chapter 4

Time became a rhythm, a quiet pulse. Classes, laughter, fleeting smiles with friends, and then the walk to the cricket ground — her private ritual. She memorized him in pieces: the tilt of his head, the flicker of his eyes when he smiled, the casual confidence in his movements.

He never noticed her. Not once. And yet she carried him in her heart like a living thing, tethered to a life that existed only in stolen moments.

Her notebook was her sanctuary. Tiny, careful notes chronicled every glimpse: Saw him laugh today. It was brighter than sunlight. Around his name, she sketched roses, a secret garden of longing only she could enter.

Even the wind seemed to acknowledge her devotion, stirring the petals in the flower house garden as she recounted the day’s small joys and quiet heartaches to the old lady. She had learned the essence of love in its purest form — unclaimed, unreturned, yet fiercely alive within her.

At night, her dreams were vivid and intoxicating. She imagined stumbling into him at the library, books falling, and him kneeling to pick them up, smiling at her as if they had always known each other. In dreams, he called her by name, laughed with her, and existed in the same world she inhabited.

Morning brought reality — a stranger, a boy she could never approach. The fear of rejection gnawed at her like a quiet hunger.

“I’m scared,” she whispered one evening in the flower house, voice trembling. “What if he never even looks at me?”

The old lady took her hands in hers, soft but firm. “Sometimes, love is not about being seen. It is about what it awakens inside you, the way it changes your heart. Even silent love leaves a mark, deep and enduring.”

Ananya looked at the roses, glistening in the soft evening light, and felt the truth of those words settle gently in her soul.

Then came the day when the cricket ground was empty. At first, she thought it was the rain, the interruptions of life. But days stretched into a week, then a month. The absence became a hollow ache inside her chest.

Whispers reached her ears: he had left the city for work. The news hit her like a cold wind, leaving her breathless and stunned.

Her steps to the flower house felt heavier that day. She pressed her palms against the rose petals, inhaling their perfume deeply, and whispered, “I’ll wait.” Not for anyone to hear, not for anyone to know, but as a promise to her own heart.

The old lady watched silently, a gentle smile on her face. “Sometimes waiting is the bravest form of love,” she said softly. “Even if it is unseen, unacknowledged, and painfully lonely.”

Ananya nodded, her lips trembling, tears welling in her eyes. And yet, in that quiet garden filled with the scent of roses, she found a small, fragile comfort.

Tears rolled down Ananya’s cheeks, hot and heavy. Yet in the quiet embrace of the flower house, surrounded by roses that had witnessed decades of love, she found a fragile comfort. Her heart ached, but it was alive. And that, she realized, was enough for now.

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