The Last Time He Held My Hand

There’s a strange silence that follows someone’s last touch.

You don’t realize it’s the last until it echoes.

I didn’t know that night, on the park bench near 7th Avenue, would be the last time he held my hand. I didn’t know it would be the last time I’d feel his thumb trace slow circles on my skin like he always did when he was thinking.

We were just sitting there. Quiet. Close. Cold wind brushing past. And yet, I remember feeling warm. Not because of the weather—but because of him.

His name was Sameer.

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Sameer wasn’t loud with his love.

He didn’t flood you with flowers or Instagram captions.

He gave love like a calm river—consistent, deep, flowing.

Our relationship wasn’t perfect, but it felt real. We met through friends at a birthday dinner. He offered me the last slice of pizza and said, “I don’t believe in destiny, but if you want this slice, we might be soulmates.”

I laughed.

We started talking.

And three weeks later, we weren’t talking to anyone else.

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He wasn’t the type to make big promises.

But he always showed up when it mattered.

When I had a bad day at work, he showed up with samosas and my favorite orange soda. When my mom got sick, he came to the hospital even when I didn’t ask. He didn’t know what to say—so he just held my hand.

The way Sameer held hands felt like his love language. No words, no noise—just warmth.

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But then life happened.

He got a job offer in Dubai. A great one.

And I got accepted into a creative writing program in Lahore.

We both celebrated. But there was a pause in our laughter. Like we both knew the map of “us” was slowly being erased by distance.

We tried. Long calls. Scheduled check-ins. Little videos and voice notes.

But something changed.

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One night, we met during his short trip back. It had been six months. We hadn’t seen each other in person, and yet it felt… off.

We sat on that same park bench where we first admitted we loved each other. He reached for my hand again—but it didn’t feel the same.

There was hesitation. Not in the fingers, but in the soul.

He looked at me and said, “We’re becoming memories, aren’t we?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know how to say yes without crying.

So I just held his hand.

And I remember gripping it a little tighter than usual—maybe part of me already knew.

Maybe he did, too.

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We didn’t fight.

There was no screaming.

No betrayal.

Just life. Just time. Just space.

We texted less after that night.

Then the texts stopped completely.

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It’s been two years now.

Sometimes, I scroll through old pictures. He’s smiling. I’m smiling. We looked happy because we were.

People often think the worst breakups are the loud ones. The ones where plates break and doors slam.

But I’ve learned something different.

Sometimes, the quietest goodbyes hurt the most.

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I still remember that last night.

The park bench.

The way he looked at me like he was trying to memorize my face.

The way his thumb traced circles on my hand—slower than usual.

Like he wanted to take a piece of me with him.

And maybe he did.

Because even now, when I sit alone and the wind brushes past, I sometimes look at my hand…

And I remember how it felt.

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Author’s Note:

We don't always get closure in words. Sometimes, it's in the silence between heartbeats—where someone’s hand once held yours for the last time.

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