After that incident, we never spoke again.
But I tried. I truly did.
I don’t know what kind of fear held me back-maybe sadness, maybe shame, maybe something I couldn’t name.
I confided in Vimla, my classmate.
She knew Sneha well—they were part of the same school group.
I asked her to help, to say something on my behalf.
And she did.
One afternoon, just after the recess bell rang, Vimla came rushing to me.
“Cazal, come quickly!” she said.
I was sitting in class, weighed down by hesitation.
I didn’t move fast—maybe it was laziness, maybe heartbreak.
By the time I reached her, she said,
“I told Sneha to talk to you. She was standing near Class 12.
But she’s gone now—she had to return to class.”
I stood there, crushed.
Maybe she wasn’t meant to be in my destiny.
Days passed like shadows—long, shapeless, and silent.
After the final exam, Sneha left.
Her father had been transferred from Bengdubi, and with that, she vanished from my world. There was no farewell, no last glance, no moment to hold onto.
Just an absence that settled into the corners of my days like dust.
I asked Bhaswati, her classmate, for her address—again and again.
Each time, she gave the same answer: “I don’t have it.”
Maybe she truly didn’t. Maybe she was protecting something. Or maybe some stories are meant to end without a forwarding address.
Life became dull, like a song stuck on a single note.
I went through the motions— classes, conversations—but everything felt muted.
The colors faded. The laughter felt distant. And in that quiet ache, I picked up some bad habits. Drinking, though never too much.
Just enough to blur the edges of memory. Just enough to soften the sharpness of longing. It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t escape. It was a slow surrender to the silence she left behind.
Yugal knew everything. He suggested me to open accounts on Hi5, Orkut, and Facebook.
“She might be there,” he said.
He also told me to read Student Today magazine- maybe she had posted something there.
So, I started going to a nearby internet café every week or two. It was a small room with humming CPUs, dusty keyboards, and posters of Bollywood stars peeling off the walls. I’d sit there, surrounded by strangers clicking away at games and emails, while I searched for one name.
Sneha.
I created accounts on Hi5, Orkut, and Facebook—each one a new hope. I filled in my profile, uploaded a photo, typed out interests I thought might catch her eye.
Then I searched. Again, and again. Different spellings. Different cities. Scrolling through endless profiles, staring at faces that weren’t hers.
I even started reading Student Today magazines, flipping through every page, hoping for a clue. A mention. A photo. A school achievement. Anything.
But it was all in vain.
No trace of her. Not a name, not a photo, not a single sign. Just silence.
The kind that echoes louder the more you listen.
Still, I passed Class 12 with good marks. Yugal and I scored the same percentage, and we joined the same college. In my third year of college, Bhaswati joined as a first-year student.
When I saw her for the first time on campus, a quiet happiness stirred in me. She was a familiar face from a fading chapter—someone who had once stood at the edges of my story with Sneha. I watched her from a distance for a moment, unsure if I should approach.
But something in her presence felt safe, like a bridge to a time I hadn’t fully let go of.
With a little hesitation, I walked up to her.
“Do you have Sneha’s address?” I asked, my voice softer than I intended.
She looked at me, surprised. Her eyes searched mine—not with judgment, but with a kind of gentle curiosity.
“You still haven’t forgotten her?” she asked.
I didn’t answer right away.
There was no need to explain the weight of years, the quiet ache that never asked for attention.
I just smiled—a smile that held silence, longing, and all the questions I never dared to ask.
Then I said, “No.”
She nodded gently.
“Okay,” she said, “I’ll bring her address tomorrow.”
I smiled, a flicker of hope lighting up inside me. “Thank you,”
I whispered, as if the words themselves might break the moment.
But the next day, she didn’t come. I waited near the corridor, glancing at every passing face. Each hour felt stretched, like time itself was teasing me.
Maybe she forgot. Maybe she changed her mind.
The day after, she came—but empty-handed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, brushing her hair behind her ear, “I forgot to bring it.”
I nodded, trying to hide the disappointment. “It’s okay,” I said, though it wasn’t.
And then, finally, on a quiet afternoon when I wasn’t expecting anything, she walked up to me, holding a small, torn piece of paper.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she handed it over
“This is Sneha’s address,” she said...
I took it slowly, as if it might vanish if I moved too fast.
The paper was worn, creased at the edges, the ink faded but still legible. Probably scribbled long ago, when Sneha had shared it in Class 9.
It felt like holding a piece of time. I held it like a treasure.
I stared at it for a long moment.
Sneha’s name. Her street. The town. It was real.
Something I could hold. Something I could follow.
I looked up at Bhaswati, my heart full. Without a word, I stepped outside, crossed the road, and bought a chocolate from the nearest shop.
When I returned, I handed it to her.
She smiled, surprised.
“There’s no need for this,” she said.
But I insisted.
“Please take it,” I said softly.
“And thank you—for the address.”
She took it, her smile lingering.
And I stood there, with a torn piece of paper in my hand, and a thousand emotions folded inside it.
So, when I finally held Sneha’s address in my hand, I didn’t know what to do. How do you reach someone who once stood so close, but now feels like a distant memory?
It was Valentine’s Day.
I asked Yugal in college, “Can I send her a Valentine card?”
He smiled and said, “Of course. You can give it to anyone.”
That was all the permission I needed.
