When Her Voice Faded

Aayan always felt that love wasn’t something you saw — it was something you heard.

Not the kind of sound that demanded attention, but the quiet kind — like a whispered name or the unspoken understanding that lingers after a deep conversation. A kind of stillness that speaks volumes.

That’s what he heard the day he first noticed Zoya.

She sat tucked away in a corner of the university library, softly reciting verses into a small recorder. Her voice was tender, steady, and warm — like sunlight slipping through a cloudy sky. She wasn’t performing for anyone. She was reading just for herself. And that made it even more enchanting.

Aayan didn’t say anything that day. He just sat nearby and listened, as if drawn to something his soul already recognized.

Fate, however, had plans to cross their paths again.

They were paired for a literature assignment a week later. At first, it was all formalities — quick meetings, structured conversations, and divided tasks. But gradually, the conversations became less about deadlines and more about dreams. Zoya would drift into stories about her childhood, her love for old Urdu poetry, and her small hopes for the future.

Aayan barely spoke. But he listened — really listened — with the kind of focus that made her feel like every word mattered.

One evening, after they gave a group presentation, they ended up on the university rooftop watching the city lights flicker below. Zoya turned to him and asked, half-smiling, “Why do you never interrupt me?”

Aayan looked at her and replied, “Because your voice completes the silences I didn’t know were missing something.”

She laughed softly, but there was something different in the way she looked at him after that.

Though their project had long ended, their meetings didn’t. Zoya began sending him voice messages — some with poems, others just random musings. Sometimes, she would just hum a tune. Aayan never replied with words, but he listened to each message more than once, holding on to every syllable.

Zoya would often say, “You’re too quiet.” But he knew she appreciated the space he gave her — a rare kind of attention without pressure.

But not all love stories are written in permanence.

One evening, everything stopped.

No messages. No calls. Not even a single line of poetry.

Aayan waited. Hours turned into days. Days into weeks. The silence, once their comfort, now felt like a weight on his chest. When he asked around, friends only said, “She’s going through something.” No one gave him answers.

Then, out of nowhere, came a letter. Handwritten. Folded with care. No name — but he recognized her delicate script instantly.

It read:

> “Aayan,
I don’t know how to say this aloud — maybe that’s why I’m writing.
Something’s happening to my voice. The doctors say it’s a rare neurological issue. Slowly, I’ll lose my ability to speak.
I tried to disappear before it got worse — thought it would make it easier for both of us. But this silence… it hurts in ways I didn’t expect.
You once told me my voice filled your silence.
Now, I’m asking — can your silence hold me instead?
If you still care — not for the voice, but for me — meet me at the old library on Friday.
No explanations. Just be there.”



He read it once. Then again. Then once more — not for the words, but for the aching truth in between the lines.

Friday arrived, slow and heavy.

He returned to that same corner of the library — the first place he had ever heard her. And there she was. Holding the same recorder, looking both hopeful and afraid.

He didn’t speak.

He simply walked over, took her hand gently, and pressed “play” on the recorder.

Her voice floated into the silence. An old recording. Her words said:

> “Sometimes, love doesn’t need a voice. It just needs someone who chooses to stay.”



And that’s exactly what Aayan did.

He stayed.

As weeks became months, Zoya’s voice faded away entirely. But their connection didn’t. They crafted a new language together — a language of looks, touches, scribbled notes, and quiet understanding.

Because Aayan never needed her words.

He only ever needed her.