When Hearts Collide

Growing up, Tara and I were inseparable. Not in the cliché, matching-outfits kind of way—but in the soul-deep, finish-each-other’s-sentences kind of way. She was the bold one, always daring, always running ahead. I was more reserved, always watching her back.

We didn’t always agree, but we always chose each other.

Until Arman.

We met him at a family friend’s wedding. He wasn’t even supposed to be there—he was a last-minute guest, the cousin of the groom or something like that. But there he was, standing by the buffet table in a navy blue kurta, smiling at people like he knew all their stories.

Tara noticed him first.

“Wow,” she whispered, nudging me. “Tall, sharp jawline, that quiet confident look. Right up your alley.”

I rolled my eyes, laughing. “If you like him so much, go talk to him.”

But it was me he walked up to, a glass of orange soda in his hand.

“Is this line always this long, or just when you show up?”

It was a terrible line, but he said it with a crooked grin that made it charming.

We talked that night. About travel, food, how we both hated small talk but somehow couldn't stop talking to each other. He asked for my number before he left, and I gave it to him.

I told Tara everything. She grinned, genuinely happy for me.

“I like him for you,” she said. “He gets that sparkle in his eyes when you speak.”

For the next few weeks, Arman and I talked constantly. He’d send good morning texts, random memes, and voice notes about his day. We weren’t "official," but something real was growing. And I felt safe in it.

Until things shifted.

It started small—he didn’t reply to messages as quickly. He cancelled one of our dates last minute. Then one day, while scrolling through social media, I saw a photo.

Tara. At a new café. Arman sitting across from her, laughing.

My stomach dropped.

I waited until she came home. I asked her calmly.

“It’s not what you think,” she said quickly. “He ran into me at the bookstore nearby. We ended up grabbing coffee. It wasn’t planned.”

But the next time? That wasn’t random. Nor the time after that.

Eventually, she admitted they’d been talking. “Nothing serious,” she added. “We’re just… getting to know each other.”

I felt betrayed—not just by Arman, but by her. My sister. The one person I thought would never cross that line.

“You knew how I felt,” I whispered.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. But it just… did,” she said, not meeting my eyes. “I didn’t plan this, but I can’t pretend I don’t feel something.”

For days, I didn’t speak to either of them.

I cried. I replayed our memories. I wondered what I had done wrong. Was I too quiet? Not exciting enough? Did I imagine the connection?

But then came clarity.

One evening, I sat in our childhood backyard. The same swing where Tara and I had spent hours, dreaming about life. And I realized—I could be angry forever, or I could choose to heal.

So I called her.

“I miss you,” I said.

She cried. “I messed up. I should have stepped back. I just… wanted to be seen. And when he looked at me that way, I felt like I mattered.”

I understood that feeling. More than I wanted to admit.

And Arman? He messaged me once more.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For the confusion, for not being honest. I think I got caught up in the attention. But I never wanted to hurt you.”

I didn’t respond.

Some love stories don’t need closure. Just distance.

Eventually, Tara and Arman fizzled out. It wasn’t some dramatic end. Just two people who didn’t quite fit once the spark faded.

What mattered was that Tara and I began to mend.

It took time—shared coffees, awkward silences, and a lot of honesty. But we found our way back. We promised to always choose each other, even when love got messy.

Now, when people ask me if I believe in love, I say yes—but not always the kind that ends in romance.

Sometimes the deepest love is between sisters.

Love that forgives. That stays. That learns to trust again.

Because the boy may come and go. But my sister? She’s my forever.