The Girl in My Heart's Garden

When I was younger, I was quite shy. The world was too bright, too noisy, and too overwhelming all the time. I tried to stay away from people, especially women. Their voices were like songs I was too nervous to dance to, and their laughter was like bells I couldn't answer. I was raised in the city, surrounded by glass and concrete, where feelings were tucked away like private letters. The windowpane through which I observed life passing by served as my closest confidante, literature as my companions, and solitude as my haven.

My family encouraged me to spend a few weeks in a far-off village one summer. I consented more out of duty than interest because it was my first time going so far into the countryside. There, however, was more than just a change of scenery—it was the start of everything.

The village resembled a living artwork. Under the open sky, verdant pastures extended like a green sea. The scent of dirt and wildflowers filled the air. Life went more slowly and gently. The house where we slept was huge, a grand, old building made of brick, wood, and spirit. It was next to a big pond that reflected the sky so well that it appeared as though heaven had descended into the water. It was surrounded by a blossoming garden where birds sang their poetry and butterflies danced.

Above everything, though, I remember her. One morning, she showed up carrying a basket of bakul flowers across the foggy garden. She was more than just stunning; she was extraordinary. Her eyes were soft, broad, and infinitely deep, just like a deer's. Her face was as calm and kind as the full moon itself, beaming naturally. She grinned as effortlessly as sunlight on leaves. Her hair fell freely and silkily down her back like a long black cloud. Her words glistened in the air like diamonds.

Her delicate, greenish fingers, which, like the stalks of a fresh lady's finger, moved elegantly, as if even the slightest of her movements had significance. Her bare feet seemed to belong to both the earth and the sky; they were solid but delicate. I was unable to describe her. I still can't. She was more than just a girl; she was a living example of poetry.

We both understood that as soon as we looked into each other's eyes. It wasn't noisy. There was no fireworks-like explosion. As naturally as rain on dirt, it just happened. Before I met her, I had never thought that love could be found at first sight, but after seeing her, I never questioned it again.

She smiled at me. For the first time in my life, I forgot to be shy as I looked back. We started spending time together, first in quiet, then in gentle talk, and finally in homey laughing. She showed me the village's secret lanes, the old trees that brought back memories of her early years, and the stones surrounding the pond where she enjoyed sitting and daydreaming. I told her things I had never said out loud before, such my anxieties, my reserved nature, and my deep-seated desire for something more than the life I was leading.

She paid attention. She got it. I had no idea that she could make me feel seen. Like sugar in tea, days blended into one another. Her name was on my mind every morning when I woke up. Her voice would quietly reverberate throughout me as I went to sleep each night. I wasn't the bashful boy who shunned everyone around her. I was a new person, a complete person.

I cherished her. Deeply. Truly. For the first time—and, without realising it, the last. Then the day arrived when everything was different. Our fingertips were barely touching as we sat close to the water in the shade of a Gul love tree. The world was lovely for a minute as the crimson blooms above us dropped like whispers.

However, her eyes... Her gaze was far away. She spoke softly and tremblingly, "I have to tell you something." "Something is wrong with me."

I scowled, not getting it. She went on, "The physicians don't know what it is." "I feel good on some days. On other days, I feel as though my inner light is flickering. My heart tightened. With haste and desperation, I said, "You'll get better." "We'll see additional physicians. We’ll find help. “She shook her head gently. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I wanted to tell you before the days grow too short.”

We sat in silence as she rested her head on my shoulder. Her heartbeat was irregular, fluttering like a bird caught in a storm, and I could feel it.

In the days that came after, she started to diminish. She continued to hold my hand and grin, but her laughing grew softer and her steps became lighter. I made an effort to conceal my anxiety under hope, but every word and every look revealed it. She was slipping away from me like sand between my fingers, and I didn’t know how to hold on.

Then she failed to show up one morning. I assumed she was running late, so I waited by the pond. I bided my time till the sun faded and disappeared below the trees.

However, she never showed up.

Her mother approached me that evening, her eyes puffy, her voice breaking as she spoke.

She said, "She's gone." "She departed from us in peace." At first, I didn't cry. I just sat there, staring at the pond, as if waiting for her reflection to appear. It didn't feel feasible. She was so vivid in my mind, so alive in my memories. Her laughter was still carried by the wind, and her scent permeated the garden.

However, she had left.

And I— I had lost my wholeness. I plunged into the most profound sadness I had ever experienced. It wasn't raucous or aggressive. It was the kind of grief that sits quietly in your chest and changes your heartbeat. I was unable to eat. I had trouble falling asleep. All I could do was recall.

For several more weeks, I remained in the town, going back to all the places we had visited and hearing her voice reverberating through the rustling foliage. Like a shadow woven into the fabric of existence, her absence was felt everywhere.

I eventually made my way back to the city, but something of me never returned. I lived my life as a man half-awake, working, studying, and laughing when necessary, but deep down I was constantly waiting.

Over the years, people have questioned me why I didn't move on. What prevented me from falling in love again? I didn't respond. What could I say? I loved her, but she was more than that. Love was her. She taught me how to feel, talk, and live, and she opened my eyes to a world I had never known existed. I lost more than just a person when I lost her; I lost a piece of my spirit.

I wait for her in every unexpected jasmine bloom, in every spring wind, in every falling star. I linger in the stillness of the night, in the gentle melody of nostalgic tunes, in the hidden part of my heart that continues to hold on to the possibility of wonder.

On certain nights, I find myself dreaming of her. In my dreams, she stands by the pond, her smile making everything else fade away. I rush to her, and in that instant, we’re reunited once more. No illness. No grief. Just the two of us.

Then I wake up with tears on my pillow and a heart that is both full and hurting. Because she remains the loveliest aspect of my life, even when she is not here.

I am no longer the shy young man I once was. Yet, I continue to be the man she adored and the one who keeps her alive with each heartbeat. And I'll wait till I see her once more, either in this life or the next. Faithfully. Forever.