The train pulled into the station with a metallic sigh, and Areeba stepped onto the platform in Hyderabad with nothing but a suitcase and a trembling heart. The city buzzed with life horns, hawkers, voices calling out in Telugu, Urdu, and Hindi. Areeba clutched her dupatta tightly and took a deep breath. New city, new job, new life. That’s what everyone had said. That’s what she had told herself.
But the past… it doesn’t wait for permission.
It follows.
Chapter One: The Departure
Ten years. That’s how long she had loved him.
From teenage phone calls under the blanket to stolen glances after college lectures, Ain and Zayaan had grown up together emotionally, spiritually, and hopelessly in love. He was her first in every way, her first love, her first fight, her first promise of a forever.
Zayaan was steady and calm, unlike her impulsive, emotional self. A software engineer from a humble background, he had been her world. But their love wasn’t just between two hearts it became a battleground between families, pride, and tradition.
“Ain, he’s not from our caste,” her father had said, eyes steel cold.
“But he’s a good man, Abbu”
“We’ve said no.”
And no in her house meant no. Not a discussion. Not a delay.
She remembered standing in the rain that night outside Zayaan’s old apartment in Aligarh, her tears indistinguishable from the downpour.
“They’ll never accept us,” she whispered, her hands cold in his. “If I don’t walk away… they’ll marry me off to someone worse.”
Zayaan’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t beg. That wasn’t him. He simply nodded, then stepped back into the shadows, like a character exiting stage left, taking the light with him.
Chapter Two: A New City
It had been eight years since she left Aligarh.
At twenty-eight, Ain was now a senior lab technician, quiet, focused, and emotionally reserved. People at work liked her, but no one really knew her.
Her apartment in Banjara Hills was small but clean. The walls were undecorated. No photo frames, no flowers. Just sterile peace something she used to crave, but now found suffocating.
But Hyderabad, unlike Aligarh, was forgiving. It didn’t look like him. Didn’t echo his name in every street corner.
Still, it didn’t stop her memories.
Especially at night, when she sat by her window sipping chai and the city went quiet, her thoughts would betray her. Zayaan’s laughter. The way he would flick her forehead when she overthought. The way he always remembered to bring her a Kit-Kat during exams.
They had talked about kids. Names, even. “If it’s a boy, I want him to have your nose,” he had said once, and she’d thrown a pillow at him, laughing.
You don’t just un-love someone after ten years. You bury it. You silence it.
But silence echoes.
Chapter Three: The Message
One Friday evening, while scrolling through her old Gmail (she’d only kept it for official backups), she noticed an unread email dated two years ago.
Subject: “For when you’re ready.”
It was from Zayaan.
Her pulse skipped. She clicked.
“I don’t know if this will reach you. I don’t even know if you’ll read it. I just wanted to say… I understood. I always did.
I’ve stopped waiting, but I haven’t stopped loving you.
There’s nothing to fix. Just know that you were never the villain in my story.
Wherever you are, I hope you’re okay.
“Z”
Her hand trembled. Why hadn’t she seen this before?
She didn’t know whether to cry or scream. Two years ago, he had written this, and she had been sitting in her white-walled lab, laughing with colleagues, clueless.
Why now? Why did the universe do this now just when she was trying to be okay?
Chapter Four: The Stranger
The next few weeks were blurry.
She found herself looking for him in Hyderabad’s crowded cafés. Every tall man in a blue kurta made her heart race for no reason.
One morning, after Eid, she went to Charminar to shop alone. It was a stupid idea. The place was a sea of people, colors, laughter, and the smell of kebabs. She nearly dropped her bag when someone called her name.
“Ain?”
She turned.
Not him.
A bearded man in his thirties stood there, looking confused.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice shaking. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Arif. Zayaan’s cousin.”
She froze.
He looked at her gently. “I recognized you from old photos. He had a few still… Hope you don’t mind.”
Her throat dried. “How… is he?”
Arif looked away. “Married. Last year.”
The word was a punch.
“He married a girl from his mother’s hometown,” he continued. “Simple girl. Not like you. Not love just… time passing.”
Ain nodded slowly, chest tight. She should have been happy. Closure. That’s what everyone preaches, right?
“Why are you telling me this?” she whispered.
“Because I saw him cry on his wedding night.”
Chapter Five: What Could’ve Been
That night, Ain sat alone on her floor, unrolling memories like prayer beads.
She thought of all the dreams they shelved. The rented flat in Delhi they had picked out online. The bakery she wanted to open with him someday. The honeymoon in Kashmir. Their pretend wedding on a video call, with garlands made of Instagram filters.
Love doesn’t leave quietly. It claws.
She took out her journal something she hadn’t opened in years
and wrote one line:
“I loved you more than I loved my own freedom.”
Then she turned the page and wrote:
“But I love myself enough now… to let you be happy.”
Chapter Six: A Call That Changed Everything
A few weeks later, her phone buzzed with a number she didn’t recognize.
“Hello?”
“Ain baji?” a soft voice spoke. “This is Madiha. I’m… Zayaan’s wife.”
Ain’s heart dropped.
“I found your email on his old laptop,” Madiha said nervously. “I hope it’s okay I called. I just wanted to… say something.”
Ain waited.
“I’m not jealous,” Madiha said. “I know he still thinks of you. But he’s a good man. He respects me. I just… wanted you to know. If it were me, I wouldn’t have let him go.”
The call ended.
And somehow, that broke Ain more than anything else.
Chapter Seven: Healing
Months passed. Seasons shifted.
Ain didn’t reach out. She didn’t cry every night. She stopped looking for him in crowds.
Instead, she started watering plants in her balcony. She took a weekend cooking class. She even let a kind, soft spoken colleague, Sameer, walk her home once.
It wasn’t love.
Not yet.
But it was something.
Maybe healing didn’t mean forgetting. Maybe it just meant choosing peace over pain.
On her 30th birthday, she wrote a letter she’d never send.
Dear Zayaan,
If there’s a universe where we made it, I hope we’re happy.
In this one, I’m okay.
And that’s enough.
She lit a candle and placed it on her windowsill.
The wind blew softly.
A quiet reminder that the past might follow you… but it doesn’t have to hold you.
React
