It was an unusually hot afternoon. The sun blazed high in the sky, casting fierce golden beams over the dusty skyline of Delhi. Inside my modest 15th-floor apartment, I lay sprawled across the bed, one arm thrown over my eyes as the ceiling fan spun lazily above. The heat pressed on my chest like a weight, and my mind floated somewhere between sleep and the dull ache of exhaustion.

I’d come home late the night before, my shift at the hospital dragging longer than expected. Being a junior resident at AIIMS was draining. Most days, it felt like the world was asking too much of me. Today was supposed to be my one moment of peace.

Then the doorbell rang.

It echoed through the apartment like a sharp slap to my senses. I groaned, letting my legs hang over the edge of the bed before standing up with heavy limbs. My bare feet padded across the cool floor tiles as I reached the door and swung it open, more annoyed than curious.

I froze.

Standing before me was a stranger. But not the kind you forget. No—this was a stranger whose laugh used to echo in my heart. A stranger whose fingers once interlaced with mine under the classroom bench. A stranger whose breath once lingered on my skin. A stranger I once called my future.

Anil.

He looked different, more mature. There was a slight stubble on his chin, and his eyes—those eyes I once memorized like verses—were tired, but still familiar. Still beautiful.

I stood there, unmoving.

“Hi... Asha,” he said, reaching out his hand, unsure of what expression he wore—nervous, hopeful, maybe both. “If you remember.”

I blinked slowly, words taking longer than usual to form in my throat. “Oh. Hi... Yeah, I have your image in my head.”

An awkward pause.

“So,” he said, “am I... welcome inside?”

I hesitated. Then, stepping back, I opened the door wider. “Yeah. Please. Come in.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click. I moved toward the kitchen, pulling out a glass and pouring water. I handed it to him without a word.

“Thanks,” he said, taking the glass with a small smile. He looked around—modest furniture, medical books stacked everywhere, a stethoscope hanging on a hook. “I heard you got a job here in Delhi. Seema told me. So I thought... it’s been years... I hope it’s okay I just came by.”

“It’s fine,” I replied, my voice soft. “Just unexpected. Yeah, I got selected for AIIMS.”

We both sat, the awkwardness heavy in the air like a storm cloud.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly.

I looked up, surprised.

“I was stupid,” he continued, his voice lower now. “Just a teenage boy who didn’t know how to deal with failure. I was so lost in my head... I ended up hurting you.”

I didn’t respond at first. Instead, my eyes drifted to my hands resting in my lap. My thoughts wandered—back to a time of simplicity. To Goa, where he laughed like a child and kissed me like I was the world. To mornings when he would pick me flowers and tuck them behind my ears. To late-night study sessions, shared pencils, and cycling to tuition together.

Then came the NEET result. My name on the list. His absence. Silence became the wall between us. I tried to reach him—letters, calls, even visits—but he shut me out completely. The last time I saw him was from behind a closed window. I had waited there for an hour, hopeful he’d open it. He never did.

The pain of that moment never truly left.

But now, as he sat before me, apologising years too late, something inside me stiffened.

“I understand,” I said, cutting him off gently. “We were young. It was a lot for both of us. But life moves on. We’ve moved on.”

His eyes dropped, and he nodded. For a moment, I thought I saw something in his expression—something like regret or pain—but I couldn’t be sure. Maybe he had someone else now. Maybe he’d come to say goodbye before leaving for good.

His phone rang. He glanced down. “Sorry, it’s my friend. He’s waiting. Our flight is at four.”

“Flight?” I asked, confused.

“Oh—yeah. I didn’t mention. I got selected for an international contract business role. We’re flying to the U.S. in a few hours.”

“Oh!” My eyebrows lifted. “Congratulations. That’s... really great.”

Memories flickered back—sitting beside him after the NEET results, holding his hand, promising, “I’ll always be your number one supporter.” Back then, we thought nothing could break us.

I stood up. “So, you came to meet me before you left?”

He stood too. “Yeah. I don’t know how the future will go, so... I thought I should see you.”

“It’s nice to meet you again. And yeah... God knows what the future holds.”

A moment passed.

“So, see you till then,” he said softly, walking toward the door.

I followed, heart thudding in my chest. I wanted to pull him back into a hug, to ask if he still loved me, but my pride held me still.

