Better not to Fall in Love.

Better not to Fall in Love.

Trisha was a bright literature student at a reputed university in Dhaka. She had always been an introvert, more comfortable around books than people. Her world was a quiet one—filled with poems, stories, old songs, and rainy afternoons spent scribbling into her journal. Friends came and went, but nothing truly settled in her heart. She had seen people fall in love, and she had also seen how painfully most of it ended. So she promised herself—“I won’t fall in love. Not me.”

That promise began to waver when Arif entered her life.

He was a transfer student, tall and calm, with thoughtful eyes and a voice that never hurried. The first time she spoke in class about a poem by Pablo Neruda, Trisha felt something shift. He spoke not just with knowledge but with passion. It felt like he understood things even before they were said.

They became friends. It started innocently—discussing literature after class, recommending books, walking to the library together. But soon, their conversations stretched beyond the campus. Late-night texts, sharing childhood memories, favorite movies, hidden fears. It was as if she had known him in another life. Her world, once so quiet, began to hum with color.

Trisha was falling. Every line he spoke, every glance he gave, became something she carried with her.

But Arif? He was always kind. Always present. But never crossing that invisible line.

After weeks of sleepless nights and heartbeats echoing louder than reason, she decided to confess.

They were sitting under the old banyan tree on campus, the one near the pond where the lilies bloomed every winter. She looked at him, nervous, her fingers shaking slightly.

“Arif… I think I like you,” she said softly.

He didn’t respond immediately. He looked at her with eyes that were calm, not startled. As if he had expected it, maybe even feared it.

Then he said, “Trisha… you are a beautiful person. Truly. And I admire you a lot.”

She held her breath.

“But I don’t believe in falling in love. At least not now. Not in the way people often do—losing themselves in it. I’ve seen too many people give up on their dreams in the name of love. I promised myself I wouldn’t become one of them.”

Trisha’s heart dropped. She tried to smile, but the tears threatened to spill.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he added, gently. “I just think… sometimes, not falling in love is the better choice. Especially when both people have miles to go before they’re truly ready.”

They sat in silence. The kind that doesn’t demand words. The kind that aches.

After that day, something changed. They still talked, but less often. Trisha buried herself in her writing, her studies. She poured her heart into her stories, letting unspoken emotions find a home in fiction. It hurt, yes—but slowly, the pain turned into strength.

Two years later, Trisha became a published author. Her debut novel, “The Wind That Stayed,” received critical acclaim for its delicate portrayal of unspoken love and silent strength. At the book launch, a journalist asked her, “What inspired your story?”

She smiled, looking at the dedication page of her book. It read:

“To the one who taught me that sometimes, not falling in love is how we learn to love ourselves.”

She never told anyone, but she often wondered what Arif was doing. Last she heard, he had received a fellowship abroad, working in a research institute on climate studies. She imagined him surrounded by books and theories, still quiet, still intense.

They never met again. Never wrote to each other. But in some quiet corner of her heart, Trisha kept a space for him—not as a lost love, but as a teacher.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t end in togetherness. Sometimes, it ends with clarity.

And for Trisha, that was enough.