle. Hope is a knife.

Because even after she left, a small part of Ansh clung to the possibility—maybe she’d come back.

Maybe she would wake up one morning, realize what she had lost, and dial his number again.

Maybe she would say, "I was wrong."

Maybe this wasn’t the end.

And that maybe—it was the cruelest thing of all.

Because every time his phone buzzed, his heart jumped.

Every time he saw a message notification, his fingers twitched, hoping it was her.

But she never came back.

At least, not in the way he needed her to.

Instead, she lingered in the small things.

A song that once belonged to their late-night talks.

A phrase she used to say.

A fleeting thought while passing by a place they had once spoken of visiting.

She was everywhere and nowhere all at once.

And Ansh?

He was stuck in the wreckage of a love that had never been fully his.

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3. When Silence Speaks Louder Than Words

One evening, after months of silence, his phone lit up.

Her number.

He stared at the screen, time slowing to a cruel crawl.

"Can we talk?"

Two months ago, he would have dropped everything.

Two months ago, he would have been desperate to hear her voice again.

But tonight?

He hesitated.

Because he finally understood something—love should not feel like begging.

She had left him in the dark, and now she wanted to pull him back in.

Did she miss him? Did she feel guilty?

Or was he just a safety net, someone to run to when her world wasn’t enough?

After a long breath, he replied.

"What is there left to say, Akshita?"

Three dots blinked.

Then stopped.

Then started again.

"I don’t know… I just… I miss talking to you."

A bitter smile ghosted his lips.

It was always like this. She needed him, but never enough to stay.

He didn’t reply.

This time, he let the silence be his answer.

Because maybe—just maybe—this time, she would feel the weight of it.

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4. Healing Isn’t a Straight Line

It took time. More time than he liked to admit.

Moving on wasn’t just about forgetting. It was about accepting.

Accepting that sometimes, love is not enough.

That words, no matter how sweet, mean nothing without action.

That promises, if easily broken, were never promises at all.

He tried to fill the void she left.

He read books again.

He went for long walks.

He picked up the pieces of himself that he had given to her so freely.

Some days were easier than others.

And some nights, he still found himself staring at their old messages, tracing the remnants of a love that had burned bright but burned wrong.

But slowly, the ache dulled. The what-ifs faded.

And one day, when he thought of her, it didn’t hurt the way it used to.

Not because he had forgotten her. But because he had finally chosen himself.

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5. The Final Echo

Months later, another message came.

"How are you?"

Simple. Deceptively harmless.

He could have answered. He could have told her he was fine.

But he didn’t.

Because he realized—she didn’t deserve to know anymore.

She had been the chapter he re-read too many times, looking for a different ending.

But some endings don’t change.

Some love stories aren’t meant to last.

And some people?

They only come to teach you how to let go.

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6. The Goodbye That Never Happened

Akshita never said goodbye. She didn’t believe in endings, only in drifting away, in letting things dissolve into silence like mist fading in the morning sun.

But Ansh—he had spent months searching for closure in places it didn’t exist. In unread messages. In memories that clung to him like a haunting. In the spaces between what they had and what they lost.

He had imagined a hundred different ways she might return.

Maybe with an apology, voice trembling with regret.

Maybe with a confession—that she never truly let him go.

Maybe with nothing at all, just a presence, expecting him to hold open a door she once slammed shut.

But now, staring at her last message, a simple "How are you?", he felt something different.

Not anger. Not longing.

Just… nothing.

And that nothingness, that weightless absence, felt like freedom.

She had been the storm that once shook his world. But storms, no matter how fierce, always pass. And when they do, the air is clearer, the ground firmer.

So, for the first time, Ansh didn’t reply.

He didn’t wait for another message, didn’t hope for a different ending.

Instead, he placed his phone down, walked outside, and let the night sky swallow him whole.

Because the truth was simple—some goodbyes never need to be spoken. They only need to be felt.

--To Be Continued

Part 1

Part 3

Lost Echoes of Love 1

1. The First Message – A Small Beginning

It all started with a simple message.

