“what remains”

she left in the morning.

no bags.
just silence.
and a look like she’d already been gone for months.

the door didn’t slam.
it clicked.
soft.
final.

he didn’t follow.
didn’t call.
just sat on the floor where her scent still lived in the fabric of everything.

the fridge hummed.
the world spun.
and he —
he didn’t move.

he spoke to no one.
not even himself.
his voice belonged to the past now.

the bed grew cold on both sides.
the plants died.
even the clock on the wall gave up and stopped ticking.

he read her old texts like scripture.
rewrote them in his head with better endings.
begged the air for do-overs it would never give.

outside, life mocked him —
lovers laughing in line for coffee,
people kissing at red lights,
hands held like promises that don’t break.

his skin felt like it didn’t fit.
his breath felt borrowed.
his heart kept beating, stupid thing,
as if she might come back.

one night,
he lit a cigarette just to feel the burn.
watched the smoke crawl up to the ceiling and vanish —
like everything else.

he sat by the window,
opened it,
and waited for the wind to carry him somewhere softer.

but nothing came.

just stars —
distant,
uncaring,
and too far gone to make a wish on.

he stayed like that.
not alive.
not dead.
just...
left behind.

The Last Tuesday With Varsha

Some memories don’t fade—they just wait. Wait for the quiet of night, for the silence between breaths, for the 2 a.m. stillness when the world is asleep and the heart begins to whisper.

Last night, I found myself in that moment. Out of nowhere, a thought rose like mist from a forgotten morning:
How is Varsha doing now?

We were classmates from Class 1 to Class 8. Eight years of shared benches, sharpened pencils, and dreams too innocent to name. She was my first crush. The first person I ever looked at and thought, I hope she’s always happy—even if it’s never because of me.

We were both toppers—quiet, driven, living in the margins of textbooks and between the lines of poetry neither of us ever dared to read aloud. She was the kind of girl who made even silence feel like a language worth learning.

During class tests, we’d steal glances and whisper questions—just one word, maybe two. But somehow, that was always the best part of the day. That soft, secret connection. A thread no one else could see, but one we always held onto.

I don’t know when admiration became affection. It happened slowly—like the monsoon creeping into a summer afternoon. No lightning, no drama. Just rain falling on a heart already drenched.

But I never told her.

Maybe I was afraid. Maybe I believed that some emotions are too sacred to speak.

Then came that day. The Tuesday that still sits heavy in my chest.

It was the last day of our 8th grade. My last exam. My last day at school. I had to change schools after that—life, as it does, had chosen a different route for me.

All morning, I told myself:
Ashok, today you have to tell her. Today you don’t walk away with silence again.

I remember standing outside the exam hall, my heart louder than the school bell. The sky was bright, but my chest felt heavy. And there she was—Varsha—standing beneath the old gulmohar tree, the one that had seen us grow year by year.

She looked nervous. Her fingers played with the ends of her braid. She stepped closer and said,
“Ashok... I like you.”

Those four words. So simple. So pure.

And yet, they shattered me.

Because instead of happiness, I felt an ache. An ache so deep I didn’t know where to place it.

I was leaving.

There would be no more shared tests, no more whispered glances, no more walking side by side down the dusty school paths. Her confession came at the very end—like a beautiful song that starts playing just as the movie ends.

We didn’t cry. We didn’t hug. We just stood there—two kids on the edge of something too big to understand.

I smiled. She smiled back. And then we both looked away.

And just like that, she became a memory.

Years have passed. I’ve walked through cities, met new people, loved, lost, learned. But no one ever held that same quiet space in my heart the way Varsha did.

I still remember the way her eyes lit up when she solved a tough math question.
The way she’d gently correct my spellings with a half-teasing smile.
The way she’d say “hmm” when thinking, like she was talking to herself more than to anyone else.

There was this one school trip, I remember, when it started raining and she spun once in the drizzle and said, “I wish time stopped like this forever.”

And maybe, for her, it did.

