“ONE SIDED LOVE ‘

A story of silent love, missed chances, and the heart that never let go.

It was always her.

From the moment we met in college, with her tangled hair falling over her sketchpad, biting her pen like the world didn’t exist around her—I knew I’d never see the world the same again.

Her name was Zaina. Mine was just Asad.

She was all light and movement, loud laughs and daydreams scribbled into notebooks. I was quiet, the guy who showed up early to class and sat in the second row, not brave enough for the front but not invisible enough for the back.

We met because of an accident. She tripped on her shoelace in the art hall, dropped her portfolio, and I helped her pick it up. That was it. A smile, a thank you, and somehow, a friendship that felt like magic after that.

I became her "safe space," her "comfort zone." She told me everything—about the boys she crushed on, the fights she had with her parents, her fear of not being "enough" in a world that kept demanding more. I was the one she called at 1 AM crying over her first heartbreak, the one who showed up with coffee the night before her final exhibition.

And every time she looked at me with those big trusting eyes, I swallowed the words that screamed inside me:

"Zaina, I love you."

But I never said them.

Why? Because she never looked at me that way. Because I was the dependable one, the “good guy,” the one she hugged tightly before running off to chase someone else’s attention. And I convinced myself, day after day, that her happiness mattered more than my heartache.

Years passed. We graduated. She became a designer in Dubai. I stayed in Riyadh, teaching art in a small school, quietly building a life around her absence. We texted sometimes, video-called on Eid, liked each other's posts. And every year on her birthday, I’d write a long message, delete half of it, and end up with a simple:

“Happy Birthday, Z. Wishing you all the happiness in the world.”

She never knew that after every message, I stayed up all night thinking about what could’ve been.

I met other women. Dated, tried to move on, tried to "heal." But no one was ever her. I kept searching for her laugh in other voices, her warmth in other hands. Nothing ever came close.

Last winter, she came back for a visit. She hadn’t been to Riyadh in five years.

We met at our old café, the one with the rooftop view and bad coffee. She looked older, more tired, but still—Zaina. Still her.

We talked for hours. She told me about her job, the burnout, how lonely she’d been. And then, she said something that broke me in half.

“I always wondered,” she said, staring into her cup, “why no one ever loved me the way I wanted to be loved.”

I wanted to scream.

"I did. I still do."

But instead, I just smiled.

“You deserve that kind of love,” I said. “Always have.”

She smiled back, touched my hand for a second, and that was it. The moment passed.

She flew back a week later. And I stayed, same city, same life. Nothing changed—except one thing.

This time, I wrote her a letter. I told her everything. About how long I’d loved her. How every part of me still did. I didn’t send it. I just kept it in a drawer, like a photograph of a life that never happened.

Maybe one day, I’ll tell her.

Or maybe not.

Maybe she’ll live her life never knowing someone once loved her so fiercely, so quietly, so completely.

But I’ll know.

And sometimes, love doesn’t need to be returned to be real.

Sometimes, the deepest love is the one that never asks to be seen.