Love Without an Address

Tonight feels strange somehow. I touch the glass pane of the window - the city lights look blurry. A distant bus rushes past, and I stand clutching the balcony railing, thinking - how are you now?

This city once felt so familiar. The ringing of rickshaw bells, roadside tea stalls, old cinema posters- they are used to whisper stories of us. You wouldn't hold my hand.

But your fingers would graze mine as we walked side by side. I pretended not to notice, but inside I'd collect that touch like sunshine saved for rainy days.

We had a little home once - a small room, a wild money plant near the window, and our afternoon ritual of tea.

You read books. I watched your face. Our world wasn't perfect, but it was real. I believed love meant staying, understanding the unspoken, holding on even in the silences.

You said once, "No matter what happens, we'll never be apart."

And I believed you.

Maybe my smile was too naive then.

Then, one day, the city changed. Slowly at first. Your calls grew fewer, the evenings we spent together began to fade, and then came that question -

"Do you think staying together will fix anything?"

You asked for it.

You, who once looked at the stars and said,

"They know how much I love you."

I didn't answer. I just wondered - was it really you asking that?

People change, I know. Cities change. But this to much? So deeply?

Was our love nothing but an ad campaign - glossy, beautiful, but hollow?

I still remember that last day. You wore a red saree.

There was a tiredness in your eyes, like sleep hadn't touched you in days.

I made tea; you took one sip and placed it down. Then, softly,

"I'm leaving," you said.

I didn't ask why.

Because I knew - if I asked, you might lie, or worse, tell the truth I wasn't ready to hear.

After you left, I spent many evenings by the window.

The same one we used to lean against to watch the sky, to listen to the rain.

I still stand there every night, looking into the distance,

hoping your shadow might appear in the flickering lights.

I know you won't return.

Still, I wait.

This city wears a mask now.

Smiles feel rehearsed, like someone taught them how to laugh, when to cry.

Relationships feel like status updates - keep them smiling while they're convenient, then remove with a click.

We were from a time of handwritten letters, of long silences, of messy emotions.

We didn't have them weren't manufactured.

Love didn't feel....synthetic.

Where are you now?

In some other city? With someone else?

How do you laugh these days?

Do you still read poetry?

Do you still drink tea in the mornings?

I don't have answers.

All I have are fragments -

The way your left cheek dimpled when you smiled,

how you'd cry quietly into a book when you were sad.

I'd watch, say nothing, just sit beside you.

I still walk the same streets.

Rickshaws still pass me by, the same tea shops still pour steaming cups.

No one knows what I search for, every time I glance around.

Sometimes, I see someone who looks like you -

My heart skips a beat, just for a moment -

And then I realize,

it's not you.

Maybe no one will ever be you.

But you still exist.

In me.

In every story I carry, in every silent afternoon.

I left my dreams folded carefully in the pleats of your red saree.

No one knows.

No one can touch them.

Does Love ever really end?

Or do we simply forget how to make space for it inside ourselves?

I don't know.

But I do know this:

I'm still alive - because of you.

A little broken,

A little color in your memory.