Silent Emotions

Among the crowded corridors of a Lahore university, Arman was an unremarkable face—muted, polite, always staying in the background. A literature student with a poet's soul, his existence surrounded books, quietness, and… Zoya.

Zoya was the kind of girl whose presence generated laughter in each room that she entered. Smart, confident, and sweet. She greeted everyone with a smile, but never really looked at Arman, when he did stare back at her.

Since the beginning of the first semester, Arman was fascinated by her. Her smile, her lightness, her sweetness—all resided in his notebook. While others wrote class notes, he composed poems that went unsent: for Zoya, never to be seen by her.

He never had the courage to tell her how he felt. What he did instead was silently support her. When she misplaced her USB before a presentation, he had one. When she was unwell before exams, he left vitamin C sachets on her desk anonymously. She smiled and wondered who it could be. Arman smiled too, behind a book.

Four years passed like the pages of a book he could never finish. She dated someone once. Arman smiled for her, cried by himself, and turned his sadness into poetry. His friends asked him why he never said anything.

He replied, "Some feelings are too innocent to burden others with."

On the day they were saying goodbye to one another, they all hugged and cried. Zoya hugged Arman too. "You're so nice, Arman. I wish we knew each other a little bit more."

He nodded, heavy heart but sealed lips.

Years passed. Zoya became a journalist. Life wasn't easy—her mother passed away, her job was draining, and the relationship she thought would last forever was over. In between it all, sometimes she'd think of Arman—not as a boyfriend, but as a quiet face that once had made her feel safe, even though she never realized it.

Rainy night, she went through old drawers. Between dusty items, there was a university folder. Inside it, a printed poem:

She never knew he waited,

In moments little and actual,

She never saw the raindrops fall—

That made his unspoken color.

It was unsigned. But she remembered that writing.

A strange pain gripped her heart.

Shaking her fingers, she searched him up on Facebook. Found a profile—"Arman Mirza – Writer | Dreamer." His bio said, I write what I never could say. His writings were all poems—raw, quiet, and beautiful.

Zoya texted him:

"Did you ever write a poem about someone you never confessed to?"

He replied after a few minutes:

"Many. But one still lives in my silence."

[They had tea together a week later. She was different—quieter, softer. He was the same—polite, calm, with the same gentle smile.

She laid out the poem for him. "It was you, wasn't it?"

He nodded.

"And you never told me?"

"I was just… afraid. Afraid it would make you uncomfortable."

She lowered her eyes, barely above a whisper, "I wish you had."

Silence sat between them. Not cloying, not bitter—but healing.

They spoke for hours. Of life, of loss, and of feelings that never got a voice. And as the sun set that day, something changed.

Not all things that are left unspoken are lost forever. Sometimes silent emotions simply wait… for the moment to be shared.

The End.