Lasya was still in school when she first felt that quiet pinch in the heart that arrives without warning and refuses to explain itself. It came every time she saw the boy from the neighbourhood. Neither loudly, nor dramatically. Just a soft tightening, like something gently rearranging itself inside her.

Every afternoon, he passed by her lane on his way to tuition classes. She would be on the terrace, books open, mind elsewhere. What drew her wasn’t how he arrived, but how he existed. She liked the calm assurance in his walk, the way he acknowledged people, smiled at elders and spoke to children.

He was fair and undeniably handsome, but not in a sharp or intimidating way. His face held a kindness that softened everything else. He was an all-rounder, played football, led his school as head boy, and yet wore his achievements lightly. There was something deeply reassuring about him: tender without being weak, confident without being loud. The kind of boy whom parents trusted, teachers admired, and girls quietly noticed.

Many girls in the neighbourhood liked him. It was obvious. His manners, his respectful tone, and the way he listened all added to a charm that felt effortless. But Lasya noticed something else: he never tried to impress. He was simply himself.

She, on the other hand, was still very much a child of the house. Wheatish in complexion, chubby, endlessly pampered, and protected by friends and family alike. She carried the softness of someone not yet aware of her own becoming. Compared to him, she felt unfinished, small, and almost invisible.

Once, while she was watching him from the terrace, one of her cousins nudged her teasingly and said, almost casually,
“Tujhe pata hai? Woh cycle chalate hue bilkul Aamir Khan lagta hai.”

Lasya blinked, caught off guard, and replied innocently,
“Kaun Aamir Khan?”

Her cousin laughed. “Are wohi, Hindi film Dil ka hero. Chal, aaj VCD mein uski movie dikhati hun.”

Lasya waved her off, her cheeks turning crimpson. “Are nahi nahi… mujhe homework khatam karna hai, warna mummy dantegi.”

Her cousin snorted, clearly enjoying her flustered state, while they both laughed at the absurdity of it all.

But deep down, her cousin’s words lingered in Lasya’s mind. She couldn’t unsee it after that. The gentle eyes, the boyish smile and the quiet intensity that reminded her of those Sunday afternoon movie scenes where Aamir stood vulnerable yet brave, loving without knowing how to say it out loud. The comparison gave her feelings a shape and made her crush feel justified.

Once or twice, their eyes met. A couple of stolen glances and then shy smiles followed. Not flirtatious or rehearsed. Just warm, fleeting smiles that said you feel familiar… safe. The kind that vanished from the face but stayed alive in the heart. Later, she learned he went to the nearby mosque with his abba for namaaz. Slowly, quietly, their worlds edged closer when her cousins became friendly with him. Now, there were brief hellos, polite nods and unfinished conversations.

Gradually, she started noticing him more. How he appeared near her house often, how his eyes instinctively lifted toward her terrace. Sometimes, she caught him waiting, just a second longer than necessary, before moving on. On days he didn’t appear, she felt a strange absence she couldn’t explain.

She sensed it then.

He was noticing her too.

Days passed gently. They exchanged books. Shared small conversations. In the 90s, that was intimacy enough. Everything remained innocent. Everything felt safe.

Sometimes, he would hum the song that seemed to be on the FM radio all the time:

“Ghar se nikalte hi,
kuch door chalte hi…”

The tune floated casually through the air whenever he was around her, as if meant for no one in particular, and yet it always found its way to her. It would drift in unannounced, wrap itself around her thoughts, and linger long after he had passed. She would blush without meaning to, heart fluttering, unsure whether it was coincidence or intention. In the 90s, songs often said what people couldn’t and carried confessions that mouths were too timid to form.

Not long after, she learned that he had topped his class in the 11th standard and was preparing for medical entrance exams. The news travelled to her through family conversations, spoken casually, almost proudly. It added weight to her quiet admiration mingling with something warmer and steadier. He wasn’t just the boy who made her heart stumble; he was someone going somewhere. And knowing that made her feelings feel… respectable.

And then, without warning, he disappeared.

No passing glance. No humming tune. No familiar presence in the lane.

She waited on the terrace longer than necessary, letting time stretch under the pretence of studying. Sometimes she lingered at the gate, adjusting her slippers, rearranging nothing in particular, hoping for a familiar figure to pass by. Days slipped into weeks. The street remained unchanged, indifferent. Not even a shadow.

Eventually, during a casual conversation that pretended to be about nothing at all, she asked his mother. She learned that he had left for a hostel to prepare seriously for medical entrance exams. His mother spoke with visible happiness, pride softening her face. She lingered a moment longer than required, her voice warm as she looked at Lasya. It felt almost as if she sensed something delicate and unspoken that didn’t need naming.

However, that same day, Lasya came to know something she hadn’t been prepared for. It wasn’t told to her seriously. It came up in between laughter, in a passing remark that no one thought twice about. Someone mentioned that he was quite friendly with another cousin of hers. That they had written to each other once.

