He alighted Uber and strode into the hotel to attend a 2 day tech conference for SBU senior managers starting the following day.
Next day 9 am he walked into the conference hall in the same hotel and saw her.
He was unsure initially but walked to her hesitatingly and said hello to her.
They met again after twenty years, and learnt that neither of them intended to attend the conference.
He wore the same shy smile, though his hair had greyed.
She carried herself with the same grace in a beautiful saree , but her eyes had deepened—more like hiding a storm than sparkle.
They weren’t lovers, never had been. The feelings they shared defied normal definitions.
A coffee turned into lunch. Lunch became a slow walk in the hotel’s quiet garden.
They spoke like old friends, and yet there were pauses, long ones, filled with something unsaid. Both wanted to talk but an awkward silence descended between them.
After a while, he asked, “Do you ever wonder… if we missed something?”
She looked away, “Only on cold nights… and when I hear old ghazals.”
Ghazals were his favourite past time then .
His hand brushed hers, and neither moved away. It’s not affection. Not desire. It’s something quieter and inexplicable.
They spoke of marriages—both enduring, both lonely in places neither spouse would see. Then they fell silent.
She laughed softly, “We’re loyal to lives we never fully chose.”
He simply nodded .
At the edge of the garden, he picked a Rose flower and gave it to her.
It wasn’t romantic. And yet, her fingers trembled slightly as she took it.
They met for dinner and in his room later, they sat facing each other on two separate chairs.
No wine. Just silence, and the soft hum of the air conditioner.
No one dared to breach the bond of silence.
She said :“You remember that rain in Delhi where we got drenched to our bones?”
He smiled. “I remember how you didn’t carry an umbrella… and didn’t care.”
They laughed, and then it faded, replaced by silence of million words.
She said, “We could kiss. It would mean something. Or maybe nothing at all.”
She is sightly trembling as emotions are ravaging inside her mind and heart.
He looked at her in eyes and whispered, “But we won’t.”
After a while, she nodded. “Because we’d lose this.”
“This?” he asked.
“This ache. This what-if. This poetry between us destined to be like this.”
She controlled her emotions and felt serene now.
They sat there, eyes locked, as if listening to those sweet nothings of yesteryears- may be reading an unwritten book by them.
Time passed. The light changed. No one moved.
After a while she looked at her watch and rose to leave, he stood too.
Neither reached for a hug. Yet something lingered, electric and magnetic.
At the door, she turned. “Some people write chapters. Others… stay at footnotes that lay wayside.” Melancholy dripping from her words.
“And yet,” he said haltingly -not looking at her directly, “some footnotes mean more than the story.”
He was fighting to contain tears.
With a feeble smile and mist-eyed she said . “Goodbye, then.”
He didn’t say goodbye. Just watched her walk away.
Not every love ends in embrace.
Some live in glances. Some in paused sentences. Some in silence.
Some in memories neither dared to create—But never quite forget.
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