In the forgotten village of Nandapur, nestled between dense forests and misty hills, lived an old woman named Maiya. People feared her not because she was wicked, but because her house was the only one that never lost its candlelight—even on stormy, moonless nights.
The villagers whispered tales about her:“She talks to shadows,”“She keeps dead birds under her bed,”“She’s lived for a hundred years without aging.”
No one dared to go near her broken wooden gate, especially after dark.
One stormy night, Ravi, a 17-year-old boy, lost his way in the woods. The downpour made the forest unrecognizable. Trees loomed like silent guards and winds howled like wolves. He stumbled upon the edge of the village and saw a single light flickering in the distance.
It was Maiya’
It was always the same bench, the same spot, the same time.
Every evening at 5:30, Aarav would walk into the city park, holding a sketchbook and a half-melted chocolate bar. He would sit beneath the old Gulmohar tree, its fiery red flowers raining down like blessings, and draw faces—faces of people he saw, imagined, or dreamed of.
But there was one face he couldn't draw.
Her.
The girl with the yellow scarf.
She came every Thursday, sat three benches away, always reading a book, always sipping chai from a paper cup. Her scarf would dance in the wind, sometimes brushing past his page as if teasing him to sketch her.
He had never dared speak to her. Just watched. Observed. Collected her smiles like petals.
One day, she didn’t come.
Nor the next Thursday.
Nor the next.
Aarav kept coming. Same bench. Same time. But his sketches became lonelier. He stopped drawing strangers and started drawing her—from memory. The yellow scarf. The tilted head. The half-smile when the sunlight hit her page.
One Thursday, after nearly two months, she appeared again. But something was different. Her scarf was now white, and her eyes… tired.
Still, she sat on the same bench.
This time, Aarav stood up.
He walked slowly, heart pounding like a drumroll, and stood before her.
"Hi... I'm Aarav. I’ve been wanting to say hello for a long time."
She looked up, surprised. Her eyes searched his, and then… she smiled.
"I know," she said softly. "You draw me every time I’m here."
He froze. "You… noticed?"
"Every time," she said. "I came here to forget someone. You came here to remember me."
He didn’t know what to say.
She closed her book. “I lost someone close. I thought I’d never be able to smile again. But your quiet presence… your drawings... they comforted me.”
Aarav sat beside her, slowly.
"I was trying to draw you," he whispered. "But I could never get it right."
"Why not?"
"Because I didn’t know your name."
She laughed. A soft, broken laugh that carried healing in it.
"I’m Meera."
He smiled. “Will you come again next Thursday?”
She looked at the Gulmohar flowers falling around them and said, “Only if you promise to draw me smiling.”
😆😆😆😆😆😆😆😆😆😆
When I see you,The world slows down,Like raindrops hanging in mid-air,Like a dream that won’t let go.
Your eyes — they speak,Of pages never written,Of stars that once fell,Just to meet mine.
When I hear you laugh,The silence turns into music,And my heart —Finds its rhythm again.
You’re not just a person,You’re the pause between heartbeats,The calm in my chaos,The reason behind my smile.
I don’t need forever,Not even a lifetime —Just this moment,Where your hand fits into mine
