The Last Time She Looked at Me…

The Last Time She Looked at Me…



By {}

"That was the last time she looked at me."

And in her eyes, there was a silence loud enough to echo for a lifetime.



Chpter One: The Question

My name is Mohsin, and I’m thirty now. But part of me still sits on that wooden bench in the corner of our old school corridor, watching Meherin walk away in silence.

That day… she didn’t joke. She didn’t tease. She didn’t even smile.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

She nodded slightly, looked at me, and turned away.

That was the last time I saw her.

She never came to the convocation. Rumors floated: her dad got transferred to Lahore, someone said she moved to Dubai. I searched for her—emails, Facebook, even old friends. Silence.

And one question froze inside me like a stone:

"Was she trying to say something that day?"

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Chapter Two: The Memory Collector

We used to do our homework in the library after school, but we mostly wrote stories. She once said, “Mohsin, sometimes words fall in love with each other. That’s how stories are born.”

One day she left a rose from the school garden between the pages of my Urdu notebook.

"Even if memories get buried," she whispered, "they still leave a scent behind."

I didn’t understand what she meant. I thought we were just two teenagers caught in the rhythm of ordinary days.

But hearts have their own curriculum—one I never bothered to read until it was too late.

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Chapter Three: The Discovery

March 2025 — I walked into an art exhibit at the Islamabad National Gallery titled “Silent Frames.”

One photograph stopped me dead in my tracks. A foggy road. A girl, back turned, glancing behind.

Underneath:

"Sometimes goodbye is just a glance."

Signed: Mahrīn S.

My heartbeat turned into thunder.

The curator told me, "The artist passed away in New York in 2020. Originally from Hyderabad."

The word "passed away" hit me like glass to the chest.

At the end of the exhibit, I was handed a sealed envelope.

“She left instructions,” the assistant said, “If someone named Mohsin stops at that picture… give him this.”

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Chapter Four: The Letter

Back home, I sat in silence as I opened the envelope. Inside was a polaroid: Meherin on her grandmother’s couch, smiling.

And then the letter… in her graceful, slanted handwriting:

"Mohsin,

That day at school… I had just learned from the doctor that my bone marrow disease had returned.

I didn’t want you to see me as fragile.

I didn’t want pity.

I wanted to leave you with a memory that had no burden—just a pause, a moment, a mystery.

Some questions are better unanswered.

Unfinished stories keep the heart beating.

— Meherin"

I cried. For the first time, truly cried.

I understood what she had said… in her silence.

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Chapter Five: The Journey

A month later, I visited her hometown. Her old house stood crumbling in the golden afternoon light.

A neighbor directed me to her mother’s clinic by the sea.

Her mother recognized me the second I said my name.

We sat by a window. She showed me Meherin’s art journal—every sketch had a line underneath.

"If our paths never cross again, let memories meet in the middle."

The next morning, I left jasmine flowers on her grave.

The wind smelled of salt and something more… something like closure.

I whispered,

“Your glance taught me how to live.”

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Chapter Six: Regret and Peace

Back home, I opened my old Gmail drafts.

One message, never sent.

“Hi Meherin, I think…”

Left unfinished.

That night, I finally typed:

“Thank you… for the silence.”

Some stories live in silence.

And that’s where they become timeless.

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Chapter Seven: A New Chapter

In her honor, I started the “Glance Grant” — a yearly scholarship for young artists who capture unspoken emotions through their work.

Every entry begins with a prompt:

"Draw a memory you never shared out loud."

Somewhere between mist and canvas, I still see her…

turning back

smiling softly

glowing under a streetlight

like she never left.

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🌟 Final Message to the Reader

If someone ever walks out of your life leaving behind silence—don’t fear it. Some goodbyes are written not in words but in glances, unfinished sentences, and moments that become memories.

Love doesn’t always need closure.

Sometimes, all it needs… is a final glance.