Arjun walked into the auditorium with hesitant steps. The place was buzzing with laughter, chatter, and the unmistakable excitement of old friends meeting after decades. It was his high school reunion—twenty years since he had last stepped into this building. His life had taken him across cities, across borders, but somewhere deep down, this school still held a piece of his soul.
He adjusted his glasses, nervously clutching the invitation card, though no one was checking them. As he looked around, he saw faces he could vaguely recognize—some aged gracefully, others hidden behind time’s changes. Smiles, hugs, stories filled the air. But his eyes searched for only one face.
Meera.
The name itself carried weight. His first love. His only love. The one story that had never found its ending.
---
Arjun was in Class 11 when he had first noticed Meera. She wasn’t the kind who demanded attention. She was quiet, yet her silence had a music of its own. She loved painting, poetry, and often sat under the banyan tree during lunch breaks, sketching in her worn-out notebook. He never dared to approach her directly at first; instead, he left anonymous notes in her textbook. Silly rhymes, innocent sketches, lines stolen from his favorite books.
One day, she caught him slipping a note inside. Instead of anger, she smiled. That smile had been enough to change his world. From then on, their friendship blossomed—walks after school, long talks on the phone, secret glances in class. They weren’t reckless lovers; they were dreamers. Their love was unspoken yet louder than words.
But life had other plans. After school, Arjun’s family moved to another city. The night before he left, they met one last time under the banyan tree. Neither said “goodbye.” Neither promised “forever.” They simply looked at each other, hoping the silence could hold back the storm of separation.
---
Now, two decades later, he wondered if she even remembered him.
The reunion was in full swing. Old teachers were being honored, classmates were taking selfies, and everyone was caught in nostalgia. Arjun walked around quietly, his heart thumping with every step.
And then he saw her.
Meera stood near the window, looking out at the school ground. She wore a simple blue saree, her hair tied neatly, a small bindi gracing her forehead. Time had passed, yes—but her presence was still the same.
Arjun froze. For a moment, he was seventeen again, clutching his notebook, rehearsing conversations in his head. Gathering courage, he walked toward her.
“Meera?” His voice was soft, almost breaking.
She turned. Their eyes met.
“Arjun…” she whispered. It wasn’t just a name—it was a thousand unsent letters, a hundred unshed tears, and two decades of silence wrapped into one word.
They stood there, smiling awkwardly, until laughter from their classmates broke the trance.
---
Later, they slipped away from the crowd, choosing to sit in their old classroom. The benches had changed, but the chalk-stained blackboard and the dusty windows made it feel the same.
“So,” Meera began, “Mr. Photographer.”
Arjun chuckled. “You still remember.”
“How could I forget? You were always roaming with that old camera around your neck, capturing everything except yourself.”
He smiled, looking at her. “And you were always sketching. Do you still?”
“Sometimes,” she said, her eyes softening. “But life doesn’t always give space for colors.”
He wanted to ask more, but stopped himself. He had no right to enter the pages of her life that weren’t his.
---
As the evening wore on, they talked about old friends, teachers, funny incidents—yet both avoided the question burning inside: Why did we never try again?
Finally, as they walked toward the school gate, Meera paused. “Arjun, do you ever wonder what would have happened if we had stayed in touch?”
He took a deep breath. “Every single day.”
She looked at him, her eyes glistening. “I do too.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy yet comforting.
“But,” she added, “life chose differently for us. I have a family now. A husband who cares, kids who are my world. And I’m sure you’ve built your own path.”
Arjun nodded. He was single, living a life of solitude and photography, traveling from place to place. He wanted to say he had waited for her. But he knew the truth would only complicate things.
Instead, he smiled gently. “You look happy, Meera. That’s enough for me.”
---
The reunion ended, and buses carried groups of friends back home. Arjun and Meera stood near the banyan tree once more, like all those years ago. This time, though, they knew it was truly goodbye.
Meera touched the tree trunk lightly. “This tree still remembers us.”
Arjun smiled faintly. “It does. And so will I.”
For a moment, she looked as though she wanted to say something more. But instead, she stepped back.
“Take care, Arjun.”
“You too, Meera.”
She walked away, her silhouette fading into the night. Arjun stood there, camera in hand, capturing the empty ground where their shadows once lingered.
---
Years may pass, he thought, but some stories never fade. They remain unfinished, etched in memory, not for closure, but for the beauty of what they once were.
And as he left the school that night, Arjun realized something—love doesn’t always mean being together. Sometimes, love is simply carrying a piece of someone with you, forever.