Ansh had seen her name in the comments of a mutual friend’s post. Akshita—her words were thoughtful, laced with kindness yet carrying an air of quiet mystery. She wasn’t like the others who casually joked in the comments; there was a depth in her replies that made him pause.

On a whim, he sent her a message.

"Hey, you seem interesting."

She responded, but it was polite, brief, and somewhat distant. They exchanged a few words, but the conversation never took flight. She didn’t ask him anything back, and he took it as a sign—she wasn’t interested.

So, he let it go.

Life went on. Months passed.

And then, six months later, out of nowhere, her name flashed on his screen.

"Can we talk?"

For a moment, he just stared at the message.

He hesitated. Was this a mistake? Was it meant for someone else? But something inside him stirred—a quiet curiosity, maybe even a hope.

"Of course. What’s up?"

That night, their conversation lasted for hours.

She was different this time—softer, more vulnerable. She was moving on from a relationship, or at least, trying to. He could hear it in her voice, the way she spoke of love as something distant yet lingering.

"I just feel lost, Ansh," she admitted one night. "Like… I want to move on, but a part of me is still stuck there."

He didn’t rush her. He didn’t tell her to forget her past or to love him instead. He simply listened.

And maybe that’s what drew her closer to him.

2. When She Said

Days turned into weeks, and their conversations became a habit. A necessary comfort. They shared memories, fears, and inside jokes that only they understood.

And then, one evening, out of nowhere, she said it—

"I think I love you."

Her voice was uncertain, as if she wasn’t sure if she was confessing love or just loneliness.

Ansh’s heart skipped a beat, but he held himself back.

He had seen the way she still spoke of her past, the way her voice softened when she mentioned her ex. Was she in love with him? Or just in love with the idea of love?

Instead of answering immediately, he did something else—he introduced her to his college faculty, a psychologist.

"Why would you do this for me?" she asked, surprised.

"Because I want you to heal, Akshita. I don’t want to be a replacement for someone you’re still holding on to."

She was quiet for a long time before whispering, "Thank you."

In the weeks that followed, something changed. She seemed lighter, freer. She laughed more, and this time, it felt real. She talked about the future, about them.

One night, she said something that made Ansh’s heart swell.

"Would you ever talk to my brother?"

"Of course," he said, smiling. "But why?"

"I don’t know… maybe just to see if you two get along. Not now, but someday."

Someday.

A word filled with possibilities.

And then, another question came, one that carried an edge of insecurity—

"What if, when you join the academy, you meet someone more beautiful? More lovable?"

Ansh frowned.

"Why are you asking this?"

"I don’t know… just curious."

"I’m not here because of how you look, Akshita," he said firmly. "And if I ever fall for someone else, it wouldn’t be because she’s ‘more beautiful’ than you. Love doesn’t work that way."

She didn’t reply immediately. When she finally spoke, it was just a soft, "Hmm…"

3. The Slow Disappearance

They spoke of marriage, not as a fleeting dream, but as something real.

"My father will be impressed when he meets you," she had once said, a quiet certainty in her voice.

Ansh had believed it. He had started seeing a future where she was a part of his life.

And then, she started fading.

At first, it was small—missed calls, delayed replies. He brushed it off, thinking she was just busy. But soon, the silence grew louder.

His messages went unanswered. Conversations that used to last hours were now cut short.

One day, he asked directly, "What’s wrong, Akshita? Just tell me."

She took a long time to reply.

And then, the words came—cold, detached.

"I don’t need any man in my life besides my dad and my brother."

It felt like a slap.

"What?"

"I just… don’t see the need for anyone else."

It was as if the past few months had never happened. As if their conversations, their confessions, their plans—none of it had meant anything.

Ansh stared at his phone, a lump forming in his throat. Had he just been a phase? A timepass?

He wanted to ask, to fight, to demand an explanation.

But instead, he just said, "Okay."

And he let her go.

4. Shattered Hope 

Two months passed.

And then, one evening, his phone rang.

It was her.

His fingers hovered over the screen. He should ignore it. He should move on.

But he didn’t. He answered.

"Can we talk?"