Maybe somewhere inside me, that Tuesday never ended.
Maybe we’re still standing under the gulmohar tree in some quiet corner of my heart, 13 years old forever—on the verge of love, on the edge of goodbye.

I don’t know where Varsha is now. Maybe she’s living her dream. Maybe she’s forgotten that Tuesday. Or maybe, some sleepless night, she too wonders where life took the boy who used to whisper answers during tests.

They say first love never dies.
But I think it’s more beautiful than that.

First love becomes a song that never finishes.
It plays quietly in the background of your life, even when you forget the words.

And when the world goes quiet—around 2 a.m.—you hear it again.

Just two school kids. Just a Tuesday.
Just a girl named Varsha saying, "Ashok... I like you."
And everything you never said, echoing forever in the spaces between.

Because some goodbyes are too gentle to hurt... and too deep to ever leave.

Today, I texted her.

It took everything in me to type those words.

My hands trembled, my chest was heavy,

and a part of me was screaming don’t do it.

But I did.

I just wanted to talk… even for a moment.

Even if she didn’t care anymore.

The reply came.

Less than two minutes of conversation.

She didn’t ask how I was.

She didn’t ask if I was still drowning in the same pain I never showed her.

She didn’t ask if I was still holding on.

She just said:

“I’m blocking this number too. Don’t wait.”

And that was it.

No softness. No care. No goodbye.

I stared at the screen, hoping she’d say something else.

But she didn’t.

And somehow… that silence hurt more than the words ever could.

Yeah… I cried.

Quietly. Helplessly.

Like someone who finally realized the person they love has already let go.

But yeah…

I’m still gonna wait.

Not because I believe she’ll come back —

I know she won’t.

But I want her to be the last person I ever kiss.

The last person I ever love.

Because no one else will ever feel like her.

She was home.

And now I’m just lost…

with a hear

t full of love and nowhere left to put it.

“You Left Like It Was Easy… And It Kills Me That Maybe It Was.”

You said you didn’t want to get hurt again.

And I believed you.

I remember the way your voice shook when you told me how broken he left you…

how you didn’t eat for days, how the nights felt endless,

how you’d stare at your phone just hoping he’d come back and say he never meant it.

I hated him, you know?

Not because he had you —

but because he didn’t know what the hell to do with you.

Because he treated you like you were disposable,

when to me, you were everything.

So I told myself:

"I’ll be different. I’ll show her what love looks like when it stays. When it’s soft. When it doesn’t hurt."

And I did.

God, I did.

I listened to every scar you carried.

I memorised every broken piece and held them like they were sacred.

I never asked you to be perfect.

Just to be real.

Just to let me in.

But somehow… loving you became a one-sided conversation.

I was writing poetry with my actions,

and you were too tired to even read it.

I was showing up, again and again,

and you were already halfway out the door —

leaving me with “it’s not you, it’s everything else.”

And I tried to understand.

I told myself: She’s healing. She’s scared.

So I waited.

I gave you the kind of patience I never gave myself.

I stopped asking for more.

I stopped needing anything.

I just wanted you — even if it meant less of me.

But here’s the part that keeps me up at night:

You didn’t stop loving because you were scared of pain.

You stopped because I wasn’t him.

And now you’re back with him.

The same person who left you in pieces.

And I’m here, still carrying the weight of the love you said you couldn’t give.

How did you go back to someone who made you question your worth…

when I was the one who reminded you every day just how much you deserved?

Was my love too quiet?

Too safe?

Too steady?

Maybe you were never looking for peace.

Maybe you were addicted to the chaos he gave you —

even if it left you crying on the floor.

And now I’m the one crying.

Except no one’s coming back for me.

No one’s checking if I’m okay.

You left, and the world didn’t pause.

Only I did.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even say goodbye properly.

No closure. No reason. Just… gone.

Like it was easy.

And that’s what kills me the most —

that maybe, it was.

That loving me wasn’t hard… but leaving me wasn’t either.

