"Sometimes, love waits. But people don't always know how."
The airport was colder than Purvi had imagined.
It wasn't the usual kind of cold. Not the predictable bite of air-conditioning that made your skin prickle and your nose sting. This cold came from somewhere deeper — the kind that slipped under her skin and settled in her chest like an ache she couldn't name. It hummed beneath the sterile buzz of the terminal lights, the rolling suitcases, the sharp taps of heels on polished floors. Everyone was in motion, rushing to their destinations, eyes filled with urgency or exhaustion. But Purvi stood still — a pocket of stillness in the middle of so much movement.
Ayaan was beside her, his suitcase upright and his posture tense. He was dressed casually — dark hoodie, worn-out jeans, sneakers that had probably walked miles with her. But today, they looked unfamiliar, like they belonged to someone already gone.
He hadn't said much since they arrived.
Not out of cruelty. Not even out of fear.
Just... restraint.
And that made it worse.
Purvi had memorized him a hundred times over in the last few days. She knew the mole on the left side of his jaw, the way his lips twitched slightly when he was thinking hard, the sound he made when he yawned — somewhere between a sigh and a growl. She could even tell the difference in his footsteps, the way he walked when he was lost in thought versus when he was excited. She had built a universe around these details.
And now, she had to let them go.
The final boarding gate loomed in the distance like a countdown, unspoken but loud. She glanced at the glowing screen overhead — the flight number already blinking, boarding started.
Still, Ayaan said nothing.
So she did.
"You're really going," she whispered, voice barely audible over the background noise.
He nodded, slowly.
"I have to," he said, looking at her with those deep, dark eyes that used to feel like home. "You know that."
"I do," she said, biting the inside of her cheek.
He reached for her hand — warm fingers brushing against her cold ones. The contact broke something in her, though she kept her composure like a fragile glass balancing on the edge of a table.
"Four years," he said. "Maybe three, if I fast-track. It'll go quickly."
She stared at their hands, interlocked like puzzle pieces, imperfect but perfect in the ways that mattered.
"I'll be here," she murmured, her voice trembling now. "I'll wait."
Ayaan's hand stiffened slightly. Then relaxed.
"Don't say that unless you mean it."
"I do," she said again, this time with more certainty, though something inside her felt like it was sinking.
He looked away, the crease between his brows deepening — the one that appeared when he was trying to say things he didn't know how to say.
"I just… I don't want you to put your life on pause for me," he said. "You're smart, Purvi. You're gifted. You're already doing something incredible with your writing. You see the world in a way I can't. I don't want to be the reason you stop."
She took a step closer, placed her palm on his chest. His heartbeat thudded beneath her hand, steady and strong, like it had always been.
"I'm not pausing anything," she said softly. "Loving someone isn't pausing. It's part of life. It gives it meaning."
His eyes searched hers, almost as if he didn't believe it.
"I love you," she added, the words trembling but true.
His lips parted, and for a second, he didn't say anything. Then, his hand came up to touch hers. "I love you too."
They stood like that for a long moment, two hearts pressed against the inevitable. Around them, the airport buzzed on, but in their bubble, time slowed.
Then came the final boarding call.
It was time.
Ayaan looked over his shoulder, toward the gate, then back at her. There was a hesitation — a question behind his eyes, one she couldn't quite read.
"I'll message you the moment I land," he promised.
Purvi nodded. "I'll wait for it."
He hugged her, pulling her into his arms — arms that had always made her feel safe, that had held her when she was afraid of the future, when the world felt too cruel, too uncertain. She clung to him, burying her face in his hoodie, inhaling his scent. He smelled like him. How did one capture a smell and lock it away forever?
She didn't want to let go.
He kissed the top of her head, held her tighter, and then gently — too gently — pulled away.
"I have to go."
She nodded again. Her lips didn't work anymore. Her tears had fallen quietly, silently, and soaked into his sleeve.
And then he walked away.
He didn't look back.
Not once.
That night, the silence of her room was a different kind of unbearable.
The moonlight filtered in through her window, casting pale blue shadows on the floor. Her chair — her favorite one by the window — creaked slightly as she curled into it, knees pulled to her chest. She had a blanket draped over her shoulders and her phone in hand. The chat screen with Ayaan glowed softly in the darkness, a conversation still stuck on their last message:
Ayaan: "Boarding now. Love you."
It had been five hours.
She told herself the flight was long. That maybe he was sleeping. That maybe his phone had no service.
She told herself all the things people tell themselves when they're trying not to panic.
Still, a part of her waited for that little dot-dot-dot bubble to appear.
Nothing.
She opened the draft of her story — the one she had been writing all these months. The one inspired by the people she saw from her window. But the words wouldn't come. Not tonight. The characters felt distant. The page looked emptier than usual.
Because a part of her was missing now.
A part of her had walked away through Gate 14.
She scrolled up through her messages with Ayaan again. They were filled with love — quiet, real love. Pictures of random sunsets, messages like "eat something" and "how's your breath today?" Notes left outside her door, jokes only they understood. It had been a love built slowly, tenderly, within the four walls of her illness and his patience.
She knew people said long-distance worked. That love could survive oceans.
But they hadn't seen the way his eyes didn't quite meet hers when he said goodbye.
They hadn't heard the silence in his voice.
She didn't doubt he loved her.
She just wasn't sure love was always enough.
The thought made her chest tighten.
Then came the noise.
A soft ping.
Her heart jumped. She fumbled to unlock the phone.
New message.
But it wasn't from Ayaan.
It was from an unknown number.
Unknown:"Did you really think he'd tell you everything before leaving?"
Purvi stared at the screen, breath caught in her throat.
The typing bubble appeared again.
Unknown:"Some stories only begin after someone walks away."
She froze.
Her first instinct was to believe it was a prank.
But her fingers trembled.
She looked again at the name: Unknown. No profile picture. No other message history. Nothing.
Who would send this?
Her heart pounded. She felt sick.
She looked out the window, suddenly aware of how quiet the street was. How dark. The usual old man with his dog was missing. The bakery light was off. Even the cat that prowled the alley wasn't there.
The world looked... paused.
She looked back at her phone.
Typing.
The person was typing again.
Then it stopped.
She waited.
But nothing came.
Her breath fogged the window glass as she leaned forward. Something about the message — the timing — felt wrong. Too intimate. Too intentional.
Did Ayaan know?
Was it about him?
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard, unsure of what to say.
Then, finally, she typed:
Purvi:"Who is this?"
No reply.
She waited.
Minutes passed.
Then another message blinked onto the screen:
Unknown:"Look closer, Purvi. The story you're writing… It's not fiction."
She dropped the phone.
To be continued...