When the Stars Forgot to Shine

The first time Ayaan met Zara, it was raining. He stood at the edge of the school corridor, watching raindrops slide down the metal railing, lost in the music in his headphones. She bumped into him—literally—running to escape the downpour, her umbrella flipping inside out.

“Sorry!” she laughed, eyes sparkling, out of breath.

Ayaan, stunned by her presence more than her impact, just nodded, headphones still hanging around his neck, music forgotten. That moment, so simple and sudden, was the beginning of everything.

They became friends in the most accidental way. Group assignments turned into late-night calls. Silent stares in the library turned into shared playlists. Time had a strange way of speeding up around Zara. And Ayaan, with his quiet demeanor and hesitant smile, found a new version of himself in her laughter.

By their final year of college, they were inseparable.

Zara was the kind of person who believed in fate and signs from the universe. Ayaan believed in logic, in reason. But for her, he’d try to read the stars.

They sat on the rooftop one night, staring at the moon.

“If I die tomorrow,” she said suddenly, breaking the silence, “what would you do?”

He scoffed, “You and your dramatic dialogues.”

“No, seriously,” she said, eyes still fixed on the sky. “Tell me.”

Ayaan went quiet. Then, with a voice low and honest, he replied, “I’d never fall in love again.”

She smiled, not at him, but at the stars. “Good. I want to be the only one.”

That was the last time they sat on that rooftop.

A few weeks later, Zara stopped coming to class. Ayaan texted, called, waited. He even stood outside her house for hours, but her mother only said, “She’s not well. She needs rest.”

After nearly a month, she messaged him.

“Can we meet? Just once. Tomorrow evening. Same rooftop.”

His heart raced as he climbed the stairs the next day, expecting her smile, her laugh, maybe an explanation that made sense.

But Zara was different.

She was pale, thin, a scarf tied tightly around her head. The sparkle in her eyes dimmed.

“I have cancer,” she said, without flinching. “Stage four. It’s everywhere now.”

Ayaan didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The wind seemed to pause with him.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” she continued, “but I realized... you deserve the truth.”

Tears formed in his eyes, but he blinked them away. “We’ll fight it. There are treatments. I’ll be with you—”

“No,” she interrupted, “I’m not fighting. I’ve made peace with it. I’ve lived a full life, Ayaan. And I got to love you.”

He couldn’t accept it. Refused to.

But Zara had made up her mind.

Over the next two months, he visited her every day. Read her favorite books aloud, played her playlists, held her hand through sleepless nights. She never cried in front of him, always the stronger one. He memorized every detail of her face, fearing the day it would fade from his memory.

And then one day, she was gone.

Just like that.

The world kept moving. Friends graduated. Families celebrated milestones. But Ayaan? He paused. Everything felt too loud, too empty. He’d walk the streets they used to explore, play the songs they once danced to, search the sky for a sign—but the stars remained silent.

He didn’t attend graduation. Didn’t take up the job offer in another city. Instead, he opened a small book café in her name—Zara’s Corner—where every book carried a quote she loved, every cup of coffee was served with a handwritten note from her old diary.

People came and went, drawn in by the warm smell of books and the stories on the walls. But Ayaan stayed. Year after year. Alone, yet surrounded by her memory.

On the rooftop of the café, under the stars they once watched, he still sat sometimes, talking to her as if she was there.

One evening, a little girl climbed up with her father and asked, “Uncle, who is Zara?”

He smiled gently, tears dancing at the corner of his eyes. “She was the girl who taught me that love doesn’t always last forever—but it can live forever.”

And when the stars flickered slightly that night, Ayaan closed his eyes, feeling just for a second, that maybe, just maybe, she was listening.