UNSPOKEN

Morning light slices through the city skyline of Kathmandu. On the west side, Sujan ties his tie with practiced ease. On the east, Maya adjusts her simple kurta, sliding her bangles gently down her wrists.

Both leave for work. Different buses. Different routes. Same destination.

They work in the same building, a tall commercial tower in New Baneshwor. Sujan gets off on the 9th floor—finance firm. Maya goes up to the 12th—an NGO office.

Every morning, they share the same lift ride for a few seconds. Long enough to glance. Too short to speak.


At first, it's accidental.
Later, it's anticipated.
Eyes meet. Small smiles.
Sujan notices Maya tuck a strand of hair behind her ear every time the lift jolts.
Maya notices Sujan checks his watch nervously before his floor arrives.

They don’t know each other's names.
They don’t speak.
But in silence, they start to feel.


He thinks—if I talk, she might judge.
She thinks—if I talk, he might laugh.
So they speak only in glances and inner monologues.

When Maya coughs one morning, Sujan's heart says:
"Hot water. Warm soup. Please take care."

When Sujan looks worn out one rainy day, Maya silently whispers:
"Sleep well tonight. Don’t carry everything alone."


Each floor of the lift becomes a chapter in a story they never wrote.
The 9th floor—his stop—is where their moments always end.
He walks out, but never turns back.
She watches the doors close, hiding her sigh.


One day, Sujan enters the lift—his eyes tired, lips pale.
It’s his last day in that office.
He’s been transferred abroad.

The lift begins its slow climb.
Floor 3. Floor 6. Floor 8.

His heart races.

He looks at her. Her eyes ask, “Are you okay?”
But neither speaks.

9th floor.
Ding.
He steps out, turns around.

She’s still in the lift.

Their eyes lock—his full of longing, hers full of questions.

He opens his mouth to say something—anything.
But the doors close.

And just like that… she’s gone.

He stands there for a moment, staring at the metal doors.
Hands trembling. Thoughts screaming.
"What if I had said hello?"
"What if she said stay?"
"What if… we were meant to be?"

He never saw her again.


Weeks later, Maya still steps into the same lift.
Same time.
Same spot.
Her eyes search.
Her heart waits.
Her lips silent.


Sometimes, love is quiet.
Sometimes, it passes us by like a floor we didn’t press in time.
And sometimes,
“Love is a language—so express it.”