A Promise.

If I promise I will never lie to you, what is the first question that you will ask?

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We were sitting on the terrace, the air cool but not cold, the sky painted in soft hues of fading sunlight. The kind of moment that feels fragile, as though even a misplaced word could break it. She looked at me, her eyes searching mine, and then she asked, "If I promise I will never lie to you, what is the first question that you will ask?"

I smiled at her—a small, thoughtful smile. It wasn’t an easy question, not because I didn’t know what to ask, but because I knew my answer would say more about me than I was ready to reveal.

I leaned back on my palms, gazing at the sky, pretending to think. But the truth was, my question had already formed, somewhere deep in my chest. It wasn’t poetic or clever. It wasn’t even fair. But it was mine.

“Would you stay?”

Her eyes flickered, and for a second, I thought I’d ruined everything. The question hung in the air between us, delicate yet heavy.

“Stay where?” she asked softly, her voice so calm it almost didn’t match the moment.

“With me,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended. “Would you stay, even when it’s hard? Even when the shine wears off, and all that’s left is the mess of real life?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she looked down, drawing circles on the concrete with her finger. The sun dipped lower, and I could feel the chill of evening creeping in. I wanted to say something to fill the silence, but I didn’t. This was hers to answer.

Finally, she looked up, her gaze steady. “That’s a dangerous question,” she said.

I nodded. “I know.”

“But it’s honest.”

We sat in silence for a while after that. Not the awkward kind, but the kind that wraps around you like a warm blanket, reassuring in its quiet. The sky shifted to twilight, and the stars started to blink into existence.

“You know,” she said suddenly, breaking the stillness, “if I could ask you a question knowing you’d never lie, it wouldn’t be something about the future. It wouldn’t even be something big.”

I turned to her, intrigued. “Then what would you ask?”

She smiled, a little mischievous, a little shy. “I’d ask what you were thinking the first time you saw me.”

I laughed, caught off guard by how simple and perfect it was. “That’s easy,” I said. “I was thinking, ‘How is it possible for someone to feel so familiar when I don’t even know her name?’”

She laughed too, a soft, melodic sound that seemed to fill the entire terrace. “See? You didn’t even need a promise for that.”

“Maybe not,” I admitted. “But I still like the idea of it—this promise to never lie. It feels like the start of something.”

“Something big?” she teased, nudging me with her shoulder.

“Maybe,” I said, nudging her back. “Or maybe just something real.”

And in that moment, with the stars overhead and her beside me, it felt like enough. More than enough.

No Efforts.

The first message was simple—just a "Hi" on Instagram. It wasn’t planned. I wasn’t even sure why I’d done it after nine years. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was just the weight of her name—the way it never left my mind, no matter how many years passed.

She replied.

Even now, I remember the rush of seeing her name pop up on my phone, the way my hands trembled just enough to make me feel foolish. Her response was casual, almost effortless, like we’d been talking all along. And somehow, that’s exactly how it felt—like no time had passed at all.

We chatted about life, the little things, and soon, conversations started filling the empty spaces of my days. She remembered school moments I thought only I had clung to. I tried to play it cool, but inside, I was this 13-year-old kid again, completely smitten with her simplicity.

She wasn’t loud or over the top; she never had been. She carried a calmness, a kind of quiet confidence that always set her apart. I remembered seeing her last during the 10th-grade exams—her pink shirt neatly ironed, her hair tied back. Two years later, I caught a brief glimpse of her during the NEET exam. It was fleeting but enough to etch itself into my memory. Now, chatting with her felt like a secret joy the universe had finally granted me.

One day, I asked her if we could meet. I didn’t phrase it like that exactly—it was more casual, like a suggestion—but in my head, it was everything. I offered to visit her in Delhi, ready to make the trip the next weekend. Her response was classic her—gentle but firm.

“No need to make so much effort. We’re friends, right? It shouldn’t feel like a task.”

I agreed. She was right. Friendship wasn’t about grand gestures. But I wasn’t sure she knew that just her replying to me, making time for me, felt bigger than any effort I could ever make.

