Prologue
They say time heals. But Rohit never believed it. For him, time only deepened the ache, stretched the silence, and framed memories in gold — too beautiful to forget, too painful to touch. Aasma was gone. But his heart had never stopped waiting.
Chapter One: The First Collision
The streets of Mumbai in September are busy — rain-slick, full of horns, chatter, and hurried dreams. Rohit was never the kind to rush. He moved with intention, with thought. And that evening, he wandered into a local art gallery tucked away behind Churchgate.
She was standing in front of a large canvas — her face soft with thought, her fingers tucked behind her ear like she was brushing away doubt. Aasma. Her name, he would later learn, meant 'sky'.
"Do you see it too?" she asked, turning to him as if she had known him forever.
"The chaos in the colors? Yeah," Rohit said, surprised by his own courage.
That was the beginning — not a spark, but a quiet warmth. Like finding a fireplace in winter.
Chapter Two: Of Chai and Dreams
"You're too grounded, Rohit," she teased one day. "Have you ever thought of just… leaving it all and chasing a wild dream?"
He smiled. "Only if you’re the dream."
And maybe, just maybe, she was.
They spent two years loving each other, building dreams side by side while working in the same company. Mumbai had turned into their personal universe — KFC lunches where they shared zingers and fries, Behrouz Biryani on cozy weekends, and canteen evenings full of stolen glances and laughter.
Chapter Three: Departure
When Aasma got her acceptance letter from UCL, she called Rohit at 2 a.m., voice shaking with joy.
He listened. He encouraged. But his heart sank — quietly, respectfully.
Around the same time, Rohit received his admit for an MBA program in Amritsar. Their lives were set to move forward — just not in the same direction.
"We’ll make it work," she said, holding his hand at the airport.
"Of course," he whispered, kissing her forehead. "No distance can drown love."
But he had seen it in her eyes — that fear of goodbye masked by ambition.
Chapter Four: Echoes Across Oceans
The first month was filled with video calls, voice notes, surprise gifts. Rohit would wake at 3 a.m. just to hear her talk about a class or a quirky professor.
But slowly, the calls became shorter. The replies delayed. Photos turned into single-word texts. "Busy." "Tired." "Later."
And then — nothing.
One day, the silence came to stay.
No explanation. No goodbye.
She had tried reaching out, sending messages and calling, but by then Rohit's heart was too bruised, too guarded. The silence she left behind had cut deep, and when she finally spoke, all he could feel was the pain. His responses were cold, clipped — not because he didn’t care, but because he cared too much, and didn’t know how to show it anymore.
Around a year after, troubling news surfaced about Indian students in London, especially women, facing targeted incidents. Rohit’s heart clenched with fear. Though he couldn’t bring himself to call Aasma directly, the worry gnawed at him until he finally dialed the UK Embassy, posing as a concerned relative. They couldn't offer him much — no specific information. Anxious and helpless, he reached out to the Indian Embassy in London too, but the silence persisted. In desperation, he tweeted to the UK Indian Embassy, tagging officials, pleading for an update. A few hours later, their official handle responded: "We are aware of the situation and are actively monitoring it. All Indian nationals are currently safe and accounted for." It brought a momentary sigh of relief — but Rohit’s chest remained heavy. Until he heard her voice, nothing would truly be okay.
"I'm just trying to ensure she's okay," he said, voice trembling.
"Sir, we can’t disclose personal details without consent," came the firm reply.
He hung up, defeated.
Chapter Five: The Life He Didn't Choose
Rohit’s friends urged him to move on. Set up dates. Meet new people. He tried to be strong, see a new tomorrow, but all he did was compare their laughter, their voices, their way of saying "goodnight."
He never dated again.
He walked through bookstores, airports, coffee shops — half-hoping to see a glimpse of her. A laugh, a scent, a shadow.
She was everywhere. And nowhere.
He kept her photos. Re-read their letters, mails and messages. Wrote her unsent letters. Every birthday, he’d whisper her name and hope it reached London.
Every night, as he lay on his hostel bed, he’d stare at the ceiling and play their last conversation in his head. The silence afterward hurt more than any words could have.
"She was the only girl I ever wanted to hold," he told himself, every day.
Chapter Six: A Letter, Finally
Two years passed.
One evening, unable to hold it anymore, Rohit wrote. Not to blame. Not to beg. Just to empty the weight his heart carried.
"Dear Aasma,
Not a day has passed without you. Not one. I know we don’t speak anymore, but I’ve tried to keep our peace together. You left when I needed you the most. But I still love you, just as I did that first day.
I never stopped waiting. Not for a moment. If even a flicker of that warmth still lives inside you — come back. Let’s stay together."
He sent it. To her old email. Maybe it would bounce. Maybe not.
Chapter Seven: Return of the Sky
Weeks later, a reply came.
"Rohit… I don’t know how to say this. I was scared. I ran because I thought I’d lose myself if I stayed. But in running, I lost something greater — you. Not a day has passed without me thinking of your kindness, your patience, your love. I don’t know if I deserve it again. But I’d like to try… if your heart still waits."
That evening, the sky over Mumbai turned gold.
Aasma returned weeks later — no dramatic airport scene, no fanfare. Just Rohit waiting quietly at the gallery where it all began.
She walked in.
He looked up, heart still, eyes soft.
"Took you long enough," he whispered.
She smiled, a little broken, a little hopeful.
"I was always coming back," she replied. "I just had to find the courage."
He stepped forward, and for the first time in years — held her.
Epilogue: Together, This Time
Some loves don’t fade. They pause. They wait in corners of poems, in chai cups, in unsent letters and dreams.
And when they return — they carry the weight of all the yesterdays.
But they also bring a new tomorrow.
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