Her voice was different this time—softer, almost guilty.

"I owe you the truth."

And then she said it—

"My ex came back."

Silence.

"And you chose him?" Ansh asked.

"I… I didn’t stop him," she admitted. "I don’t know why, but I just… couldn’t."

"So all this time, I was just…?" His voice was hoarse.

"No!" she said quickly. "I did love you. I still do."

"Then why?"

She hesitated, then whispered, "I never stopped loving him."

Ansh closed his eyes.

There it was. The answer he had dreaded but already known.

He was the bridge she had used to heal. But bridges aren’t homes. They are just something you cross when you need to.

"You broke something in me, Akshita," he finally said. "Something I don’t know if I’ll ever fix."

She sobbed on the other end. "I’m sorry."

But sorry didn’t change the truth.

He hung up.

And then, for the first time in months, he deleted her number.

Not because he had stopped loving her, but because he finally accepted the truth-She hadn’t just left.

She had crushed the very hope that love could be real.

And just like that, he let go.

Not because he stopped caring, but because he finally realized—

Some love stories aren’t meant to be written in permanence.

They exist only as echoes—beautiful, fleeting, and lost to time.

.....To Be Continued 

Part 2

Part 3

A Letter.

Almost always 'someone else' comes into our lives more important than the previous ones and people drift apart. Priorities shift and slowly we resign to the ‘fact’.It always comes almost full circle from complete strangers to being ‘obsessed’ with the company to virtually strangers again. They say that the trick is to make most of the situation, cherish every moment and make it count. But that's not how our story should end. I don't want to be a chapter in your book.
                                                 I want to co author it. 15 years from now, when you‘ll stumble upon our pictures, I want your kids to know who the man in the picture is. You are my once in lifetime kind of person and I won‘t give up on you but that's a two way street. I'LL meet you halfway and I hope you‘ll be there. I want you to promise we won't get lost in transition. I want you to promise that won‘t shrink until we go out of focus. We won't be 'in it' again but I promise I'll look back on my life or write it back I'll always cherish you.
                                           It's 3 in the morning and I'm hit by an emotional deluge never experienced before. There is that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, lump in my throat welled up eyes and all I could hope is things will be the way they are. We won't resign ourselves or our ‘relation' to the new people we'll meet. I know how idiotic it is of me to write these cliché but when all the goodbyes of your life, clustered as one is about to hit you, You talk cliche.
                           

Let's put smile on that face. It's highly likely that you are almost teary by now. But that‘s the worst thing I could do to you. You know what, when I look at you, I do not see your body or the colour of your skin; I do not care about the makeup on your face, or the sheer lack of it. I do not care as to what you appear for that matter. I'm not even sure of the extent that I could go for that one smile. I do not know how you fake easily to people about little things affecting you, things bothering you. Those smiles you dutifully plaster around people. The glow which fades as soon as you leave people you love. That apparently happy world you live in. That’s not what interests me. I look for something still deeper. I look for meaning in all the meaninglessness of this world. I peep inside to get a glimpse of your life: steal a little of your smiles, tears and tensions maybe. I eavesdrop on random conversations, get into useless random conversations just to know what amazing story it is that you are unfolding. I notice the minute details of your expressions when you talk to me, I admire the depth of your eyes as I stare right through them, I respect your honesty when you slowly open up and amuse myself when you try to fake it. For when I look at you, I see a soul— pure, raw and naked. I see the story you’re writing, the battles you’re fighting, the smiles you’re smiling, the tears you’re crying and that, is what makes you so beautiful and unique. You’re a hero. You’re a masterpiece. And that's all there is. Now that I will be away here is something I always wanted to tell you. Well, surely there will be days when I'll not be around and you will need someone to vent it out, without the fear of being judged.
                                            I know how strong a girl you are but, every now and then you need someone to remind you that. I saw you being your own hero when everyone else was trying to save themselves. But, don't suffer behind that veil of standing strong everytime, because I know that you do. I know you don't easily tell people about little things bothering you, I also know that you how over think every petty issues to create problems which never existed in the first place. And that's what make you different!