Love, Unrequited

She, with pigtails and red ribbons. 

He, with scraped knees from innumerable bicycle falls. 

They, with shared lunchboxes and personal jokes which only they understood and laughed at. 

They were six. They were inseparable. 

Vikram and Saira. 

As they grew up, so did something unspoken between them. In high school, when a boy left a love letter in Saira’s notebook, she barely read it before tearing it apart. Vikram noticed but said nothing. And when girls gushed about Vikram’s charming smile, Saira only pretended to be uninterested, waiting—always waiting—for him to turn to her.

In college, boys pursued Saira, but she refused them all, always hoping that one day Vikram would gather the courage to ask. He never did. Instead, they remained best friends, standing beside each other through exams, late-night study sessions, and stolen moments beneath moonlit skies.

But after college, life pulled them apart. There were no bitter words, no dramatic farewell—just a long silence that stretched between them until it became an insurmountable distance.

Years passed. Saira got married. Vikram did too. Life moved forward, but the memory of him was like a quiet ache in her heart, a love that had never bloomed but had never quite died either. She kept it placed carefully in a special corner of her heart.  

Then one evening, out of the blue, her phone rang. The name on the screen made her hold her breath. 

Vikram.

She hesitated. And then, with trembling fingers, answered.

“Hello?”

There was a pause, and then—“Saira…” His voice was deeper, yet unmistakable. It sent a shiver through her, pulling her back to a time when they sat side by side, dreaming of tomorrows that never came.

They talked about everything and nothing, falling into old rhythms as if no time had passed. He told her about his life, and she told him about hers. Then, after a quiet lull, he sighed.

“You know, I had feelings for you back then,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Saira’s heart stopped. “What?”

“Yes I was in love with you,” he said. “For years. But I never had the courage to say it. I was afraid of losing you.”

The world around her blurred. She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “Vikram… I felt the same way.”

Silence. A long, stunned silence where both of them realised the gravity of what they had just confessed.

“All those times,” Saira whispered, her voice laced with longing, “I kept waiting for you. I kept turning people away, hoping that one day you’d ask.”

Vikram let out a soft, almost broken laugh. “And I kept telling myself you deserved better than me.”

They fell silent again, the what-ifs stretching between them like a bittersweet melody.

The night deepened as they reminisced, reliving old memories—the way he’d sneak chocolates into her bag during exams, the way she’d hold his hand just a second longer than necessary when they crossed the street. Every stolen glance, every unsaid word—now laid bare, too late, yet somehow still precious. Maybe more. 

They spoke until dawn, their words soaked in nostalgia and quiet yearning.

But as the sun began to rise, reality seeped back in.

“I think this has to be our last conversation,” Vikram said softly. “We both have our lives now.”

Saira’s throat tightened. She had known this was coming. “I know.” She followed it with silence. 

“Saira?”

“Yes?”

“Promise me you’ll be happy.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Only if you promise the same.”

He let out a faint chuckle. “Deal.”

And just like that, they said their final goodbye.

The call ended, but the memory of this call would linger forever—a love that never was, yet somehow, in that one conversation, had finally found its voice.

Copyright (c) Pratik Majumdar, 2025. Any article, story, write-up cannot be reproduced in its entirety or in part, without permission. URL links can be used