The Letter of a Cold Evening

In a small, cluttered room tucked inside a crowded neighborhood of Dhaka, Rafi sat by the window, staring into the fading twilight. The evening felt different today. Just as the sun slowly sank below the horizon, a quiet darkness crept into the corners of his heart. Beside him lay an old envelope—worn at the edges—with handwritten words on it: “Rafi, My Final Words – Ayesha.”

Ayesha. The name alone could bring tears to his eyes.

She was the girl whose laughter once dissolved Rafi’s deepest sorrows. They had met during their university years. Ayesha was full of life—vibrant, spontaneous, and someone who loved fearlessly. Rafi, on the other hand, was quiet, reserved, and often lost in the shadows of his own thoughts.

Their love had bloomed gently, like spring after a long winter. Holding hands on evening walks, sharing secrets in the library's silent corners, laughing over silly fights—those moments painted a canvas of love too deep for words. But time, as always, had other plans.

After graduation, life pulled them in separate directions. Rafi went abroad for work, chasing dreams they once had discussed together. Ayesha stayed behind, waiting. Days turned into weeks, then months. They tried to stay connected—texts, late-night calls, and virtual promises—but slowly, time and distance wore them down.

One day, Ayesha had asked him, “Rafi, do you still make time for me in your new world?”

Rafi had been silent. Caught in the whirlwind of work and ambition, he had forgotten how loneliness could quietly destroy someone. He didn’t know that Ayesha had begun to disappear—bit by bit—from herself.

Then, she was gone. Her phone went dead, social media inactive, and even mutual friends had no idea where she was.

Two years later, on a random winter afternoon, a letter arrived.

With trembling fingers, Rafi opened the envelope and began to read:

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"Dear Rafi,

I know you're probably very busy now—with your new life, your dreams. But my days have stood still. After you left, I would sit by the window every evening, hoping maybe one day you'd return.

At first, I accepted your silence. I told myself it was temporary. But over time, I realized you were slowly fading away, like a memory refusing to stay.

Rafi, I have cancer. Today, the doctor told me my days are numbered. I don’t hold anything against you. I just wanted to leave behind the last piece of my heart in this letter.

Please take care of yourself.

With love,

Ayesha"

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By the time he finished reading, Rafi’s tears were soaking the page. There was no anger, no accusations in her words—only love, pure and selfless. A kind of love he didn’t deserve, yet one he would carry with him forever.

The next morning, he took a bus to the village where Ayesha had grown up. Her tiny home stood quietly at the edge of a rice field. Neighbors recognized him instantly. An elderly woman gently touched his arm and said, “She waited for you till her last breath.”

Inside her room, untouched by time, he found her desk. On it was a faded photograph of him, and next to it, the envelope from which the letter had come. The room smelled of her—the warmth of memories still hanging in the air.

That evening, Rafi sat alone outside her house, watching the sky turn orange and purple. His heart felt heavier than it ever had before. Everything he had achieved—money, position, success—seemed meaningless. He had lost something irreplaceable.

Some stories don’t have closure, only echoes. Rafi now lived with one such story—a love lost not to betrayal or time, but to absence and silence. A love that was waiting, quietly, until the end.

And on every cold evening that followed, Rafi would sit by his window, clutching the letter close, as if trying to hold onto what was already gone.