12 Years Ago

A fourteen- year old boy wandered through the quiet streets, feeling restless and alone.His best friend wasn’t around to play, so he had nothing to do. So, with his hands tucked in his pockets, he aimlessly roamed the neighborhood, searching for anything to pass the time.

That’s when he spotted a park.

The place was small but peaceful, filled with the soft rustle of leaves and the gentle scent of blooming flowers. Drawn by curiosity, he stepped inside, his eyes scanning the area for something—anything—to keep him entertained.

And then, he saw her.

A little girl, not much younger than him, sat near a bush of red roses. Her hair was tied into two ponytails, secured neatly with bow ribbons. Her round, fluffy cheeks flushed slightly as she reached out to pluck a flower.

But something else caught his attention—her face.

She looked tense, almost as if she was in pain. His gaze dropped to her tiny hands, and that’s when he noticed it.

A thorn.

It had pierced her delicate palm. She let out a small hiss of pain, trying desperately to remove it. But the more she struggled, the deeper it dug in.

The boy instinctively stepped forward.

"Let me help you," he offered.

The girl froze for a second before looking up at him, her big, determined eyes narrowing in defiance.

"No, I’m fine. I don’t take help from strangers," she said stubbornly, her voice small but firm.

The boy stared at her, utterly bewildered.

"Yaar, itni chhoti si ladki, par ziddi kitni…" (She’s such a small girl, but so stubborn.) He thought

Her words made him chuckle under his breath. He had never met someone so tiny yet so fierce.

"So, we can be friends," he suggested with a grin. "Then I won’t be a stranger anymore."

The girl blinked, unimpressed.

"I don’t do friendship with strangers."

The boy smirked. "Before friendship, everyone is a stranger."

She was getting annoyed . She narrowed her eyes at him, as if debating whether he was worth her time.

"Ziddi ladki dosti kar lo, warna yeh kaanta tumhare chhote chhote ungliyoun se nahi nikalne wala." (Stubborn girl, just befriend me, or else you’ll never get that thorn out with those tiny fingers.) He muttered under his breathe.

Determined, he crouched beside her.

"I’ll help you this time… as a friend," he insisted.

The girl hesitated, her fingers twitching slightly. For a long moment, she studied him—as if trying to decide whether he was trustworthy.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she gave a tiny nod.

"Okay. We can be friends," she murmured, hesitantly extending her injured hand. "Now help me".

The boy grinned, his heart swelling with an odd sense of victory.

With gentle, careful hands, he took her small fingers in his own and began removing the thorn. But the moment he pulled it out, the sharp sting made the girl wince.

A small gasp escaped her lips, but she didn’t shed a single tear.

The boy stared at her in shock.

"Agar kisi aur ko chubha hota, ab tak ro-ro ke aasman sar pe utha liya hota… Lekin is ladki ne ek aansu tak nahi nikala?" (If it were anyone else, they would have cried their heart out… but this girl didn’t even shed a single tear?)

She dusted her hands and looked up at him.

"Now that we’re friends, tell me your name?" he asked, still intrigued by her.

The girl tilted her head, considering something. Then, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, she smirked.

"Why do you want to know my name?" she asked. "You can just call me ‘Yaar’ or ‘dost’ or ‘mitr’ or ‘Sakhi.’" (All of these means friend.)

The boy raised an eyebrow, about to protest, but before he could say anything

She turned on her heels and walked away.

"It’s getting late. I have to go. Bye!" she called out over her shoulder.

And just like that, she was gone.

The boy stood there, utterly shocked.

"Did she just… use me and leave?" he muttered in disbelief.

He shook his head, staring at her retreating figure.

"Dekhne mein kitni bholi aur masoom lagti hai… Par asal mein poori aafat hai, aafat!" (She looks so innocent and sweet… but in reality, she’s pure trouble!)

Despite himself, he let out a small chuckle.

That was the day he met her.

Present

Shaurya's POV

My gaze landed on it—the black, old diary.

The one that had silently held all my emotions, my unspoken words, my memories… everything I had ever shared with her.

As if she was listening. As if she still cared.

I ran my fingers over the worn-out cover, tracing its faded edges. The leather had cracked with time, its pages turning brittle, but the memories inside? They were untouched. Still vivid. Still raw.

With a slow exhale, I flipped it open.

Page after page, ink-stained confessions whispered back at me—my restless thoughts, my endless search, my aching longing. The silent conversations I once had with her, hoping somehow, somewhere, she would hear them.

My fingers trembled as I reached for a pen, turning to a blank page.

And then, I wrote—

12 years, 2 months, 12 days, 15 hours, 45 minutes, and 35 seconds…

That’s how long it has been since I last saw you.

12 years, and yet, it still feels like yesterday.

I don’t know why I still do this. Writing to you. As if you’d somehow read these words, as if they’d reach you across time and distance. As if you’d care.

Do you even remember me, Aisha?

Because I remember you. Every little thing. The way you’d laugh with your whole heart. The way you’d wrinkle your nose when something didn’t make sense. The way you never needed words to understand me.

You were always listening. Not just to what I said but to everything I never could. You understood the things I didn’t even understand myself.

And then you were gone.

Just… gone.

I spent years searching. In every unfamiliar face, in every fleeting moment, I looked. Wondering if I’d turn a corner one day and find you there, like you’d never left.

Maybe you never wanted to be found.

Maybe I should have stopped looking.

But how do you forget the one who was once your safest place?

You don’t.

You just learn to live with the emptiness they left behind.

And that’s what I did. Or at least, I thought I did… until again I saw those similar eyes.

But I brushed it off. It’s a common shade—dark brown. Nothing special, right?

I met a girl, few days back.

A girl who has been broken—shattered—by this cruel world. 

Tortured by monsters who stole everything from her.

So much that… she lost her voice.

But thankfully, it’s not permanent. With time, I hope she heals and regains her voice.

I hope you’re safe, Aisha. I hope you’re happy, living your life somewhere far from this madness.

Waise bhi, tum jaisi aafat ka koi kya hi bigaad sakta hai…
("Anyway, who can even harm a disaster like you…")

A faint, bitter smile tugged at my lips as I wrote that.

Today, I did something unusual.

I apologized. To her.

And God, it was so damn difficult.

I don’t even know if what I wrote was an apology or a command. Maybe both. Who knows. Expressing emotions has never been my thing.

But with you…

It never mattered. You never cared about my name, my status—any of it. You just listened. Absorbing every thought, every emotion, without judgment.

I let out a quiet chuckle.

You never needed words to understand me.

Every day, the sun rises. Every night, the moon takes its place.

Life moves forward. I laugh with my family, share moments with my friends. I eat, I drink, I breathe—everything a person should do to live. And yet…

lekin phir bhi aisa lagta hai ek muddat huwi dil ko sukoon mile aisha
(It feels like an eternity has passed since my heart last felt at peace.)

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