Whispers Between Us

Sometimes I still read her last message—the one she sent just before she was forced to marry someone else. That message wasn’t just words; it was a farewell to everything we dreamed of, everything we hoped would one day become real.

Our love didn’t begin with grand gestures or poetic letters. It started with a simple hello in a random chat. But from that moment on, our connection grew stronger with every passing day. It felt as though we had known each other for years, as if we had lived parallel lives and were finally allowed to meet.

We would talk for hours, sharing secrets, laughing about the smallest things, dreaming about the future. She knew the way my voice changed when I got excited. I knew how she’d go quiet when something upset her. Our love was silent but deep—hidden, yet full of life. In a world that never gave us a chance to meet often in person, our phones became our bridge, our lifeline.

But reality, like it always does, began knocking.

Her family didn’t approve. They believed in traditions, tribal boundaries, and unwritten rules that controlled their lives. They couldn’t accept the idea of her being with someone from another city—someone they didn’t know, someone they hadn’t chosen.

She fought. She pleaded. She cried behind closed doors. But her tears weren’t enough to soften their hearts.

When she told me, her voice cracked. "They won’t agree," she whispered. "They say love isn’t enough. That they know what’s best for me."

I was angry—angry at a society that values pride over love, appearances over truth. But I didn’t give up. I turned to my own family. It wasn’t easy, but after many long talks, I convinced them. I spoke about her kindness, her values, the depth of our bond. Slowly, they agreed.

I was overjoyed. I thought it was our turning point. I called her that night, my heart racing. "They said yes!" I told her. But on the other side, she was silent.

That silence broke me.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, "I'm sorry. I can't be yours anymore."

I laughed, confused, thinking it was a joke. "What do you mean?" I asked.

But it wasn’t a joke. Her parents had forced her into an engagement. The wedding was only days away. "They gave me no choice," she said. "I fought until I had no strength left. I’m tired, and they don’t care about love."

I begged her to wait, to run away, to do anything but surrender. But she had already given in. Her heart was mine, but her life no longer was.

"I’ll never forget you," she said. "But please forgive me."

That night, I didn’t sleep. Days passed, and I felt like a ghost. I stopped laughing. I stopped dreaming. The future we imagined together vanished in the blink of an eye.

Now, I live with her memory. Every time my phone buzzes, I wish it was her. Every love song feels like our unfinished story. I often wonder, was our love not strong enough? Or was the world too cruel for love like ours?

I don’t have the answers. What I do know is that not every love story ends with a kiss. Some end with silence, some with a message that says goodbye in the most painful way. But even if she isn’t mine, she will always be my once-in-a-lifetime love.

They say time heals everything. Maybe it does. But there are some stories that time doesn’t erase—only softens. And ours is one of them.