In Your Silence, I Heard Forever

It was one of those golden evenings where the sun sets slowly, as if reluctant to leave. The small hill-town of Murree was glowing in that golden hour, and the whispering pine trees carried memories older than time.

Areeba sat on the weathered wooden bench outside the old tea shop — the same place where five years ago, she had last seen him.

Ahad.

Back then, they were two dreamers studying literature at university. He, a quiet soul who wrote poetry in his diary and smiled more with his eyes than lips. She, a storm of emotions wrapped in words and rebellion. They were different, yet their souls danced to the same rhythm.

They were never officially in love. No confessions, no promises. Just late-night calls filled with silence, exchanged books scribbled with underlined quotes, and long walks where hands brushed but never held.

One evening, just before graduation, Ahad disappeared.

No call. No note. No goodbye.

Areeba waited. Days became months, and months became years. His silence hurt more than heartbreak ever could. She moved on — or so she told everyone. But a part of her heart stayed frozen at that moment.

Now, five years later, she was back. Not for him, but for herself. To finally let go. To breathe in the memories and exhale the pain.

But fate, as always, had its own poetry.

The old tea shop owner, Baba Jani, smiled at her.

“You came at the right time, beti. Someone has been waiting for you too.”

She frowned. “Waiting?”

Before she could ask more, the bell above the tea shop's door jingled. And there he was.

Ahad.

Time had touched him gently. The same deep eyes, the same stillness in his presence. But now, he had a small notebook in his hand — the same diary she once gifted him.

Areeba stood, unsure whether to scream, cry, or walk away.

He spoke first. “I didn't expect you'd come back.”

“Neither did I,” she whispered.

There was silence — heavy, aching, beautiful.

“I owe you an explanation,” he said, his voice low.

“You owe me five years,” she replied.

Ahad nodded slowly. “My mother fell ill. It was sudden. Terminal. I went to take care of her. She didn’t have long, and I had no strength to speak to anyone — not even you.”

Tears pricked her eyes, not from anger, but the pain of understanding.

“I wanted to call,” he continued. “But what do you say to someone you love when your world is crumbling?”

Her heart skipped.

Love. He said love.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

She looked away, toward the hills. “Do you know what hurts more than losing someone? Not knowing why you lost them.”

Ahad stepped closer. “Every page of this diary,” he held it up, “is about you. I wrote to you every night. I just never sent the words.”

Areeba took the diary, flipping through pages filled with her name, dates, small sketches of things she loved — stars, books, rain.

“I read your favorite poem every night,” he said. “‘Perhaps we’ll meet again, when we’re better for each other.’”

She smiled, bitterly. “Do you think we are now?”

Ahad looked at her, eyes filled with years of longing. “I never stopped loving you, Areeba. I just paused time. If you’ll let me, I’d like to press play again.”

She laughed through tears. “I came here to forget you.”

“And I came here hoping you hadn’t.”

The sun dipped behind the hills, but their moment stood still.

No dramatic kiss. No loud music. Just two people, surrounded by memories, choosing to give each other one more chapter.

Areeba held out her hand.

“Let’s walk again. This time, maybe we’ll hold hands.”

Ahad took her hand, and this time, he didn’t let go.


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Moral:

Sometimes, love isn’t about loud confessions or perfect timing. It’s about coming back, explaining the silence, and choosing each other — again.