I went to the greeting card shop, my heart thudding like a drum. I chose a card-not too fancy, not too plain. This time, I didn’t write much.
Just: From your new friend.
I posted the card through the post office, along with an acknowledgment slip-the kind where the receiver signs upon delivery, and it’s sent back to the sender by post. That way, I’d know for sure she received it. It felt like a small thread of certainty.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
But the slip never came back.
Each morning, I checked the mailbox.
Each evening, I told myself not to expect anything. But hope is stubborn. It lingers even when courage begins to fade.
And slowly, I was losing mine. Days passed like shadows across the wall. Still no acknowledgment slip. No letter. No sign.
It was late at night. The kind of night when silence feels heavier than usual, and memories stir like whispers in the dark. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, the ache of unanswered questions pressing against my chest. The card I had once sent, the acknowledgment slip that never came, the friend request that ended in silence-all of it still lingered inside me like a song I didn’t play anymore but remembered every note., I thought:
“If even God can be found through searching, why not her?”
And then, almost without thinking, I reached for my phone. I opened Facebook. Typed her name. Sneha. The letters felt sacred, like a prayer I’d whispered for years.
I had searched before—many times, in many ways. But this time, something shifted. A new profile appeared. Her name. Her photo.
And there she was.
Sneha.
Her face, familiar yet distant, stared back at me from the screen. It felt like the world had paused. Like time had folded in on itself, bringing me face-to-face with a memory I had never stopped loving.
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared.
Her smile in the photo was soft, untouched by the years that had passed. Her eyes held the same quiet depth I remembered from school. Each picture was a frozen moment from a life I had once tried to be part of.
I took screenshots—not out of obsession, but out of a quiet need to hold on to something real. Proof that she existed. That my feelings weren’t just a dream.
I didn’t like a photo. Didn’t leave a comment. Didn’t send a message. Because sometimes, just finding someone feels like enough.
But after a few days, I gathered the courage to send a friend request.
Along with a message:
“Hi from your new friend.”
Simple. Honest. The same words I had once written in a Valentine card that never came back to me.
The next day, I checked my account.
And I was blocked. No reply. No explanation. Just gone.
It felt like being erased. Like my presence was too much, even in its gentlest form.
I told Shyam, a classmate from collage. He listened quietly, then said, “Let me try.”
He sent her a message. A friend request. And the next day-he was blocked too.
That was the moment I understood.
She didn’t want to be found. Not by me. Not by anyone connected to me. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe some stories are meant to stay unfinished.
But it didn’t stop the ache. It didn’t stop the questions.
What had I done wrong? Was it the card? The message? Or simply the fact that I cared?
Years had passed. The ache had softened, but never disappeared. It lived quietly inside me-like a song I didn’t play anymore, but still remembered every note.
One day, I made another Facebook account.
Not to reach out.
Not to send a message.
Just to see her.
Just to know she was still somewhere in the world.
Her profile was quiet.
No new posts, no updates.
But her pictures were still there- frozen moments from a life I once tried to be part of.
In one photo, she was reading a book:
It Happens for a Reason.
I stared at the cover for a long time.
It felt like a message, or maybe just a coincidence that my heart wanted to believe in.
I searched for the book online. Downloaded it. And read every page. Not because I was curious about the story, but because she had held it in her hands. And I wanted to understand what might have spoken to her.
That was enough for me. Just seeing her. Just knowing she existed beyond the silence.
Five or six years had passed.
Time had softened the ache, but never erased it. Like a song I no longer played, yet remembered every note.
One evening, I opened Facebook again. Not with hope. Not with expectation. Just with the quiet habit of remembering.
I typed her name.
Sneha.
Her profile was still there-unchanged, quiet, like a room no longer visited but still preserved.
And then I saw it.
A new photo.
She was standing beside someone-Albert.
Her husband. The caption didn’t say much. But the photo said everything.
She looked happy. Her smile was gentle, her eyes calm. There was no trace of the girl I used to search for. Only a woman who had moved on, who had found her own rhythm in life.
I stared at that photo for a long time.
Not with bitterness.
Not with regret.
Just with a quiet acceptance.
It was like watching a story from the outside. Once I had hoped to be part of, but now simply observed.
I didn’t save the photo. Didn’t take a screenshot.
I just looked.
And then I closed the tab.
Because sometimes, love isn’t about holding on.
It’s about letting go-with grace.
Even today, I visit her profile sometimes. Not to disturb. Not to reach out.
Just to remember.
Because even silence speaks.
And that photo-her smile beside Albert-was the final chapter I never wrote but always carried.
It’s not about rekindling anything.
It’s not about changing the past.
It’s just about remembering-the way she smiled, the way hope once felt, the way a single card could carry a thousand emotions. And maybe that’s enough.
Or maybe-just maybe-it’s more than enough. Because in that remembering,
I found a gentler version of myself. Not the one who waited, but the one who learned to walk forward with love folded quietly in her pocket.
Some stories don’t need endings. They just need a place to rest.
And hers-her smile beside Albert- became that place.
Not a wound. Not a wish.
Just a soft corner in my heart where grace lives, and silence sings.
And so, with a heart full of memories and a soul softened by time, I close this chapter-not with regret, but with quiet gratitude. Some stories are not meant to be finished, only remembered. Thank you for walking through these pages with me. Every word was written with care, every image chosen with love. May this work speak to your heart as it did to mine.
