" When We Were Just a Song"

The First Note

The rain had always reminded Zara of him.
Every drop carried a rhythm that felt too familiar—soft, steady, and a little sad. She sat by her apartment window in Lahore, watching the world blur behind raindrops. Somewhere in that rhythm, she could still hear Ayan’s laughter — the boy who once taught her how to listen to music, not just hear it.

They met in college, both lost in their own ways. Zara was the quiet one, sketching in her notebook, while Ayan was the guitarist everyone knew. He had that effortless charm — the kind that made people want to stay near him just to feel a little more alive.

He noticed her before she noticed him. It was in the library, a quiet afternoon, when he leaned over her table and whispered,

> “You draw emotions better than people do.”

It was awkward, bold, and yet strangely beautiful. That was the first spark — the kind that doesn’t burn fast, but stays glowing for years.

The Harmony

Over months, they became inseparable. Zara would sit with her sketchbook as Ayan strummed his guitar beside her. He used to say,

> “You draw silence. I fill it with sound.”



They shared secrets in cafés, dreams on rooftops, and music through late-night calls. But like every love story that feels too perfect, theirs came with a quiet storm.

Ayan got an offer — a scholarship to study music in Turkey. It was everything he had ever wanted. Zara smiled when he told her, but her heart trembled. The distance between Lahore and Istanbul felt larger than maps could show.

> “You should go,” she said.
“And you’ll wait?” he asked.
“I’ll try,” she whispered.

They didn’t promise forever. They just promised honesty — and sometimes, that’s even harder to keep.
The Distance Between Songs

Long-distance love is like listening to an old cassette — you remember every lyric, but the sound fades.
Their calls became shorter, messages delayed. Zara would wake up to missed calls, and Ayan would fall asleep waiting for her reply.

Then one day, he stopped calling. No explanation. No goodbye.
Just silence.

Zara tried to stay busy — painting, working, pretending. But every love song on the radio felt like him. Every raindrop sounded like a broken chord. She never hated him; she just hated how love could vanish without even saying it’s leaving.


The Return

Three years passed. Life moved, but some memories refused to.

One evening, Zara attended a small music event in Lahore. The host announced a surprise guest — a musician from Istanbul who had once studied there. The name hit her like a forgotten melody: Ayan Malik.

He walked on stage, holding that same old guitar. His hair was longer now, his face sharper, but his eyes — they were still the same.

When he saw her in the crowd, he froze for a second. Then smiled — that same, quiet smile that used to melt her.

He spoke into the mic.

> “This next song… is for someone I never got to finish a conversation with.”


And then he sang.
The song wasn’t just music — it was everything unsaid.
Every pause was an apology. Every note was a memory.

When the show ended, Zara waited by the exit. He walked toward her slowly, guitar in hand.words at first. Just a silence that felt like home.

> “You disappeared,” she finally said.
“I didn’t,” he replied softly. “I just got lost in my own noise. But every song I wrote… it had your name hidden in it.”


The Final Verse

They talked for hours that night — about the lost years, the missed calls, the dreams that changed, and the feelings that didn’t.

They didn’t rush back into love. They didn’t promise forever. They just decided to start again, like a song replayed after years — familiar, yet new.
A few months later, Ayan released his first album.
The title?
“When We Were Just a Song.”

And in the album’s last track, right before the music faded, a faint voice whispered —

> “You draw silence. I fill it with sound.”


It was Zara’s voice.
Their story — frozen forever between two melodies.

❤️ Epilogue

Sometimes, love doesn’t need a happy ending.
Sometimes, it just needs a chance to play again — softly, like a song you never stop humming, even when it’s over.