We Never Said 'I Love You'

We Never Said ‘I Love You’

By Mahboob Khan

We met in October, the kind of cold that makes your fingers hurt and your thoughts feel heavier. She was standing under a bus stop with a broken umbrella, fighting the wind like it was personal. I had a better one — barely — and I offered to share it. She rolled her eyes but stepped under anyway.

Her name was Mira.

We weren’t immediate best friends, but we became that over time. The kind of friendship that’s built quietly — over missed trains, group projects, mutual love for mango lassi, and our shared inability to say how we really felt about anything.

Winter

By December, we were inseparable. I’d wait for her outside her night class with hot tea in a flask. She’d surprise me with my favorite snacks from the little grocery near her place. She once knit me a scarf — terribly, I should add. It was crooked and full of holes. I wore it every day.

One night, we were walking home in the snow and she slipped on the ice. I caught her, and she laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

“You always catch me,” she said softly.

I wanted to say, “I always will.” But instead, I said, “You’re slippery as hell.”

She smiled. We never said “I love you.”

Spring

April meant cherry blossoms and the smell of rain.

We sat under a tree one day, both quiet, watching petals fall. She was dating someone new then — a guy named Alex. He was nice, boring, polite in the kind of way that told me he wouldn’t last.

I helped her pick out his birthday gift: a leather-bound journal and a set of charcoal pencils. She said, “You always know what people need.”

I wanted to say, “I know what you need.” But instead, I shrugged. “It’s a gift,” I said.

We never said “I love you.”

Summer

We went to the beach in July, just the two of us. She wore a sundress and forgot sunscreen. I spent the afternoon reminding her to drink water, and she kept stealing my fries.

We laid on the sand, watching stars crawl out of the sky.

“Do you think we’ll still be friends at 40?” she asked.

“Only if you stop trying to steal my food,” I said.

She looked at me then, her eyes a little too serious for a beach night. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

She fell asleep with her head on my shoulder, and I didn’t move — not for hours.

We never said “I love you.”

Autumn Again

October returned like a memory that never really left.

She broke up with Alex. I pretended not to be happy, but she knew. She always knew.

That month, the weather turned cruel — wind, rain, endless grey. We shared my umbrella again, just like the first day.

On one of those nights, we were walking home, drenched and laughing, when she stopped at the corner near my apartment.

“What if,” she said, breathless, rain streaking her face, “what if we’re both just cowards?”

I didn’t understand at first.

“What if we’re in love and we’re both too scared to ruin what we have?” she added, her voice shaking in that way when you say something you’ve been holding for far too long.

My heart pounded. I reached for words, but nothing came.

Instead, I did something stupid — I joked.

“Damn, Mira,” I said. “Heavy rain gets you philosophical, huh?”

She laughed, but there was disappointment in her eyes.

We walked home in silence after that.

We never said “I love you.”

The Rainy Evening

A week later, it rained harder than I’ve ever seen. The streets were quiet, the kind of quiet where you know something’s about to change.

I found her on the bench outside our coffee shop — soaked, shivering, eyes red.

“Why didn’t you say it?” she asked when she saw me.

I didn’t pretend to misunderstand this time.

“Because I was afraid you wouldn’t feel the same.”

“I was afraid you would.”

We stood there, under the broken awning, water dripping off our hair and clothes, the silence between us louder than the thunder above.

And finally — finally — I said it.

“I love you.”

She didn’t cry. She didn’t smile. She just stepped into my arms, and we held each other like we’d been waiting all our lives to do it.

It took us four seasons, a hundred missed chances, and one rainstorm.

But we got there.