The riverbank that had once been filled with golden sunlight and laughter now felt heavy and quiet. Mani sat alone on the edge of the stone steps, watching petals float in the gentle current, their colors muted in his grief. The playful chaos of Krishna, Gajanan, and Bharath felt distant, almost irrelevant.
"You came into my life,
And now you're leaving me behind.
I don't want your love,
I don't want your love."
Laya's absence was palpable. The shy smiles, the magical glances, the shared laughter — all gone in an instant. Mani's heart throbbed with a mixture of disbelief and pain. He replayed her words, the promise of forever, now shattered into echoes that haunted the river's gentle waves.
"You promised me forever,
But now you're saying goodbye.
I don't want your love,
I don't want your love."
Even the friends tried to break the silence — Sunitha waved cheerfully, Monal whispered playful jokes — but Mani could barely respond. The noise of the city, the flurry of petals, the wind rustling through the trees — everything seemed to mock his emptiness.
"I gave you my heart,
But you threw it away.
I don't want your love,
I don't want your love."
The vibrant, playful world around him — Telugu and Tamil friends, the festival of laughter and music — continued on, oblivious to the quiet storm raging in Mani's chest. His heart ached with the bitter realization that love, once magical and overwhelming, could vanish in a heartbeat.
Mani closed his eyes, letting the river's murmur carry his sorrow. He remembered the first moments, the tenderness, the whimsical chaos, and the gentle breezes that had once made life feel like a dream. Now, each memory was a knife of longing, sharp and unyielding.
The city still pulsed with life, but for Mani, the colors had dimmed. And in the midst of laughter, music, and playful chaos, he whispered to himself, over and over:
"I don't want your love… I don't want your love."