Asha

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.

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