Instead, we stood there, silent, the past humming loudly between us. Finally, I gave a small wave. “Goodbye.”

He waved back. “Bye.”

He stepped into the lift. The door shut slowly, and he was gone.

I closed the door, leaned back against it, then sank to the floor, breath shaky. I stared at the ceiling. The silence echoed loudly around me.

Then, suddenly, I stood, rushed to the balcony, and looked down. I spotted a car pulling away, drifting down the street, toward the airport.

I smiled—a small, bitter thing.

If destiny allows, miles apart, we’ll meet again. But for now... maybe being strangers again is the best.

I sat down on the cold tiled floor, head resting against the couch, eyes closed. My thoughts were a mess. I hated that I still cared this much. That I wondered if he had truly moved on. That I wanted to ask if he ever loved someone else. But I didn’t ask.

Because what if the answer shattered me?

So I just let him leave. Let fate carry us both to different skies.

But deep inside, I knew: I still loved him.

I wasn’t sure if I should meet her. But my heart was beating so fast, maybe because it knew she was near. I kept telling myself I was going to make up for acting stupid and letting her go. For fucking it all up.

But as I stood there before her door, and as she opened it, my whole world started to come back. She was as beautiful as ever. Her eyes reminded me of coffee—my favorite addiction. Her hair wasn’t as long as she used to keep, and even though I’d seen her photos, seeing her in real life after so many years felt like falling into one of my old dreams of her coming back to me. She had grown up so much. She looked even more beautiful. Her lips were still that faded pink, and it looked like she’d even learned a little makeup.

Her face turned red when she saw me, so I broke the silence between us.

I cleared my throat, trying to ignore how my own hands were trembling. “Hi… Asha,” I said, forcing a small smile. My voice cracked a little, and I hated how weak it sounded. “If you remember.”

God, of course she remembered. How could I even say that? But the fear in me needed the reassurance.

She blinked at me, slow and careful, like she was making sure I wasn’t some hallucination. Then her lips parted. “Oh. Hi… Yeah, I have your image in my head.”

Her words stung more than they should have. An image. That was all I’d become—a memory. A ghost she’d locked away.

An awkward silence hung between us, so heavy I felt like it would crush me. I tried to smile again, gesturing awkwardly at the doorway. “So… am I… welcome inside?”

She hesitated. God, that pause killed me. But then she stepped back, and my heart jumped at that tiny gesture. “Yeah. Please. Come in.”

As I stepped inside, the scent of her space washed over me—something floral, something warm. It felt like home, and that terrified me. I glanced around: a simple living room, stacks of medical books, a stethoscope on a hook. She’d really made it. She’d done everything she said she would.

I heard her footsteps retreating to the kitchen. She came back with a glass of water and handed it to me without a word. Our fingers brushed. It was electric. I wanted to hold on. I wanted to pull her into me and just stay there.

“Thanks,” I managed, taking the glass before I embarrassed myself.

I looked around again, searching for anything to say, anything to stop the pounding in my chest. “I heard you got a job here in Delhi. Seema told me. So I thought… it’s been years… I hope it’s okay I just came by.”

“It’s fine,” she said, voice so soft it felt like a lullaby. “Just unexpected. Yeah, I got selected for AIIMS.”

Pride and pain twisted inside me. I was proud of her, but it reminded me how far apart we’d drifted.

We sat down, and the silence between us grew thicker. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The guilt was eating me alive. “I’m sorry,” I blurted out.

She looked up, eyes wide, and for a second I thought I saw the same old love there, flickering.

“I was stupid,” I confessed, my voice dropping. I couldn’t meet her eyes anymore. “Just a teenage boy who didn’t know how to deal with failure. I was so lost in my head… I ended up hurting you.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze slipped past me, somewhere far away. I knew she was remembering, just like me. The letters she wrote, the calls I ignored, the hours she probably spent crying because of me. Memories of Goa, the flowers I picked for her, how I used to run my fingers through her hair and whisper promises I failed to keep.

She finally looked back at me. “I understand,” she said, her voice too calm. “We were young. It was a lot for both of us. But life moves on. We’ve moved on.”

No, I wanted to scream. I hadn’t moved on. I couldn’t. After her, I never let anyone close enough to even try. The idea of someone else’s hand in mine felt foreign, like trying to breathe underwater. The thought of leaning into another person, of hearing someone else whisper my name, made my chest feel hollow, like something essential had been scooped out and never replaced. It was as if time had stopped for me the day we fell apart, and I’d been living in a paused world ever since.

