He saw the newspaper with a headline that shook his mind — he couldn’t believe his eyes. How could this happen? Why did it happen? There were numerous questions in his mind, but sadly, he had no answers. Suddenly, years of memories flashed through his mind.
My mom had suddenly complained of blurred vision and dizziness. The doctors suspected a mini-stroke — a transient ischemic attack — and admitted her for observation. It wasn’t serious, but monitoring was necessary. While I was sorting out my mother’s admission papers, she entered, anxious, along with her father, who had collapsed due to a brain haemorrhage. She was alone with him, visibly confused and distressed, barely able to speak to the receptionist.
My mother had already been admitted, so I was at peace. I handed the remaining documents to my brother and rushed to the reception where she stood. It all happened within seconds. I asked what had happened; she could only utter “brain haemorrhage.” My friend, who worked at the hospital, was nearby. I asked him to expedite things. He brought the stretcher and quickly got her father admitted. She looked at me as if I had done something huge for her.
The first time I saw her, I was impressed by her looks — boy-cut hair, no nose pin or earrings.
Two hours later, by some strange coincidence, her father was assigned the same room as my mother.
Her father’s condition began to improve with time, and the doctors told her he would be fine. I was sitting there, lost in thought, while she remained worried, seated beside her father. I could sense the sadness on her face but didn’t know how to start a conversation. Her father, who was on a drip, suddenly became unstable. The nurse rushed in and asked for a specific medicine from the pharmacy. I asked for its name and told Isha, “I’ll go get it. You stay here.” I brought the medicine; the nurse administered it into the drip, and her father stabilized, eventually falling asleep peacefully. Meanwhile, my mother was already resting.
She thanked me again and again. I reassured her, telling her not to fear — my friend would look after her father. She again expressed her gratitude.
We sat beside each other. I asked about her family. She said, “My mother passed away when I was very young, and I’m the only child. It’s been two years since I graduated, and I now work as a software developer in an IT company. My father used to live in a village, but I brought him here so he could finally live the life he deserved.” She asked about me. I shared that my father had allegedly died by suicide one year after suffering a haemorrhage. “Now I live with my two brothers and mother in a nuclear family,” I said. “Okay,” she responded.
Later that morning, I brought her tea along with mine. She looked a little more relaxed. Her father was steadily recovering. One of her friends came to check on her, and she told her how I had helped.
In the afternoon, the nurse informed me that my mother would be discharged by 5 PM. Isha was there when I received the news. I sensed despair in her eyes as I looked at her. She congratulated me and sighed, “I don’t know how long we’ll have to be here.” I reassured her, called my friend, and introduced them. “If you need anything, just reach out to either of us,” I said.
My brother came, and my mother was taken home. I stayed back at the hospital a little longer, chatting with my friend. Before leaving, I went to say goodbye to Isha.
Life resumed as usual, but something had changed. I couldn’t focus. I kept thinking — something was missing. I realized that my unease began after leaving the hospital, so I called my friend. He said he was on duty, so I visited him.
I entered the room where her father was admitted. Isha was asleep, her head resting beside her father’s bed. I silently approached. She looked tired, as if she had cried. I coughed gently. She woke and looked at me. I saw excitement in her eyes, though she didn’t show it. I asked about her and her father's health. I sat beside her, and we talked briefly. Then I left.
I kept visiting her regularly. She started opening up — sharing her fears and worries.
One day, while I was at the office, I got a call from Isha. The doctors had said her father could be discharged that evening. After work, I headed straight to the hospital. Her smile when she saw me — it warmed my heart. She introduced me to her father and told him about all I’d done. He blessed me deeply. I got the discharge done and booked them a cab. “If you ever need help, just reach out — we’re friends,” I told her.
From then on, we started chatting daily. It became a habit — something we both looked forward to. One day, she asked me out for coffee, as a thank-you gesture. We went to a restaurant and talked about rationality, ideology, and many other things.
Gradually, we started talking on calls more frequently. What was earlier rare became routine. I don’t know about her, but I had started craving her texts and calls. I waited all day for them. Even though it had become normal for us to talk, I was afraid of being misjudged.
I admired her confidence. She once joked, “I won’t let anyone else come into your life.” I never had the courage to say something like that back.
Days passed. One day, she confessed — she saw me as more than just a friend. I didn’t know how to respond. We had already agreed we were best friends who could share anything. The kind of attention and care she was giving me — it was new, overwhelming.
I was raised by a mother who had lost her own mother at a very young age. Though loved by her siblings, my mother never learned how to express love. So, I too grew up like a tree in a forest — uncared for, yet standing. I was never emotional. Never cried. I thought I had a stone heart. So, the care Isha gave me was more than enough — and then she wanted more. I asked her, “What’s the difference between a best friend and a boyfriend?” She didn’t explain. She just said, “I’m only expressing how I feel.”
I didn’t respond then. But with time, I understood. I fell in love.
Our love was like the movies — sharing everything, talking endlessly. Bollywood had taught us what love looks like — through songs and scenes. That’s what we recreated.
Time flew like hours. We fought sometimes — but like all close relationships, those fights only strengthened our bond. I started expecting things from others. That was new to me.
We hated crowds, so we often met in a quiet park. We’d walk hand in hand, sip tea at a small stall outside. That park became “our” place.
Eventually, it was time to decide the future — marriage. She told her father about me. I met him — he approved. I told my family — they were thrilled.
At the engagement, she wore a blue blazer and pants. From a distance, one couldn’t tell she was a woman. I admired her. But behind us, people whispered about her appearance. Still, we got engaged. I saw the emotions in her eyes when I put the ring on her finger.
The wedding was two months away.
One day, I texted her good morning. No reply. I called. No answer. Something felt off.
Then the newspaper boy threw the paper outside. The headline read:
“Girl dies after being hit by an uncontrolled car.”
Her photo was there. I couldn’t believe it. The details matched.
I rushed to her flat. Her body lay wrapped in white cloth. Neighbours were arranging the last rites. Her father looked broken.
I stayed for all the rituals. A few days later, he said he wanted to return to the village. I took leave and dropped him home.
Since then, I’ve felt empty. Like my soul has died, years of love ended in a moment.
That last “good morning” message remains unseen forever.
I visited our tea stall. Ordered two cups. One for me. One for her.
One for the memories that never fade.
Sometimes, love doesn’t end — it just pauses.
And it did, for me.
“Sometimes, life takes us through moments where the pain of a stranger starts to feel like our own — and in those moments, we form bonds that may be brief in time but lasting in impact.”
