The Last Embrace

The station was quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that fills the spaces between two heartbeats. The train had not yet arrived, but my time with her was already slipping away, like sand from an open hand.

She stood beside me, arms crossed, her eyes flicking between my face and the empty tracks. I tried to memorize everything about her—the way her hair curled around her cheeks, the faint trace of her favorite perfume in the air, and the sadness she tried so hard to hide behind a half-smile.

I knew this moment would come. We both did. Love doesn’t always come with guarantees. Sometimes it’s just a chapter, not the whole book.

We had met two years ago, at a bookstore tucked into a narrow street in Lahore. She had been looking for a book by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, and I had offered to help. That day, we ended up having coffee together, and from that moment on, she became the verse in my every line, the muse in my every silence.

Our love was quiet but deep—like a river that runs calm on the surface but is fierce underneath. We spent hours talking about poetry, dreams, fears, and sometimes, nothing at all. Even silence felt full with her.

But reality is rarely poetic. Her father was moving to Canada, and she had to go with him. There was no dramatic fight, no betrayal—just the cruel distance that life sometimes demands. We talked about long-distance calls, letters, maybe visits, but we both knew how hard it would be.

“I hate goodbyes,” she whispered, staring at the tracks.
“Then let’s not say it,” I said, though I knew we had no choice.

I reached out and held her hand, cold and trembling. Her fingers laced with mine, and for a moment, we just stood there, two souls clinging to a moment that would soon become a memory.

“I’ll write to you,” she said.
“I’ll wait for your letters,” I replied.

She leaned into me, her head resting on my chest. I could feel her tears soaking through my shirt. I held her tighter, wishing I could stop time, rewrite fate, or hide her in my heart forever.

The train’s horn broke the moment like shattered glass.

She pulled back, wiped her tears, and gave me a smile that almost broke me. “Be happy, okay?” she said.
“You too,” I whispered, the words catching in my throat.

She walked toward the train with slow, hesitant steps. I watched her board, turn around, and wave. I smiled and waved back, holding it until the train began to move. And then, just like that, she was gone.

The platform emptied, but I stayed. I stood there for what felt like hours, holding the ghost of her hand in mine.

That was the moment I parted from my beloved. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was quiet, full of unspoken words and a love too deep to fade. I didn’t cry—not then. The tears came later, in the silence of my room, as I unfolded the scarf she had left behind still carrying her scent.
Now, years later, I still visit that station sometimes. I sit on the same bench and remember her laugh, her warmth, her eyes. I never stopped loving her. Maybe I never will.

Some stories don’t end. They just pause—waiting to be remembered.

And in my heart, she still lives, not as someone I lost, but as someone who gave me the purest form of love I’ve ever known. I see her in every falling leaf, every passing train, every poem I write. She was my moment of forever in a world full of temporary things. And that will always be enough.

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