SOMETHING UNFINISHED

They met in the not-so-boring English tuition, where words spoke louder than the two ever could. Arjun was an extrovert, warm and full of small gestures that showed care — the kinds that make you believe love can be simple. Maya, on the other hand, carried her heart like a fragile secret. She laughed softly but never too long, listened but rarely shared.

Her world was built on walls invisible but strong enough to keep anyone from getting too close.

At first, Arjun wasn’t drawn to her silence, mistaking it for mystery — a smile, a notice. He first tried to reach her through text, then gentle questions about her day. She responded, but only with distance disguised as calm. When he tried to hold her hand, she pretended to fix her sleeves. When he said, “I like being with you,” she smiled but changed the topic.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care. She cared too much — and that frightened her.

Maya had learned long ago that love meant loss and betrayal. So she protected herself by staying just close enough to feel something, but far enough not to get hurt. Arjun, patient as he was, began to fade under the weight of her silence. One evening, when the sky was painted with the last light of day, he whispered, “You keep running, but I’m not chasing anymore.”

She looked at him for the first time — truly looked — and wanted to speak, but the words got lost somewhere between fear and pride.

He left, and she stayed, staring at the space he once filled. She told herself it was better this way, that she didn’t need anyone. But every time she saw a message left unread, every time the sunset turned gold and quiet, she felt the ache of what could have been.

Their love story never ended — it just never began fully.

Maya grew up in a house where silence was louder than shouting. Her parents rarely fought — not because they were peaceful, but because they were strangers living under the same roof. Her father was cold, always locked in work and impatience. Her mother was distant, drowning in her own disappointments.

Love was something Maya read about in books, not something she saw at home. When she cried as a child, no one came. When she succeeded, no one noticed. So she learned early that emotions were dangerous — that the safest way to survive was to stop revealing them at all. Maya buried her feelings deep enough that no one could find them, not even herself.

When Maya and Arjun broke up, it wasn’t loud. It was quiet — the kind of ending that comes from exhaustion, not anger. For weeks, she told herself it was for the best. She told herself love shouldn’t feel like walking on glass — that peace was better than passion, and that losing him meant finding herself again.

She deleted the chats, avoided the songs that reminded her of him, and convinced her heart that healing was progress. Slowly, she started breathing easier — no more overthinking.

Then, months later, Arjun texted her. A simple: “Hey, can we be friends again?”

For a moment, her chest tightened. Old memories flooded back — his laughter, the hours of phone calls, the way he once looked at her like she was home. After much hesitation, she said yes.

They talked again — not the way they used to, but enough to make her heart ache. He told her that he missed her energy. She kept her distance, but part of her softened.

Maybe, she thought, closure could exist without pain.

Then one night, while scrolling through social media, she saw him — Arjun — and some other familiar people on a live. Curiosity made her tap in. At first, it was harmless. Until it wasn’t.

He was laughing, saying things about her and her family — things she never thought he’d have the heart to say. His friends laughed too.

Maya just sat there, the screen glowing on her face, feeling her stomach drop. She didn’t cry. She didn’t even message him. She just closed the app and whispered to herself, “That’s who you really are.”

That night, she made a promise — to never go back to people who made her question her worth.

Months passed. She healed quietly. Her world got brighter without him in it.

Months had passed since the live incident — Maya never mentioned it to anyone, not even to him. She just withdrew silently, like she always did when she was hurt. Silence was her shield.

Then, one morning, her phone buzzed. It was her birthday. And there it was — a message from Arjun:

“Happy birthday, Maya. Hope you’re doing well.”

For a second, her heart hesitated. It felt strange seeing his name again, after everything that had happened. Still, she replied politely, “Thank you.”

For a few minutes, their chat stayed surface-level — friendly, safe. But then he said something that made her chest tighten:

“Feels like we stopped talking again.”

She stared at the screen, fingers trembling a little. So many words wanted to spill out — how disappointed she was, how her trust in him had quietly died that night.

Instead, she typed: “I don’t know. Maybe I don’t talk to people who talk behind my back.”

Her thumb hovered over send.

And she did — for a few seconds. Then deleted it before he could see.

She didn’t confront him. She didn’t need to.

That night was over. For a moment, so was he.

After that day, they stopped talking again. No fights, no drama — just distance. A quiet ending, again.

And for a while, she was fine — at least she told herself that. She focused on school, friends, on rebuilding herself.

But one year later, out of nowhere, she found herself missing him. Not because she wanted him back, but because even broken relationships leave ghosts behind.

She missed the version of him that existed before the lies, before the lives, before everything fell apart.

She missed the idea of what could have been.