My eyes are still searching for those beautiful eyes I once loved with my whole heart. I can't wait to see how much she has changed. Does she still wear those tight rubber bands to tie her hair, or does she now let her long hair flow freely? Does she still laugh at silly jokes as if she's just heard the funniest thing in the world?
I remember all our funny moments together in those 60 seconds—it felt like centuries had passed in my mind. Then, I saw her. She looked divine, slightly more mature in a yellow sari, which only enhanced her beauty. The lighting was a bit dim, like a dramatic touch in our perfect love story.
She was talking to someone. I couldn't clearly see who it was, but even from a distance, I could see hesitation in her expressions. It was as if she wasn't interested but couldn't decline the conversation. I wanted to walk up to her and ask so many questions. I know I was the one at fault, so why did she always blame herself?
But I couldn't move. My legs went numb. They didn't want to walk into a mess again. I was scared—scared of being ignored, or worse, hearing something from her that would break me completely.
Now, maybe I have everything in life, but I still lack the kind of communication skills that let you say everything in your heart without hurting anyone. Lost in my thoughts, she passed by me—not in a dramatic 90s Bollywood way, no slow motion, no floating dupatta brushing my face. Just a normal pass-by—maybe she didn't see me… or maybe she saw someone more important behind me.
But this time, I turned around to look at her—to tell her everything and to make the first move. The lights were brighter there, as if they were supposed to be. She was laughing with someone, her beautiful eyes locked onto his, filled with warmth and love. It made me a little uncomfortable… until I noticed something.
She was wearing a mangalsutra.
That hit me like a wave. I froze. For a second, I told myself it must be a dream—my worst nightmare playing out in real life. I was pulled back to reality when someone called out my name.
I didn't need to turn to know who it was because I knew it was her. I turned anyway, with a fake smile that quickly faded when I saw they were holding hands. We exchanged the usual formalities: How are you? What are you doing? The conversation was nearing its end when I saw a hand extended toward me for a handshake. I froze again. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind.
One of them was irrational: If I killed this man right now, what would happen? Of course, I knew she'd hate me even more… but maybe, just maybe, she'd love me again?
Instead, I shook his hand with a mysterious little smile.
She introduced me to him. And after a short conversation, I saw how perfect they were together—their charming personalities blending beautifully. She looked genuinely happy and healthy.
My brain accepted it, but not my heart. It still hurt, though not as badly this time. Strangely, I felt happy seeing her laugh like she used to—something she had lost in all the past drama. She was finally herself again. No show-off, No pretentious.
Back in my room, I felt as though I had left behind a heavy bag I'd been carrying on my chest for years. I felt light, relieved, and peaceful. She had forgiven and forgotten—not for me, but for herself. She had moved on from those lonely, gloomy nights and become a bright light on her own.
I loved her for the way she treated people, her kind and caring nature. But now, I respect her more as a warrior who has fought and won her battles silently and gracefully.
I realised:
"She may have been my first love, but she was destined to be someone else's real love."
________________________________________
End of Flashback.
The speaker ended this story by saying that our story's hero kept all these memories in his bag and moved back to the States again, and everyone assumed that was the end of a beautiful love tale. But then he stunned the audience by saying:
"This is the story of my father."
The crowd went silent, unsure how to react. One person finally asked,
"Did your father stay in touch with her? Or was he never able to get over her?"
It was a strange question—one that could potentially affect how the audience viewed the speaker's parents. But the speaker's response was both mature and beautiful:
"He moved on, but they stayed in touch as friends. They knew each other better than anyone else and respected each other's good hearts and good intentions."
He continued, "Remember, I said there was a day she stopped replying to his messages. That was the day she got married. She wanted to be loyal to her husband and didn't want to give anyone false hope."
The speaker said his father realised this many years later, but it only made the story more beautifully crafted.