When she told me she’d be in Mohali the next Saturday, I couldn’t believe it. She had some work—meeting a friend, catching up with her academy professors—but she said she’d have time for me too. The thought of seeing her after all these years felt surreal.

Saturday came faster than I expected. I reached the café 15 minutes early, of course. I didn’t want to risk her waiting, and honestly, I just wanted to be there, soaking in the anticipation.

I’d asked her earlier if I could bring flowers. She’d laughed, calling me “extra,” and told me no. “No efforts,” she had said. But standing there outside the café, I spotted a park nearby with white flowers scattered under a tree. A smile crept across my face. No effort, I told myself, bending down to pick one up. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to quiet the little rebellion in my heart.

She arrived just as I was pretending to work on my laptop. I didn’t notice her walk in until she was right there, standing beside me, her shadow falling across my table.

“Hi,” she said.

I looked up, and for a moment, I forgot how to respond.

She was radiant, in that effortless way she always had been. Her hair framed her face just right, and her eyes—they were big, warm, and impossible to look away from. To this day, I don’t remember what she was wearing. Not the color, not the details. Just her eyes.

I stood up, extended the flower, and grinned. “No efforts were made, I promise.”

She laughed, the kind of laugh that makes the world feel lighter.

We sat down, and just like that, the years between us dissolved. We talked about school, about mutual friends, who got married, who had kids. She asked me if I still made those terrible jokes I used to, and I teased her about the way she used to try tying a Rakhi around my wrist during class.

At one point, I realized the light from the café door behind her was making it hard to see her face. I hesitated for a second before asking, “Could you shift a little to your right?”

She tilted her head, confused but compliant.

And there it was. Her face, perfectly lit, perfectly hers.

Ab kya sukoon paun tujhe dekhne ke baad.

(What peace could I find now, after seeing you?)

I’d heard that line a hundred times before, but it had never meant anything until that moment.

An hour passed in what felt like seconds. When it was time to leave, I realized I didn’t want to. She had places to be—her professors, her friend—but I kept hoping something would happen to keep her here.

I had bought a packet of chips earlier, thinking we’d share it over coffee. We never opened it, too engrossed in talking. As we stood up, she noticed it lying on the table.

“Don’t forget this,” she said, her tone more command than suggestion.

I laughed, grabbing it, and thought, She could make me better. She’d make me want to be better.

Walking out of the café, my head was a storm of thoughts. I wanted to tell her to stay a little longer, to cancel her plans and spend more time with me.

Thodi der aur thehar ja, the song played in my head, over and over.

(Stay a little longer.)

I wanted to say, Forget the professors, the meetings. Just stay here. With me.

But I didn’t.

We parted with a smile and a wave. She left, and I stood there, clutching a packet of chips, wondering if she knew just how much that hour had meant to me.

I don’t remember her dress, but her eyes? Her eyes will stay with me forever. And as I watched her walk away, I whispered to myself,

Ruk jaaye yeh pal, bas yahin pe.

(Let this moment stop, right here.)

Slipping Lights

The sun was setting, drenching everything in a shade of orange that made it all feel suspended in time. We sat on the balcony, our mugs of tea cooling beside us, just quiet, watching the colors fade. It felt like one of those evenings where the silence is filled with more meaning than words could ever carry. I wanted to say something—to break that stillness—but there was nothing I could add to that moment. It was already complete.

I looked at her, the way her hair caught the last bits of sunlight, the faint lines of a smile on her face as she sipped her tea. I knew we didn’t need to talk; we were just there, present and together. But in my mind, thoughts kept circling, questions of when this easy happiness would end, how much longer I’d get to have her here like this, her laughter filling the gaps in my thoughts.

It’s funny, really, how we spend so much time wanting things to last forever, knowing they can’t. A part of me held onto this strange hope that maybe, somehow, we’d escape the rules, that life wouldn’t change, that our happiness would be exempt from the passing of time. But I could already feel it slipping through my fingers like sand, something I couldn't hold onto even though I wanted to.

