She loved him for three years.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Bas chup-chaap.
She noticed small things—the way he adjusted his bag, the way he laughed with his friends, the way he never noticed her. Not even once. She existed in the same classroom, the same corridors, the same world… but to him, she was invisible.
At first, it hurt silently.
Then it started hurting loudly—inside her head.
Her friends noticed her pain before he ever did.
“Do something,” they said.
“Make him notice you.”
“Boys only look when there’s drama.”
She knew it was wrong.
But loneliness makes wrong things feel like the only option.
So she let the bullying begin.
Not because she enjoyed it—
but because she wanted him to look at her.
At least once.
She laughed loudly in class.
Passed cruel comments.
Mocked others with her friends.
Every time she crossed a limit, she looked at him.
Waiting.
Sometimes he glanced.
Only for a second.
Only with irritation.
Sometimes with fear.
And that was enough.
At least he saw her.
Then one day, she overheard his name…
and another girl’s laugh.
That girl.
The one he smiled at gently.
The one he protected.
The one he liked.
Something cracked inside her chest.
The next few days, her anger chose a target.
She bullied that girl.
Not physically—but words can bruise deeper.
She told herself, “I’m strong.”
But really, she was just broken and loud.
He saw it happen.
For the first time, he didn’t look away.
“Stop,” he said.
She didn’t.
His anger exploded.
He pushed her—hard.
Her back hit the wall.
Her head followed.
A sharp pain.
Warm blood sliding down her forehead.
Everything froze.
Students gathered.
Teachers shouted.
And the boy… he stood there, pale, shaking.
“I didn’t mean to—” his voice broke.
She slowly stood up.
Blood on her fingers.
Hair messy.
Eyes calm.
She walked toward him.
Everyone expected shouting.
Blame.
Tears.
Instead, she lifted her hand and gently held his head.
“Now you’re looking at me,” she said softly.
“Bas… itna hi chahiye tha.”
Then she turned around and walked away.
Leaving behind blood on the wall,
silence in the hallway,
and a boy who would spend the rest of his life remembering the girl he noticed too late.
The corridor was cleaned by evening.
The blood was wiped away.
Classes resumed.
Everything looked normal.
Except him.
He didn’t sleep that night.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her forehead—
the blood, the way she didn’t cry,
the way she held his head instead of pushing him away.
He had pushed people before.
Arguments. Fights. Anger.
But this was different.
She hadn’t looked scared.
She had looked… relieved.
Now you’re looking at me.
Those words stayed.
The next day, she didn’t come to class.
Neither the next.
Whispers filled the room.
“She changed school.”
“She’s in the hospital.”
“Her parents complained.”
“She deserved it.”
He flinched at the last sentence.
For the first time, he noticed her empty bench.
The silence where her voice used to be loud.
The absence he had helped create.
A week later, he saw her.
At the bus stop.
A small bandage on her head.
Uniform different.
Bag lighter.
She looked thinner.
Quieter.
Not surrounded by friends.
Not laughing loudly.
Just standing there—alone.
He walked toward her, heart racing.
“Hey…”
His voice sounded strange, like it didn’t belong to him.
She turned.
Looked at him.
And then looked away.
Not angry.
Not sad.
Just… done.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly.
“I didn’t know things were this bad. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She smiled.
A small, tired smile.
“I know,” she said.
“You only hurt people you finally notice.”
He didn’t know what to say.
She adjusted her bag strap.
“I used to think,” she continued softly,
“if someone looks at you, it means you matter.”
She paused.
“But now I know—
if you have to bleed to be seen,
it’s not love. It’s loss.”
The bus arrived.
She stepped in.
Before the door closed, she looked back—just once.
Not for him.
For herself.
And for the first time, he realized:
she didn’t need to be noticed anymore.
She had already walked away.
Years Later
Five years passed.
Life moved the way it always does—
exams, colleges, jobs, responsibilities.
Faces changed. Voices faded.
But some moments don’t age.
They wait.
He was at a café one evening, working on his laptop,
when he heard a laugh.
Not loud.
Not attention-seeking.
Calm.
He looked up.
And froze.
She was standing near the counter.
No bandage.
No uniform.
No crowd.
Just her—
hair tied loosely, eyes steady, posture relaxed.
She looked… whole.
Not trying to be seen.
And that hurt more than blood ever did.
She noticed him too.
There was a pause.
A quiet recognition.
Then she walked over.
“Hi,” she said.
Not cold.
Not warm.
Neutral.
“How are you?” he asked, standing up too fast.
“Good,” she replied.
And this time, it didn’t sound like a lie.
They sat.
Small talk filled the space—
college, work, cities.
Normal things.
He wanted to say so much.
Apologize again.
Explain.
Undo.
Finally, he whispered,
“I think about that day… a lot.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
He looked at her, confused.
She smiled gently.
“Because I thought about it too.
For a long time.”
His chest tightened.
“I was angry,” she continued,
“not at you—at myself.
For thinking my worth depended on someone else’s eyes.”
She stirred her coffee slowly.
“I had to relearn how to exist without performing pain.”
Silence.
He swallowed.
“You deserved better.”
She met his eyes—steady, unbroken.
“I got better,” she said.
“That’s enough.”
The waiter came.
The moment passed.
As she stood to leave, he asked,
“Do you ever hate me?”
She thought for a second.
Then shook her head.
“No,” she said.
“I don’t remember people who taught me my value.
I remember the lesson.”
She walked away.
This time,
he watched her go—
not because he had finally noticed her…
…but because she no longer needed to be noticed at all.
