Unfading Love of Unseen

“I wonder how he's doing right now.” The thought passed through me like an old familiar breeze—soft, sudden, and uninvited—as my eyes traced the sky’s slow transformation. Shades of orange melted into amber and gold, bleeding across the horizon like a quiet memory. Sunsets always carry that peaceful kind of silence—the kind where even the wind seems to hold its breath, as if the world pauses not out of exhaustion, but reverence. I let out a soft chuckle. But it came out hollow. Why that question? Why now, after all these years? And yet, it stays. It still breaks me. That first heartbreak—quietly carved into the hidden places of my chest—stirred once again. A faint ache, sharp enough to remind me it never really left. It was as if love, once tender and full, had lost its sanctuary inside me. And now, I don’t know where to hold it anymore. Ten years ago. The image of that day never left me—it flickers behind my eyelids like an old film reel, always finding its way back. The airport. His hopeful eyes scanned the crowd. His nervous fingers brushed down the front of his jacket. His phone in hand, refreshing messages that would never arrive. And me? I never showed. I lied. I have never traveled to India. I never even booked a flight. Because the truth was—I was only seventeen. Still too young to go alone. Still wrapped in rules and fears. He had just turned twenty-one. A proper adult by the world’s standards. And me? I was in between.Yes, I was underage. I knew the laws. And that’s why I lied. When we first met online, I was sixteen and he was twenty. But I told him I was eighteen. Just enough to sound grown. Just enough to keep him from pulling away. I wanted him to see me as someone capable. Someone real. Not a child. I know it was wrong. But I didn’t confess. There were only three years and four months between us, and yet that space felt like an ocean at the time. Still, as months passed and our bond deepened, we fell into a rhythm of our stories in life. We shared laughter, secrets, and fears. And somehow—against the odds—we committed to a relationship across oceans and time zones. He still believed I was twenty, while he had just turned twenty-one. But the reality was, I was still counting down the weeks until my eighteenth birthday. He wanted to meet. I panicked. I always found a way to say no. I made excuses about family, school, and finances. He was patient, then persistent. And eventually, he begged. His voice cracked in a late-night call, his words soft with longing. And because I loved him, I said yes. I faked everything. The booking details. The confirmations. The arrival time. All fabricated—digital smoke and mirrors to keep his hope alive, even though mine was built on fear. Then the day arrived. He was at the airport. Standing alone with a bouquet, maybe. Or wearing that blue shirt he told me he’d wear, so I’d recognize him first. He was searching. Eyes scanning faces. Looking for a girl who never existed. A girl built from messages, voice notes, and promises. A version of me shaped by affection, fear, and foolishness. And I left him with nothing. No explanation. No call. No message. Just silence. That morning, I turned off my phone and curled into myself. My heart ached, but my hands were frozen. I couldn’t face him. I couldn’t face myself. I shattered something that never got the chance to become whole. A single tear rolled down my cheek, tracing the line of a wound that had never fully healed. I wiped it away quickly, but the ache lingered like smoke. Even now, ten years later, the guilt sticks to the corners of my joy. A shadow behind every good thing I try to feel. I left someone in a place no one deserves to be—waiting in between hope and abandonment. I wonder if he ever forgave me. I wonder if he still thinks of me when the sun goes down. I wonder if he even remembers my name. I leaned back in the chair on my apartment balcony and let my eyes drift downward to the world still moving below. A couple walked past on the street—hands laced together, bodies leaning just slightly inward, like the world pulled them toward one another. Their joy was simple. Their love looked effortless. Content in a way I’ve only dreamed. I sighed. A sadness bloomed across my face—not loud or dramatic, but quiet and deep. Like a memory whispered under breath. I thought of him again. Of Aahnik. What if that had been us? Smiling beneath the streetlights, warmed by conversation, wrapped in the safety of each other? I let myself imagine it—just for a second. But dreams don’t rewrite endings. Not even the tender ones. Not even the ones we keep rewriting in our heads just to make the ache bearable.