I remember asking her once, out of nowhere, "Do you think good things always have to end?"

She looked at me, a little surprised, and just smiled softly. "Maybe they do. But that's what makes them good, doesn't it? If things lasted forever, they’d stop being special."

Her answer had made sense then, but sitting there that evening, it hurt. It was like watching a beautiful sunset, knowing that darkness was inevitable. I wanted to bottle that moment, to store it somewhere safe so I could take it out on the days when I knew I’d miss it most.

As the colors in the sky faded, I reached over, took her hand in mine, and just held it. She looked down, her fingers curling around mine, and for a moment, I felt as if maybe we could stay here forever, trapped in this fleeting second where nothing else mattered. But reality would come soon enough, and this would become just another memory, a fragment of time that I’d look back on with a painful sort of longing.

I realized then that maybe the ache I felt, knowing that this would all end, was just part of loving something so much you never wanted to lose it. It’s the bittersweet side of happiness, the knowledge that everything beautiful is also fragile. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe good times are meant to end because we’re meant to savor them, to hold them close and let them change us, even if only for a while.

As the last light faded and we sat together in the dark, I squeezed her hand a little tighter, holding onto that moment as long as I could. Because in the end, maybe that’s all we have—the moments we hold close, even as we know they’re slipping away.

Isn’t the Sunset Beautiful?

The road was quiet, just as we liked it, with a low, gentle breeze moving through the trees. We’d always met at this overlook, just out of town, away from the noise. The last time we’d been here, we’d stayed out so late we watched the sunrise from the hood of my car, our hands cold from the dawn air. But today was different. I knew it the moment she came into view, her expression calm, her steps measured, the sunset casting warm light over her face.

We leaned against the railing side by side, both of us looking out over the horizon. The sky was painted in soft shades of amber and pink, the sun just beginning to dip toward the water. She didn’t say much, just took in the view the way she always did, with a sort of reverence, her fingers brushing the cool metal of the railing. I wanted to reach over, to say something simple but real, yet I stayed quiet, waiting, listening for the space between us to open up naturally.

After a while, she looked at me, her face softened by the glow of the setting sun, and asked, “Isn’t the sunset beautiful?”

She said it with a gentleness that held an answer within it, an answer I wasn’t sure I wanted. I glanced back at her, nodding, feeling the weight of it.

“Yeah,” I said. “It really is.”

Then the air went quiet again, the kind of quiet that fills in when you’re both aware that something important is being said, even if the words aren’t spoken. I shifted, finally daring to look at her more fully, and caught the faintest smile on her face, like she was holding onto a memory she wasn’t quite ready to share.

“Why don’t you ever ask me how much I loved you?” I said, surprising myself with the question, feeling the uncertainty in it linger between us.

She tilted her head a little, her lips curving into that knowing smile of hers. “Because I found my answer in the little things you did,” she said, barely louder than a whisper. It felt final in a way that pulled something loose in my chest, and I realized how close we were to that edge we’d both been ignoring.

The sun dipped lower, slipping closer to the water, and for a moment, I wondered if this was it. If this was her way of letting go. And then, just as the silence started to grow unbearable, she spoke again, her voice low, almost to herself.

“Tum pasand aane lage ho…(I am starting to like you)” she murmured, the words soft yet pointed, like they carried more than she was willing to admit.

I turned to her, waiting for her to finish, but she kept her gaze on the horizon, her eyes catching the last of the light as it melted into the waves. And then she added, almost as if to herself, “To… isn’t the sunset beautiful?”

It hit me hard. I wanted to answer her, to say something that could hold us in that moment a little longer. But the look on her face, that quiet, lingering look, told me she already knew. She looked at me then, her eyes filled with something tender, something that carried an ache I couldn’t quite reach.

The sun slipped below the horizon, and she pulled herself from the railing, stepping back. The air felt colder suddenly, the warmth of the sun fading quickly into the night. She gave me a small, final smile, then looked down at her hands, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Please, forgive me,” she said, almost as if she were asking for something she knew I’d give her.

