Chapter 1 SOMETHING HE NEVER NAMED
“Itna humare beech mein kuch tha bhi nahi”
I read that message more than once, as if the meaning would change the second time. It didn’t. The words stayed the same, but something inside me didn’t.
Maybe for him, it was just late-night calls, exchanged numbers, and conversations that lasted longer than they should have. Maybe it was just time passing.
For me, it was never “just.”
I was still learning the difference between attention and intention when it began — on the 27th of March, in a group chat that I joined without thinking much about it. Random. Casual. Harmless.
That’s where I met him.
We moved from the group to direct messages like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then came the numbers. Then the calls. Then the comfort.
Everything felt easy — and when something feels easy, you don’t expect it to end hard.
He listened. He was kind. He made me feel chosen in small, quiet ways. When I finally told him how I felt, he didn’t reject me.
“Let’s take some time,” he said.
“It’s too early. If things go well, maybe we’ll have something special.”
That maybe sounded like hope.
So I trusted it.
I didn’t realize how much weight I had placed on a word that meant so little to him.
“Maybe” became something I carried carefully. I didn’t rush him. I didn’t demand more. I thought patience would prove that I was worth choosing.
The days turned into weeks. Our calls stretched into hours. We talked about small things and serious things, about fears and futures, about nothing and everything. Somewhere between the ordinary conversations, I fell — quietly, completely.
And then came the 13th of May.
He called me that night like he always did. His voice didn’t sound different, but something in my chest felt unsettled — like it already knew.
“Shriii, I want to tell you something… but I don’t know how to say it....”Just say it,” I whispered.
“I think… we should stop this.”
The words didn’t hit all at once. They settled slowly — like cold fog filling a room.
“I have trust issues,” he said quietly.
“My breakup only happened on the 18th of March. I thought I was ready. I’m not.”
March 18th. We met on the 27th.
The realization was simple and cruel — he wasn’t healed, and I had stepped into a space that was never fully empty.
The tears came then — ugly, hot and unstoppable.
The worst part? He stayed on the call. He comforted me. He whispered “sorry” and “don’t cry,” sounding like the boy I loved while quietly undoing us.
Then he gave me the choice.
“If you want to continue… I’ll stay.”
It sounded generous. It wasn’t.
If he stayed, it would be out of guilt. And I didn’t want to be someone’s obligation.
“I need time,” I said.
Three days later, I sent the message that ended the "us" he claimed never existed.
We should stop this. But I’m not ready to lose you completely. Let’s just stay in touch.
I thought I was being mature. I didn’t realize that keeping contact without connection is just a slower way to bleed....
A few weeks later, he got placed. His first job. His first step out of his city. I don’t know why he told me. He didn’t have to. But he texted me anyway.
“I got it.”
He sounded happy. Lighter. And the strange thing? I was happy too. Not the polite kind of happy. The real kind. The kind that makes your chest feel warm even when the person who caused your heartbreak is smiling somewhere elseHe moved to another city soon after.
We didn’t call anymore. Just short texts. Three or four minutes at most. Conversations that felt like echoes of something that used to be louder. Then, after almost a month, we had a long call again.
June was coming. His birthday month. And no matter how much he had hurt me, I couldn’t ignore one truth — for one and a half months, he had made me feel like the luckiest girl alive.
So I decided to make his birthday special.Because loving him had once made me happy. I planned a gift. Something that said, I still care, without actually saying it
He liked it. I could hear it in his voice. When my birthday came, he called at exactly 12:00 a.m. Not a minute late. For a second, I let myself believe that timing meant something. He wished me softly. Then he asked for my address. He said he wanted to send me a gift.
I refused. I told him it wasn’t necessary. The truth? I didn’t trust myself with another memory to hold ontoLater that day, he posted a story on Instagram. My photo.
“Happy Birthday, Shri.”
The song playing in the background was Into You - (Hiten)
“kami koi aave na, inna tainu pyar deya'n "
For a few minutes, it felt like nothing had ever broken. Like we were paused, not over.
But the truth was colder: He could post me for the world to see, but he couldn't hold me for himself.Four days later, I blocked him. Everywhere.
I thought it would make me strong. I thought it would help me move on faster.
It didn’t.
The part that hurt the most wasn’t blocking him. It was realizing I hadn’t blocked his calls.
And he never tried to make one. Not even to ask why.
The day before Diwali — 19th October — I sent him a rose. I didn’t know delivery wasn’t available in his area.
He called. I stared at his name on my screen and didn’t pick up. He called again.
My hands were shaking. Not because I didn’t want to answer — but because I didn’t know who I would become if I did.
Then a message came.
“Address galat dala hai tumne.”
So we talked.
And the strangest thing? He sounded normal. Too normal.
Like nothing had happened. Like there was no history. No blocking. No birthdays. No almost-love. Just two people talking about a wrong address.
And that hurt more than anything.
Because that’s when I realized— for him, nothing had changed…because for him, nothing had ever existed. And maybe… that should’ve been enough for me to stop. But it wasn’t.
