Whispered Promise

He had loved her for as long as he could remember. Since the days of scraped knees and stolen ice creams, through endless late-night calls where she poured her heart out about boys who didn’t deserve her, he had loved her. Quietly, steadfastly, without expectations.

Meera was his best friend—laughing, free-spirited, unpredictable. She danced in the rain and made wishes on fallen eyelashes. And Ayan? He was the one who stood beside her, steady as the earth beneath her feet.

Every heartbreak, every joy, she ran to him first.

“Ayan, do you think he likes me?” she’d ask, eyes bright with hope.

He’d swallow the lump in his throat and smile. “If he has any sense, he will.”

And when they didn’t, when they left her shattered, he held her together—until she was ready to love again.

But no one ever saw her the way he did. No one else memorised the way her eyes changed colour under different lights, or how she hummed when she was lost in thought. No one else wrote her into the margins of their life like she was the story itself.

So he wrote it down. Every moment, every feeling, tucked away in a folder on his laptop—a love he never had the courage to say aloud.

And then one evening, fate intervened.

He was late in bringing the espresso and cappuccino to their usual seat in the café. Meera, waiting at their seat , absentmindedly flipped open his laptop. A folder named For Meera. She was surprised to see a folder with her name on it. She debated whether she should open it or not. Eventually her curiosity won over her decency. 

And in the next instant, her world changed.

The words on the screen weren’t just words. They were confessions, quiet and unwavering, woven into poetry and prose. Love so deep it made her breath catch.

By the time Ayan returned, she was sitting by the window, staring at the laptop, her fingers trembling as they traced his words.

He froze in the space next to their corner table. He didn’t need to ask. He knew.

“You wrote these?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

A long silence.

“I did.”

She exhaled, closing her eyes for a moment before looking at him. “Ayan…” She didn’t know what to say. She loved him—just not in the way he had loved her. And yet, the feel  of his love, so constant, so unwavering, made her uncertain and lost. 

He gave her a small, knowing smile, the kind that broke her heart a little.

“You don’t have to say it,” he murmured. “I already know.”

She blinked back tears. “But what do I do now? What do we do now?”

Ayan walked toward her, kneeling beside her chair, gently taking her hand in his. His touch was warm, familiar—home.

“You do what you’ve always done,” he said softly. “You live, love, dream.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles, as if memorising the feel of her one last time. “And I… I will love you the way I always have. Without asking for anything in return.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She had always known Ayan was extraordinary, but at this moment, he was something even greater—he was love in its purest form.

She reached out, cupping his face, her voice breaking. “You deserve the kind of love you give, Ayan.”

He smiled, leaning into her touch for the briefest second before pulling away.

“Maybe one day,” he whispered. “But for now, this is enough.”

And though her heart ached, she knew that his love—silent, unshaken, infinite—would remain, like a whispered promise always jn her heart. 

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