"The Words I Never Said"

I met her on a Thursday.

She was standing near the college library, struggling with a stack of books that kept slipping from her arms. I didn’t know her name then. I didn’t know how someone so ordinary-looking could be so unforgettable. But I offered help, and she smiled. That was it. That was the beginning of everything—for me.

Her name was Ayesha. She wore simple shalwar kameez most days and always had ink smudges on her fingers from her constant note-taking. She wasn’t loud or flashy. She didn’t walk like she owned the world. She just existed—and somehow, that was enough to make me fall for her.

We became friends. The kind of friends who talk about everything and nothing. She told me about her love for rain, her dream to write a book someday, and her fear of thunderstorms. I told her about my broken family, my part-time job at the bookstore, and the time I almost failed math in 9th grade.

She laughed easily, cried rarely, and carried herself with a softness that could calm any chaos.

But I never told her about my heart.

She used to talk about someone else—his name was Danish. He was tall, confident, charming. He made her laugh in a way I never could. And every time she spoke about him, something inside me would break a little more.

I listened. I nodded. I gave advice. I smiled when she said she thought he might like her back.

But I never said how I felt. Not once.

One day, while we were sitting under the old tree near the canteen, she asked, "Why don’t you ever date anyone?"

I shrugged. “Maybe I’m waiting for the right person.”

She giggled. “Well, I hope she’s amazing.”

She had no idea. She was the right person.

But timing is a strange thing. Love, even stranger.

The last day of university arrived like a slow goodbye. Everyone was taking photos, hugging, writing in each other’s yearbooks. Ayesha hugged me tightly and whispered, “Thank you for being there. You’re one of the kindest people I know.”

I wanted to say it then. I wanted to tell her everything. How every glance, every laugh, every quiet moment with her meant something to me. How I looked forward to her texts. How I replayed our conversations before I slept.

But instead, I said, “I’ll miss you.”

And she smiled, not knowing that my heart was screaming.

I remember walking home that night, the sky covered in thick clouds. It rained quietly, the way it does when the world knows your heart is heavy. I kept thinking, “What if I had told her?” But I didn’t.

Years passed. Life happened.

She got married. I saw the pictures on social media—her in a red dress, smiling beside him. Danish.

I stared at that photo longer than I should have. Then I closed the app and never opened it again.

We never really spoke after that. She moved away. I stayed back. I built a quiet life, filled with books, coffee, and rainy evenings. I met people, dated a few. But no one made me feel what she did.

Sometimes I’d see someone walking by with the same laugh, or catch a glimpse of handwriting that reminded me of hers. It was strange how the world never let me forget.

One day, years later, I bumped into her at a bookstore.

She was holding a children’s book in one hand, her daughter’s fingers wrapped tightly in the other. Her smile hadn’t changed.

We talked for a few minutes—about work, about the weather, about nothing really. She told me she was writing again. I told her I still hadn’t fixed my handwriting. We laughed.

Then she looked at me with a pause and said, “You know, I always wondered if there was something you wanted to tell me back then.”

My heart skipped. My hands felt cold.

But I smiled. “Maybe. But some things are better left unsaid.”

She nodded, almost sadly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

And just like that, she walked away.

That night, I sat by the window as it rained again. I opened an old notebook and wrote her name across the page. Then I closed it.

Because that’s the thing about unrequited love—it’s not loud. It doesn’t come with confessions or closure. It stays quiet. Gentle. Hidden. It ends not with a bang, but with the words you never say.

And sometimes, silence is the loudest kind of love.