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I saw her today. Maybe it was an accident. Or maybe my eyes had been looking for her long before I even realized it. She looked good. Great, actually. And strangely enough, I felt nothing. No sudden heartbeat. No nervousness. No thousand thoughts crashing into each other. Just… nothing. For a moment, my mind went quiet. And somehow, that silence was more confusing than all the noise I had carried for months. Because how could I remember someone almost every day, miss her in places she wasn’t, replay conversations that happened months ago, and still feel like she was a stranger when she stood right in front of me? “Maybe I didn’t stop missing her. Maybe I just stopped recognizing her.” I looked at her and remembered the talks. The stupid laughs. The little things. The version of her that once felt so familiar that I could almost predict what she would say next. The girl who could make an ordinary conversation feel like something worth remembering. But she wasn’t that g...

There’s a strange kind of heartbreak that doesn’t come from betrayal, or distance, or even an argument. It comes from silence… from ambiguity… from something that never quite became real, yet never really stayed unreal either. Aarav didn’t know when it started. Maybe it was the late-night conversations that stretched into early mornings. Or the way she remembered small things about him—his favorite coffee, the song he played on loop, the way he overthought everything but pretended not to. Maybe it was in the comfort. The ease. The unspoken understanding that felt a little too real to be casual. Her name was Meera. And if someone asked her, she’d probably say,  “We were just talking.” But if you asked Aarav, he would pause. Not because he didn’t have an answer—but because none of them felt safe to say out loud. They were never official. No labels. No commitments. No promises. Just a consistent presence in each other’s lives. At least, that’s what Aarav believed. For Meera, it was so...