I watched friends fall in love, break apart, and start over like love was a game they could keep replaying. But I couldn’t even bring myself to stand on the field. I went home to silent walls and empty chairs that echoed with memories of her laughter. Little moments ambushed me: a song that slipped through the radio at midnight, a stranger in a café who tucked her hair behind her ear the way Asha used to, the scent of rain that reminded me of the monsoon nights we spent whispering dreams.

I tried burying myself in work, stuffing every hour with tasks, trying to outrun the quiet. But the stillness always caught up — in the hush before dawn, in the seconds between heartbeats — and that’s when the truth slammed into me: I hadn’t moved on. I hadn’t even moved a single step.

No other eyes pulled me like hers did. No other voice felt like home. Every glance at someone new only made me ache for what I’d lost. Every conversation felt like trying to start a fire with wet wood. My heart stayed locked in the past, stubbornly refusing every chance to heal, every possibility to begin again.

Because for me, there was only ever her. And even when the world told me to forget, every piece of me insisted on remembering.

My phone buzzed. I looked down, thankful for a reason to hide my breaking face. “Sorry, it’s my friend. He’s waiting. Our flight’s at four.”

“Flight?” she asked, eyebrows knitting together.

“Oh—yeah. I didn’t mention. I got selected for an international contract business role. We’re flying to the U.S. in a few hours.”

“Oh!” She forced a smile. “Congratulations. That’s… really great.”

I smiled, but it felt empty. The irony of it all twisted in my chest. I’d spent years imagining us building a life together, and now here I was, running away across oceans.

I stood up, and the weight of everything pressed down on me. I looked at her, wishing she would say something. I want her to come with me, even if it sounds selfish. Or just tell me to stay. Say, ‘Don’t leave.’ I would have dropped everything if she asked. I was desperate for her to give me a reason.

But she stayed silent.

“So, I came to meet you before I left”, I said, the words tasting bitter.

“It’s nice to meet you again. And yeah… God knows what the future holds,” she said softly, her words floating between us like fragile glass.

I nodded, but inside I was crumbling. I couldn’t understand what she meant — was there hope hidden in those words? Did she still believe in us, or was it just a polite farewell? Doubt gnawed at every corner of my mind.

There was a moment — a single heartbeat suspended in eternity — when every part of me screamed to pull her into my arms, to kiss her until all the years between us melted away, to whisper come with me or tell me to stay. But fear rooted me to the floor, heavier than any chain.

“So… see you till then,” I breathed, the words cracking like brittle ice as I stepped toward the door.

She followed, her silent presence pressing against my back like a plea I couldn’t hear. At the door, we stood side by side, time stretching unbearably. I burned for her to speak, to reach for me, to shatter the distance with a single word: stay.

But she didn’t.

She lifted her hand in a small, trembling wave. “Goodbye.”

I swallowed, the word clawing its way up my throat, thick with everything I couldn’t say. “Bye.”

The lift doors slid closed, her silhouette shrinking to nothing as the world swallowed her up. My chest caved inward, a silent implosion of grief and longing. My feet stayed frozen, but every part of my soul screamed to run back, to pound on her door, to pour every hidden truth into her hands.

Ravi glanced at me, his eyes flickering with questions he never voiced, or maybe I was too far gone to even notice. The car pulled away slowly, each turn of the wheels carrying me further from her. Yet in my mind, I was still in her room — my hand clenched around her doorframe, knuckles white, refusing to let go.

Inside, a storm howled. My thoughts crashed against each other, screaming coward, coward, coward with every heartbeat. Each beat urged me to leap out, to race back, to seize the chance before it vanished forever. But her calm We’ve moved on kept tolling like a funeral bell, muffling the roar of my heart.

My chest burned — not a dull ache, but a wildfire raging through every rib, every breath an agony I couldn’t escape. I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms, as if pain could anchor me to this unbearable moment.

I stared blankly out the window, the city lights blurring into streaks of cold, distant stars. My lungs felt heavy, every inhale tearing me apart.

And I whispered to myself in the silence of my mind: You deserve it.

Because I did. I deserved every shard of this pain for letting her slip through my fingers.