And now I have to pretend I’m okay,

while you go back to the same arms that once destroyed you,

like I was just a pit stop on your way back to hell.

So tell me…

Was any of it real?

Or was I just the cure for your loneliness

until it became inconvenient to be loved this deeply?

"Aarav’s Eyes”

  

PART 1: “Aarav’s Eyes”

Aarav wasn’t the type to say “I love you” a hundred times a day.

He just looked at Meera like she was the only thing worth looking at in a world full of distractions. That kind of love — the quiet, stubborn kind — it sticks. He noticed the smallest things. How her voice got softer when she was talking about childhood. How she bit her lip when trying not to cry during sad movies but always failed. How she smiled like she hadn’t been broken once — even though he knew she had.

He never told her she was perfect. She wasn’t.

They argued about everything — toothpaste caps, missed calls, who said what and why. But he never walked away. Not once. Every fight ended the same way: him standing at her door in the rain, soaked, stupid, sorry — and her laughing as she opened it, like forgiveness was just part of the ritual.

He thought that’s what love was — not the absence of war, but choosing each other even after battle.

Until one day, she just didn’t.

No more late-night calls. No “good mornings.” No texts asking if he’d eaten. Nothing. Just space. Cold, unbearable space.

He asked her, quietly, "Why?"

She looked at him like he was a stranger.

“I don’t love you anymore.”

She said it like she was reading it off a script. Like the words weren’t supposed to hurt — or maybe she thought he’d survive them.

But what she didn’t know was:

He never learned how to stop loving.

PART 2: “Seen at 2:14 AM”

That night, Aarav stared at their old chats — months of “I miss you,” “Stay safe,” “Come over.”

Now all gone cold.

He sent her a message anyway. Simple. Desperate.

“Meera, just tell me what I did wrong.”

“Please.”

It said seen.

2:14 AM.

Nothing else.

He waited.

He waited like waiting could change the ending. Like maybe she was just typing… just taking her time… just finding the right words.

But no reply ever came.

The next morning, she posted a story. A cafe. A guy. Her hand in his. Laughing.

He watched it ten times.

Not because he cared about the guy —

but because he was searching for something behind her smile. A flicker of guilt. A hint of sadness. Anything.

But there was nothing.

Just peace.

The kind that doesn’t leave room for the dead weight of someone who still waits up at night.

Aarav stopped eating.

Started skipping work.

Started walking aimlessly through the city like he was searching for something he'd never find — a version of her that missed him back.

Friends told him to let go.

But how do you erase someone who’s the reason you remember how to feel?

At 3:07 AM, drunk on regret and loneliness, he wrote one last message:

“I hope you find someone who waits for your reply longer than I waited for your love.”

Then he left.

No notes.

No drama.

Just silence.

Like he never existed.

PART 3: “Unread Forever”

Two days later, Meera finally opened the message.

She stared at it like it had punched her in the stomach.

She read it again.

And again.

Until her vision blurred.

Because here’s the thing she never admitted — not to him, not even to herself:

She loved him.

Madly.

Dangerously.

But she got scared.

Scared of how much space he gave her — like he didn’t just want her, he trusted her. That kind of love feels like a mirror. And she wasn’t ready to see herself that clearly.

She thought pushing him away would give her back control.

But all it gave her was a silence she couldn’t outrun.

At his funeral, she didn’t cry at first.

Until someone handed her his phone. It was locked.

But on the screen, still visible —

was the last message.

“I hope you find someone…”

Her hands shook.

She placed the phone gently on his chest.

Then, for the first time, she let the tears fall.

Before she left, she sent one last message —

to the number that would never buzz again.

“Aarav… come back. I’m ready now.”

The phone stayed still.

No read receipt.

No “typing…”

Just her own words, hanging in limbo.

Unread.

Forever.

Because sometimes, the universe isn’t cruel in loud ways.

Sometimes, it just waits.

Until you’re finally ready to love —

and then reminds you:

You’re too late.