I nodded, a warmth spreading through me even as I felt her slipping away. I tried to say something, to give her a reason to stay, but all that came out was a quiet, simple truth.

“You’re forgotten,” I whispered, watching her turn, feeling the chill settle around me as she walked back down the road, her steps soft and certain.

As I stood there alone, the last trace of light fading into the night, I realized that maybe this was the end we’d both seen coming. And in that quiet, in the stillness of the empty road, I found myself hoping, somewhere deep down, that she’d remember me just as I’d remember her.

Graves & Beginnings Part III

Scene 1: Eliza’s Reflections at the Grave

ELIZA

How silent you lie, beneath the ground so still,

Yet once your love was fierce, a forceful will.

Henry, if only you could see it clear,

I left, not from hate, but from mounting fear.

ELIZA

I loved you, yes—but love to me was light,

A gentle, soothing, morning’s soft delight.

Yet you… you loved as if the world would end,

A tempest wild, a flame that would not bend.

---

AGNES

Eliza, tell me, was it all you could do?

Did you love him truly, and still bid adieu?

For though he’s gone, his love seems bound to stay,

Caught in your silence, though you walked away.

---

ELIZA

I did, Agnes, I loved him true and deep,

But love should be as gentle as one’s sleep.

With him, love was a storm I couldn’t bear,

A weight too heavy, a breath of scarce air.

ELIZA

When we first met, his love was like the spring,

A budding flower, a bird’s gentle wing.

But soon it grew—a forest overgrown,

Suffocating all that I had known.

---

Scene 2: Eliza’s Memories

ELIZA

He held me close, and whispered of forever,

Promised to love as no one could ever.

But in those words, a fear began to grow,

For love, I thought, should let two spirits flow.

ELIZA

I wanted freedom, space to simply be,

A love that lifted—not a cage for me.

Yet his eyes held me, bound by every vow,

A promise of love that knew no “how.”

---

AGNES

Perhaps he loved you, Eliza, far too much,

A love so fierce, none could bear its touch.

But did he know your heart needed the air?

That love could stifle what it meant to share?

---

Scene 3: Eliza’s Decision

ELIZA

It broke my heart to walk away that day,

T o leave the love that would not let me stay.

But I could see it—myself fading fast,

Drowned in a love that was too vast.

ELIZA

Henry, dear, I know you meant no harm,

Your love was sweet, your voice a soothing charm.

But I was losing myself bit by bit,

A flickering flame that couldn’t fit.

---

Scene 4: Agnes’s Reassurance and Eliza’s Final Words

AGNES

Eliza, none would fault your gentle heart,

For love sometimes demands we grow apart.

He loved you true, but so did you in turn,

Yet love should heal, not let two spirits burn.

ELIZA

Thank you, Agnes, for seeing what’s within,

For knowing love can both hurt and win.

Henry, my love, my sorrow, my friend,

I did not leave you, it was love’s end.

ELIZA

Farewell, my dear, may you rest in peace,

And find in love your long release.

For though I left, my heart was ever true,

I loved you deeply, just not as you.

---

Final Scene: Eliza’s Acceptance and Resolution

AGNES

Come now, Eliza, life awaits your heart,

Love’s end is merely a brand new start.

Though Henry’s gone, his love shall still remain

A memory, a whisper, not a chain.

ELIZA

Yes, let it be—a memory soft and kind,

A love that lives, though no longer binds.

Thank you, Henry, for all we were,

And for setting me free, without hate’s blur.

---

Summary of Part III:

Eliza reveals her side of the love story. Her feelings for Henry were true, but his intensity grew to the point where she felt trapped rather than cherished. Her choice to leave was painful but necessary for her own well-being. The audience now understands that Eliza did not leave out of cruelty but out of self-preservation. Agnes’s presence allows Eliza to vocalize these emotions, affirming that sometimes love must also be about letting go. Through this, the audience feels empathy for both Henry’s pain and Eliza’s struggle. In the end, Eliza’s farewell to Henry and her decision to move forward brings a sense of closure, revealing love’s complexity, the sorrow in its end, and the grace in its release.