Just a letter. Nothing more.

Everyone spoke as if it was normal. And maybe it was.

Still, something inside Lasya went quiet.

She didn’t feel angry. She didn’t feel hurt the way grown-ups talk about hurt. She just felt… confused. As though she had been holding something very gently and suddenly didn’t know what to do with it. She wondered if she had imagined things. If she had misunderstood those looks, those smiles, the way he waited sometimes.

She reminded herself that nothing had ever happened between them. They had never spoken properly. Never said anything that needed explaining. There were no promises. No words that could be held on to. Only small moments she had collected quietly and kept to herself.

And yet, it didn’t feel like nothing either.

She was certain of one thing: that his eyes had looked at her differently. Not always, but sometimes. She couldn’t explain how she knew. She just did. What troubled her was that she would never know what it meant. No one had said anything out loud. No one had crossed a line. And so there was nothing she could question, nothing she could ask.

It stayed somewhere in between.
Not true enough to believe in and not false enough to forget.

So she did the only thing she knew how to do.

She became quiet.

She stopped waiting on the terrace. She stopped watching the street so carefully. When his name came up, she listened and said nothing. She folded the feeling away, like something private, something she wasn’t supposed to talk about.

She focused on her books. On school, on being good, on being sensible and on doing what was expected of her. That felt easier. That felt safer.

Life went on.

And she went with it even though a small part of her stayed back, still wondering, still not quite ready to let go.

A few years passed.

She was older now. College, exams, learning how to live away from home. She returned only during vacations. Home had changed too. Her family had moved to a new house. The one that her father had built closer to the town. It was bigger, brighter and strangely unfamiliar. The old terrace, the narrow lane, the place where she once waited without knowing why, all of that belonged to another time.

It was quieter there.

No shops opening early in the morning. No neighbours calling out to one another. No familiar faces passing by without reason. The noise and warmth of the old lane, the chatter, the cycles, and the small crowds that made every evening feel alive were memories now.

One evening, during a vacation, she sat on the balcony with a cup of her favourite chocolate tea. The street inside the community was clean and wide, almost empty. A few lights had come on. Somewhere far away, the sound of evening prayers floated in, softer than before. Everything felt still, as if the world had been paused.

That was when she noticed a cyclist.

He wasn’t riding fast. He slowed down near her house, almost as if he was looking for something. Something made her look again.

Not clearly. Not immediately. Just a feeling that asked her to pay attention.

She looked up properly then.

Then her heart skipped.

As he came closer, she knew.

It was him.

For a second, she didn’t move. She simply stood there, holding her cup, unsure if she was seeing him correctly. He looked taller, broader and more settled. Yet, there was something familiar about the way he held himself. Something that made recognition easy.

He looked up.

Their eyes met.

He smiled and waved.

She waved back without thinking, her smile coming too quickly, too honestly. He stopped near her gate. She put the cup down and came downstairs, her steps quick and unsure at the same time.

They stood facing each other.

Neither of them spoke.

They stood facing each other, smiling a little more than necessary, both aware that this moment was bigger than they knew how to handle.

She invited him in.

Inside, her mother brought them tea, exchanged a few kind words, and then left them alone. Lasya noticed this. She understood what it meant. She was trusted now.

They talked.

About studies. About people they both remembered. About how life had changed. Sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they didn’t speak at all. The silence felt easy.

He told her he was in his final days of the internship and would soon be a doctor. That he wanted to become a cardiologist, maybe go abroad. She listened carefully.

When she spoke about wanting to become an IPS officer, he listened just as quietly as if it mattered.

There was no awkwardness. No hurry. Just a calm happiness in sitting there together.

Before leaving, they exchanged numbers. Nothing dramatic. Just a simple promise to stay in touch. At the door, they smiled again. Soft, lingering smiles that stayed with her even after he had gone.

Later, through messages, things became clearer.

He told her what he had never said before. That he had liked her back then. That he had been too unsure, too careful. That he had tried to stay close by befriending her cousins, hoping to understand her better. The letter to her cousin—her closest friend—had been his safest way of reaching out.

He told her how he used to cycle past her house, hoping to see her on the terrace. How confused he had felt when she suddenly disappeared. How the wondering had stayed with him too.

Even that day had not been an accident.

A common friend, John, had mentioned she lived somewhere nearby but didn’t know exactly where. He had spent the whole afternoon riding through unfamiliar streets, stopping, turning back, and following nothing but a feeling he couldn’t explain.

And somehow, it had brought him to her door.

She read the messages slowly.

And smiled.

Some stories, she realised, don’t end when people go away. They simply wait quietly and patiently. Until both people are mature enough to understand what they once felt, and brave enough to meet it again…

********************

Raaste