Hi, I’m Aakxu—a girl who writes with bruises under her words and healing stitched between each line.

I don’t know how to move on quickly.

I don’t know how to pretend something didn’t hurt just because time passed.

So I write.

To remember.

To understand.

To finally let go.

"When I Finally Let Go" is a story I wrote with trembling fingers and a heart that still aches.

It isn’t perfect—but neither was I when I lived it.

This is for anyone who ever broke silently, loved too deeply, or forgave without being asked.

📚 I write from truth, even when it hurts.

💔 I write for the ones who stayed up crying when no one noticed.

🖊 I write because sometimes, words are the only place I feel safe.

If you’re reading this… thank you for being here. I hope this story reaches a corner of your heart that you’ve been quietly protecting.

Let’s hurt a little, heal a lot—and survive together.

—

📍 From: Nepal

🌙 Genre: Emotional, raw love stories, unsent letters, healing

🕊 Currently working on: When I Finally Let Go

📬 Feel free to message me. I always listen.

I don’t know if it started as a joke, or if fate has a messed-up sense of humor.

What I do know is — I never planned on falling for anyone. Especially not like that.

It all began with Anurag — someone I had grown close to in college, someone I considered like a brother. The day he suddenly proposed to me, I was stunned. Not touched. Not flattered. Just… confused. I rejected him without hesitation. Because how do you see your brother one day and your boyfriend the next? You don’t.

Sana and I were walking that evening when his name came up. She teased me gently, “You should try being in a relationship. It’s not that dangerous. Maybe you should’ve just said yes to Anurag.”

I remember laughing it off, brushing the thought away like dust off my sleeve.

I told her flatly, “No. Anurag is a friend. Nothing more.”

She paused, smiled mischievously and said, “Then maybe you’ll try with someone else.”

And I replied — jokingly, recklessly — “Who would even want to be in a relationship with me? No one.”

I didn’t think she’d take that seriously. But Sana did.

I had no idea that later that night, she actually reached out to her cousin Kunal and started playing matchmaker behind the scenes. I wasn’t in on any of it. To me, it was just another fleeting conversation, lost and forgotten.

Turns out, one of Sana’s cousins — Kunal — had somehow been Facebook friends with me already. I barely noticed. There were whispers about him and Riya in some kind of messy situationship, so I hadn’t paid much attention to him at all.

Then one evening, a message popped up.

“Are you really looking to be in a relationship?”

I blinked. What?

I immediately messaged Sana — “Did you tell someone something?”

That’s when it all came tumbling out. She had told Kunal, and he had told Ritvik. She said she and Kunal had discussed two guys — Ritvik and Neel— but Neel was out because we were from the same caste. So apparently, they had already sent my photo to Ritvik… and he agreed to talk to me.

That’s how it began.

Kunal messaged me again and said, “Ritvik is a good guy. He’s my friend, and this would be his first relationship too. Just accept his friend request and talk.”

That night, I panicked.

This wasn’t supposed to be serious.

Not for someone like me — someone with a messy childhood, someone who grew up watching her parents’ marriage slowly fall apart like old walls in an earthquake.

I had made a silent promise to myself: Never love. Never marry. Never go near that fire.

I messaged Sana, telling her I had just been joking. But she insisted, “Just talk to him. If it doesn’t feel right, stop.”

So I took a deep breath and tried to be brave.

I accepted Ritvik’s friend request.

His first message was simple: “Hey.”

I replied, “Hey.”

We made small talk — he told me he was from Kathmandu, I told him I was from Biratnagar. We talked about relationships. He said he was looking for something real, something with a future.

I told him I was trying out this “love thing” for the first time — and if it didn’t work, I’d never try again.

That was it for the night. Just a few messages, and we said goodnight.

The next morning, I woke up to a message that left me speechless.

Ritvik had proposed to me.

Already.

