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Scooty Rides and Silent Bonds

It was an ordinary day when I spoke to my old friend from 12th grade again. The conversation wasn’t long or deep, but it carried a strange warmth—like hearing an old melody you once loved. We hadn’t spoken properly since her birthday in April, and even then, it had been a quick birthday wish, maybe just a formality from my side. But something about today’s conversation stirred memories I thought I had forgotten.

I remember how, after that birthday call, I had this lingering feeling—like she was ignoring me. It wasn’t anything she said or did, but more of an invisible distance. Maybe it was just in my head. Maybe life had simply moved on for both of us, and I hadn’t caught up with the speed of it yet.

Still, talking to her again today made me realize something—I liked speaking to her. I always had. She wasn’t just a classmate or someone I spent time with during school hours. She was my friend, a part of a trio that once meant the world to me.

Back in 12th, we were three inseparable girls. Well, not entirely inseparable. One of us had strict parents; her father would come early to take her home right after school. She could rarely stay back, so the time we got with her was limited, precious even. But the other one—my scooty partner—she and I had a different kind of bond.

We would lie to our parents, telling them school would take longer than usual. There was no plan to go to any fancy restaurant, no shopping spree waiting for us. All we wanted was the open road and the feeling of wind brushing past us. We’d ride aimlessly on her scooty, just two girls chasing the invisible threads of freedom, weaving laughter through traffic, turning corners into memories.

There was something magical in those rides. We didn’t need a destination. We didn’t need words either, at times. The silence between us was never empty—it was filled with unspoken understanding. We’d laugh, we’d hum to songs, sometimes we’d just ride quietly, watching the world pass by.

There were no selfies, no reels, no stories to upload. Just stories we kept in our hearts, pages that only we could read.

I think about those days a lot now.

Time changes things. People drift apart, responsibilities pile up, new faces walk in where old ones once stood. But even now, when I see a scooty pass by with two girls giggling on the backseat, I smile. Because somewhere out there, we were those girls once—young, free, and so full of life.

And even though things aren’t the same, even though I sometimes feel like she’s slipping away from my world, I hold onto the memory of us. Of those roads we travelled. Of the wind in our hair and the laughter that needed no reason.

Today, when I spoke to her again, all of that came rushing back. Maybe she isn’t ignoring me. Maybe life has just gotten louder, and we forgot how soft our bond once was. But I still care. I still remember.

And I hope, somewhere in her heart, she remembers too.

More Than Love, A Stubborn Wish

I often wonder—can love be born from indifference? Maybe it can. After all, he never really spoke to me in a familiar, friendly way. Not once did we share a conversation that lingered, or a laugh that echoed beyond the moment. And yet, he knew. I’m sure of it. He knew that I liked him.

It wasn’t something I screamed to the world, nor was it written on my face in bold, desperate ink. But he must have sensed it in the way I glanced his way a little too often, or in the way my smile betrayed me whenever our eyes met—briefly, accidentally.

Over time, my feelings evolved, shifting like the colors of the sky at dusk. What began as a quiet admiration grew into something heavier, more stubborn. He stopped being just a person I liked. He became a determination. A wish I couldn't let go of.

It’s strange, isn’t it? To feel so deeply for someone who has never really made an effort to know you? He never ignored me outright. No cruel words, no intentional avoidance. He just always seemed... busy. Too caught up in his own world to spare a thought for mine. He never pushed me away, but he never pulled me closer either.

And still, I stayed. Waiting in the background of his life, hoping that maybe—just maybe—he would turn around and see me standing there. Hope can be a cruel thing sometimes. It clings to you like fog, clouding your reason, making you believe in impossible things.

I can’t say if he loves me. I don’t even know if he thinks of me at all. But what I do know is that this isn't love anymore. At least, not the kind people write poems about. This has become a challenge I’ve set for myself. A mountain I want to climb simply because it’s there.

He is no longer just the boy I liked. He’s the one I want to prove something to—even if I don’t know what that something is. Maybe I want to prove to myself that I’m not invisible. That I can matter to someone who never chose to care.

But I’ve also realized something else: chasing someone who keeps walking ahead without ever turning back... that’s not love. That’s self-inflicted pain. And I’m not tired, not yet. But I can feel the weight of waiting start to press down on my heart.

Maybe if, one day, he turns around—just once—I’ll be able to love him truly. Freely. Without fear or pride. But until that day, I can’t keep running after a dream that doesn’t pause for breath. I can't let him be the center of a story that he doesn’t even know he's a part of.

Because love should never be a chase. It should be a meeting. A place where two hearts choose to rest, not one dragging the other behind. And while he may have become my obsession, my stubborn desire—I know now that I deserve more than that.

So maybe it’s time to stop. To let the silence speak, and to allow whatever’s meant for me to find me without me having to fight for it. If he was meant to love me, he would have seen me by now. And if he ever does—if our paths ever cross again in a way that feels like destiny rather than desperation—maybe then I’ll let myself love him again.

But for now, I’ll let go. Not because I’m giving up, but because I’m growing up.

A Little Chaos, A Lot of Love

Today was one of those strange days—where there’s so much happening, yet everything feels oddly still inside. I had a lot to say, a lot to write. I could have written about where I went, what I saw, or even what I wore. But my mind kept circling back to one moment—one that was so simple, yet it made my whole day feel full.

It started with a confession. I told my mother that I’ve been writing a novel. Her eyes lit up with surprise and joy. She looked at me, truly looked, as if seeing a side of me for the first time. “Achha?” she said with genuine interest. I nodded, a little nervous but excited. Then I added, “Aur maine aapke baare mein bhi likha hai.” Her reaction was priceless. She laughed softly, the kind of laugh that comes from being deeply touched. “Tumhe itni achi English aati hai?” she asked, amazed. That moment felt so warm—like sunshine on a winter morning. My mother, always composed, always mature, looked at me with so much love, it softened something inside me. She’s usually the strong one, the serious one. But today, she was just… cute. Really, really cute.

The house was full today. My uncle’s son and daughter came over. The boy is a little stubborn, but the girl seems sweet. My uncle is getting our house painted, so there’s a bit of chaos in every room—plastic sheets, buckets of color, the smell of turpentine and dust. Still, there’s a sort of liveliness in the air.

Papa wasn’t home; he had taken my younger brother out of station to see a doctor—our mamu, who’s a surgeon. It was strange not having him around. The house felt different without his calm presence. But I knew he’d be back soon.

And me? I don’t do much these days. There’s a lot of confusion in my head about the future. I don’t know what I want to be, what I want to do. I just… exist. But what’s strange is that my mother doesn’t scold me. Not once. Even when I sit idle, lost in thought, she simply lets me be. She knows I’ve been struggling for some time—going through personal issues I can’t always name. Maybe that’s why she’s changed. She doesn’t want to add to my pain. She wants to be my peace.

She treats me like I’m her little girl again. Not in a childish way, but in a protective, nurturing way. She speaks gently, smiles often, and checks on me without making it obvious. She wants me to be happy. That’s all she asks for.

It’s beautiful, really. In a world that keeps demanding more, she asks for less. Just my happiness. Just my smile.

I know things are messy—inside the house and inside my head. But today, for a moment, everything felt okay. Because someone saw me, someone loved me, and someone believed in me.

And maybe that’s where stories begin—not in grand adventures or perfect endings, but in the quiet love of a mother, the chaos of family, and the courage to write even when you're unsure.

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