"Whispers of the Heart"

Ayaan had always believed that love was a myth—a poetic exaggeration of feelings too delicate for the harshness of reality. He was a quiet, observant man, preferring the company of books and rain-soaked windows to people. Living in Lahore, where life moved with the rhythm of rickshaws and rainstorms, Ayaan felt most at peace when the world was silent.

And then, he met Zoya.

She wasn’t loud or overly cheerful. In fact, she was just like him—calm, reflective, with eyes that seemed to carry the weight of unsaid stories. They met at a secondhand bookstore on Mall Road. Zoya reached for a worn-out copy of Pride and Prejudice at the same moment Ayaan did. Their hands touched. An awkward apology followed. Then a smile. A soft, real smile that lingered a bit longer than it should have.

From that day forward, their meetings became frequent but never planned. They’d sit at a corner café with their books open, sometimes reading, sometimes stealing glances. Not much was said, but there was something in the air around them—something like a whisper. The heart always knows, even when the lips are silent.

One rainy afternoon, as monsoon clouds painted the sky grey, they sat under the shelter of a tea stall. Raindrops tapped a rhythm on the tin roof. Zoya looked at him, her eyes searching his.

“Do you believe in love at first sight?” she asked suddenly.

Ayaan looked down, hesitant. “I believe in love that grows. Quietly. Without rushing.”

Zoya nodded, smiling. “Like a seed turning into a tree.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “Like whispers of the heart.”

That sentence stayed with her. It wasn’t a confession, but it was more powerful than any declaration of love. She began to write that sentence on the last page of every book she read: Like whispers of the heart.

Their bond deepened. Still no grand gestures. No dramatic moments. Just small things—a scarf held against the wind, a book gifted with a note, shared silence that didn’t feel empty.

But life is rarely a straight road. Zoya’s father received a job offer in Karachi, and the family was to move within two weeks. The news hit Ayaan like a wave crashing onto an unsuspecting shore.

They met one last time, sitting in their usual corner of the café. The sky outside mirrored their mood—cloudy and unsure.

“I’m not good with goodbyes,” Zoya said, wrapping her fingers around her teacup.

“Then don’t say it,” Ayaan replied, looking into her eyes. “Let this just be a pause.”

“What if the pause becomes permanent?” she whispered.

Ayaan reached into his satchel and pulled out a book—The Little Prince. Inside the last page, written in his clean handwriting, were the words:
Even if you're miles away, I’ll still hear your heart whispering mine.

She didn’t cry. She simply took the book, pressed it to her chest, and smiled with eyes that were breaking inside.

Years passed.

Ayaan continued his quiet life, now writing for a local magazine. Zoya’s memory never left him. Every article, every poem he wrote, carried echoes of her presence. He never tried to find her, believing if fate had brought them together once, it could do so again.

Then, one winter evening, as he walked into the same bookstore where they had first met, he saw her.

She was standing in the same corner, holding a copy of Pride and Prejudice. She turned, their eyes met, and time collapsed between them.

“You still like this one?” he asked, walking toward her.

She smiled. “It’s still my favorite.”

“I’ve been waiting to finish a sentence,” he said, reaching into his coat and handing her a folded note.

She opened it. It read:
If this is more than a whisper, speak now.

Without a word, she reached forward, took his hand, and whispered, “It always was.”