Learning How to Love

Ayan never really got love.

Not in the way people talked about it. He saw friends fall for each other like dominoes, watched characters in films stare into each other’s eyes and just know. But for him? Love felt like a song in a language he didn’t understand. Something just out of reach, even when it stood right in front of him.

He lived alone in a quiet Dhaka apartment, where the walls held more silence than sound. Most evenings, he’d return from his editing job at the publishing house, make a cup of tea, and lose himself in books. Sci-fi, mostly—worlds where logic made sense and emotions didn’t interrupt the mission.

Then Maya happened.

She joined the publishing house as an intern. First day, she walked in with paint on her fingers and a flower tucked behind one ear. Ayan barely looked up from his desk. But she noticed everything. She was the kind of person who would stop to admire the shadow a leaf made on the wall. She laughed at her own bad jokes. And she asked questions—too many, really.

“Why do you never smile when you read?” she asked one day, peeking over his shoulder.

He blinked at her. “I’m working.”

“Reading should still make you feel something.”

He didn’t reply. But that night, for the first time in months, he caught himself smiling at a sentence.

Lunch breaks turned into long conversations. She introduced him to Bengali poetry. He gave her old sci-fi comics. She told him stories about her family, about her childhood in Sylhet, about how she once got lost in a forest and wasn’t scared—just curious.

Ayan listened more than he spoke. Not because he didn’t have anything to say, but because Maya made silence feel safe.

One rainy afternoon, she asked him, “Do you think love is real?”

He sipped his tea, buying time. “I think... I don’t really know what it is.”

“That’s okay,” she said, nudging his elbow. “Maybe love’s not something you feel at first. Maybe you learn it.”

“Like math?”

She grinned. “No. Like music. You listen, you mess up, you try again. Eventually, it becomes part of you.”

And slowly, Ayan started learning.

He noticed the little things: how she always tapped her fingers when nervous, how she hated cold food, how she stared into space when she was sad but didn’t want to talk about it. He remembered to bring her favorite biscuits from the corner shop. He walked her to the rickshaw stand every evening, even when it rained. Especially when it rained.

But it wasn’t perfect.

He had bad days—days when he shut down, got too quiet, or avoided eye contact. Sometimes, he didn’t know how to say what he felt. Sometimes, he didn’t even know what he felt.

Maya never pushed him. She’d just say, “Try. I don’t need you to be flawless. Just real.”

And then, suddenly, she was leaving.

A better job offer. Kolkata. A new city, a fresh start.

She came by to say goodbye with a quiet smile. She was holding a small pressed flower.

“I’m going tomorrow,” she said.

He wanted to say a million things. But the words tangled in his throat.

She placed the flower in his palm. “You’re better at this now, you know.”

“At what?”

“Loving.”

He looked down. The flower was fragile. Just like the moment.

“Will I see you again?”

She shrugged, that same gentle smile on her face. “Maybe. Maybe not. But love isn’t just about staying. Sometimes it’s about knowing when to go.”

Then she left.

The days after were heavy. He missed her in places he didn’t expect—in music, in the corner seat at the tea shop, in the sudden urge to share a random fact. But the thing was—he kept loving. Not her, specifically. But the world. People. Himself.

He started calling his parents more often. He helped his neighbor’s kid with homework. He wrote letters to people he hadn’t spoken to in years. He wrote stories, too—ones filled with feeling. Real, messy, human feeling.

Years passed. His first short story collection got published.

At a book fair in Kolkata, he was signing copies when he looked up—and there she was. Maya. Wearing a sari with tiny stars printed on it. Her hair was shorter, but her eyes were the same.

“I read your book,” she said. “It felt honest.”

“Thanks,” he said, smiling. “You were right. Love can be learned.”

She tilted her head. “Still practicing?”

“Every single day.”

They didn’t hug. They didn’t promise anything. But in that moment, both knew something had changed—not between them, but within him.

He had learned how to love.