I stared at my screen, half-convinced I was being pranked. Was this some weird setup from Sana and Kunal? I asked him straight up — “Is this a joke?”

He said no.

I was shaking. I messaged Sana again. She said, “Maybe give it a try. He’s a good guy, and he won’t hurt you.”

Kunal too started pressing for a quick answer — as if love was a yes-or-no question on a form.

“Just answer,” he said. “If yes, then great. If not, we move on.”

I later found out they had given Ritvik the same pressure — to propose quickly before he missed his chance.

Still, Ritvik didn’t say I love you — he said, I like you. And that made it feel… maybe not safe, but at least softer.

It was during the COVID lockdown.

I was binge-watching Korean and Chinese dramas, soaking in the romantic daydreams I never believed I’d actually taste.

Maybe that’s what tipped me over.

Maybe I just wanted to feel something different. Something beautiful, even if only for a while.

So I said yes.

And just like that, we were “in a relationship.”

A long-distance secret relationship — between a girl who never believed in love and a boy she barely knew.

But I remember thinking: This is either the beginning of something real… or the beginning of the end.

Turns out, it was both.

The first week with Ritvik felt... neutral.

Not fireworks, not fairytales — just quiet steps on unfamiliar ground.

He messaged me consistently, nothing too deep, nothing too cold. We were getting to know each other — bit by bit, word by word.

Early on, he told me that sometimes his phone would be used by his brother or uncle.

“If I don’t reply,” he said, “don’t message first.”

So I didn’t.

Not once. Not even when I wanted to.

By the start of the second week, conversations had started to slow down.

There wasn’t much to say. So we tried to make it interesting — we played Truth or Dare over chat, asked each other silly and serious questions.

Somewhere in that game, we ended up exchanging Facebook passwords.

He had mine.

I had his.

But unlike him, I never used it. I never even logged in — because I believed that trust wasn’t something you test. It’s something you offer. Freely.

Midway through that second week, everything changed.

He disappeared.

Just like that.

No messages. No calls. No updates.

I remembered what he said — not to message him first.

And I didn’t.

Even though everything in me screamed to reach out.

He’d mentioned that he was heading to his village, that he’d be busy with family stuff.

So I waited. I gave him space. I gave him silence.

I gave him the benefit of every doubt.

But one week became two.

Two became three.

By the time it reached a month, my patience had turned into panic.

I told myself he was busy. I told myself not to overthink.

But the truth was — he hadn’t messaged me once.

Not even a “Hi.”

And yet… he was posting TikToks.

Videos. Edits. Smiling.

He wasn’t missing.

He just wasn’t missing me.

Every beep on my phone made my heart jump.

Morning, afternoon, midnight — I’d check it.

Just in case.

Maybe this time, it’s him.

Maybe this time, I’ll finally matter again.

Then, after a whole month — a call from an unknown number.

It was him.

Ritvik.

His voice was calm, too calm, as if nothing had happened.

He said he couldn’t text or call because his house was full of relatives, and he was too busy.

That’s it.

No apology. No explanation that made any real sense.

I smiled on the outside. But inside… something was cracking.

Later that night, I opened his Facebook account for the first time.

I wasn’t even sure why. Maybe I wanted to feel close to him. Maybe I just needed reassurance.

What I found — was silence masked as betrayal.

He hadn’t been too busy to talk.

He had just been busy talking to other girls.

It wasn’t even that he messaged them — that’s not what hurt me.

It was that he hid them.

Archived chats. Buried conversations. Like I wouldn’t know. Like I didn’t deserve to.

That’s what broke me.

The hiding. The secrecy. The quiet, deliberate effort to pretend I didn’t need to know.

Was it jealousy? Maybe.

But more than that — it was pain.

It was betrayal without words.

It was realizing that while I waited, he wandered.

And in that moment, a new thought crept in:

Maybe I wasn’t ready for love after all.

Or maybe I just wasn’t ready for this kind of love.