The Night That Shattered My Heart

The Night That Shattered My Heart

BY:Khan

It had been an ordinary day. I’d been down with a bad cold for two days; my mother, attentive as always, gave me medicine with my tea after breakfast so I could rest. I was getting ready to sleep when my phone rang. I answered without thinking—and the world shifted.

It was her. The first and the last love of my life called me for the very first time. Hearing her voice made every ache and fever dissolve. The tiredness, the chills, the heaviness in my limbs all vanished as if by magic. My mother watched me, puzzled. “The medicine worked fast,” she said. I could barely speak. I was overflowing with joy.

I dressed carefully—choosing the best clothes, polishing my shoes. Two hours felt like two centuries; the clock hands crawled as if time itself were reluctant to move. I had waited years for this night; now it was finally here. I arrived at the hotel on time. Alisha was already there, waiting. Seeing her before I even sat down made my heart race—she seemed just as eager as I was.

“How are you?” I asked, staring at her smiling face.

“I’m fine,” she said, but there was an unusual seriousness in her expression. “I called you because there’s something important I need to tell you.” Her calm voice betrayed no hint of what was coming. “My family and I are moving to London. My father sent my visa. I’m getting married next month, and I’ll be living there permanently. My fiancé is from London.”

The words landed like a physical blow. The room swam. I struggled to steady myself, to listen. “I value your feelings,” she continued. “I know you’ve been a true friend to me, and I know you love me honestly. I’m grateful for that.” Her kind voice only deepened my pain.

I tried to speak, pouring out everything bottled up inside me. “Alisha, I love you so much. I prayed for you. I thought tonight your answer would be yes—that my wishes were finally granted. I didn’t know you’d come to tell me goodbye forever.”

She listened with soft eyes. “I wish this meeting had never had to happen like this,” she said. “If I had known, maybe I would’ve spared you this pain. But I want you to understand the truth. I like Saad. I love him enough to spend my life with him. Please don’t be harsh with me. I trust that you’ll keep the honor of the love you gave me. If someday we meet again, meet me as a stranger. Please forgive me and pray for my good future. Allah Hafiz.”

She left. I stayed, staring at the empty doorway long after she had gone, as if she might reappear. I returned home in a daze. My mother, seeing the tears in my eyes, urged me to tell her what had happened. I barely managed, “A friend of mine has left me forever—please, don’t ask me more.” Then I collapsed on the charpoy in the courtyard and let the world blur.

My body trembled. Sweat beaded on my forehead despite the cold December air. I sat like a clay statue—numb and silent. Inside, I felt broken. What I had believed to be the most beautiful evening of my life had become the most painful. She had discarded my love as easily as one brushes dust off a table. She had included someone else in her life and cast my world into darkness.

I paced the night, restless, replaying the encounter. In the hospital days later, overwhelmed by shock, I lost consciousness. When I woke, I was still searching for her face in every corner. Her absence ruled my thoughts. I prayed not for myself but for her happiness—that her life be strewn with comforts, that she never know the sadness she had caused me.

Recovery at home was slow and hollow. An unnamed anxiety followed me like a shadow. Small things made me furious. I abandoned my studies and withdrew from people. Solitude became my refuge; in solitude, memories of that last meeting haunted me. I could only recall every detail of the night—her hand in mine, the warmth of her voice—and those recollections reduced me to a trembling mess.

Sometimes I tore at my hair, thinking: why did I go? Why did I answer her call? If only I hadn’t gone—if she had never asked me to meet—maybe I could have kept living on the hope of her return. Now I screamed with grief until my throat ached and salt flooded my eyes. My family watched helplessly, desperate to pull me back from the edge, but how could they understand? They called it depression. The doctors prescribed medicines and therapy. They used a clinical label to stitch my wounds, but they did not know what it was to be a patient of love.

“Love,” I whispered to myself, “how did you steal my joy and leave me hollow?” The illness the doctors treated was a symptom; what ailed me was a love that had taken everything—joy, focus, appetite, peace. It seemed incurable.

So I sit, a living ghost among my family. They try to coax me back into life, to show me that the sun still rises and the world keeps turning. I want to believe them. Yet every time I close my eyes, I see Alisha’s face and hear her calm voice telling me to pray for her future. I keep praying—only now my prayers are for her happiness, because even in my ruin, I cannot hate her. Perhaps that is the cruelest part: to hurt so deeply and yet wish her nothing but goodness.

This is my confession, my wound opened for anyone who will listen: love can heal, but love can also shatter. And sometimes, the one who breaks you is the same person you wish all the best.