Some love stories begin between the lines — and never truly end

The first time Alina saw Zayan, he was sitting alone under the old banyan tree on campus, sketching something in his notebook. It was their first week at university — a new life, unfamiliar faces, and the silent pressure of expectations.

She wasn’t looking for anything. She was just trying to get from one lecture to another. But something about him caught her eye — the way he tilted his head when he drew, how the world seemed to blur around him while his pencil moved.

Zayan wasn’t the loud, outgoing type. He didn’t hang around in groups or flirt like the other boys in their batch. He was quiet. Thoughtful. And strangely, that made him stand out.

They first spoke when she dropped her file outside the library.

He bent down to help her. Their hands touched.

“Are you in Fine Arts?” he asked, looking at the sketches peeking from her folder.

“No,” she smiled. “Architecture. But I sketch sometimes.”

“I can tell,” he said softly. “Your lines look confident.”

It was such a simple thing to say. But no one had ever noticed her work like that. Not even her parents, who were more focused on grades than dreams.

After that, it became routine. They’d meet at the same bench after class, sharing snacks, sketches, and secrets. He told her about his love for old buildings, how he wanted to restore Mughal architecture one day. She told him about her fear of losing herself in a world that often asked women to shrink.

One rainy afternoon, they were stuck under the same banyan tree — her hair soaked, his sketchbook ruined. And just like that, the walls between them fell.

“I think I love you,” he said, like he’d been holding it in too long.

She laughed through the thunder, her eyes shining. “You think?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “I know.”

They didn’t make a scene of it. No grand proposal. No social media announcements. Just two souls, quietly choosing each other every day.

They studied together. Grew together. Dreamed together.

But life, as always, had its tests.

In their final year, Zayan’s father fell ill. He had to go back to their hometown in Sukkur to take care of the family business. The plan was simple — finish his responsibilities, come back, and marry her.

But nothing went as planned.

Months turned into silence. Messages slowed. Calls became short. Alina tried to be understanding, telling herself that love required patience.

But deep down, the distance was breaking her.

One day, she received a letter. In his handwriting.

"Alina,

I wish I had better words. But the truth is, I don’t know when I’ll be able to come back. My family needs me more than ever. And you… you deserve someone who doesn’t leave you waiting.

I love you. I always will. But I can’t ask you to put your life on hold for me.

Forgive me.

– Zayan"

She didn’t cry.

Not at first.

But that night, she walked to the banyan tree, the one that had seen the beginning of everything, and let her heart break in silence.

Years passed.

Alina graduated, got a job at an architectural firm in Lahore, built a life. But sometimes, when she passed an old building or saw someone sketching by themselves, a piece of her heart whispered his name.

Then, one winter, while attending a restoration project in Multan, she was asked to meet the lead architect overseeing the heritage site.

She walked into the meeting room — and froze.

It was him.

Zayan.

Older, a little tired, but unmistakably him. He looked up. Their eyes met.

He stood.

“Alina…” he said, like it was the first breath after being underwater.

She didn’t know what to say.

“After all this time?” she whispered.

“I kept waiting for a sign,” he said. “And here you are.”

Neither of them moved for a moment. Then, slowly, they sat down, across from each other, the table between them filled not with blueprints — but years of stories untold.

“I never stopped loving you,” he said quietly.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she smiled. “Some love isn’t meant to fade.”

Outside, the old walls of the city stood tall — strong, weathered, but still standing. Just like them.

And somewhere in Alina’s heart, a sketch began again — not of buildings or dreams — but of a love that never left, only paused