Some bonds don't begin with love.
They begin with presence.
Gourav Khanna was always there.
In the classroom where the chalk dust floated lazily in the air, in the narrow lanes of our small city, in the quiet moments when the world felt too loud—he was there. Sitting beside me. Walking next to me. Smiling at me like I was the safest place he knew.
Everyone said we were best friends.
I believed that too. At least, that's what I told myself back then.
Whenever Gourav came to my house, my heart felt lighter, happier. And when his parents called him back home, his smile would fade. Sometimes, he would cry—silent tears he tried to hide from everyone else, but never from me. He hated leaving. He hated distance. And I hated watching him walk away.
We were children. We didn't understand what those emotions meant. We just knew one thing—being together felt right.
Gourav was different from the rest of us. He was the son of the school chairman. His mother was the principal. From a very young age, he was known, admired, whispered about. Teachers watched him closely. Students tried to get his attention.
And yet, in a classroom full of people, he saved the seat next to him only for me.
Girls tried to sit beside him—laughing a little louder, flipping their hair, pretending not to notice me. But Gourav would simply look at them and say calmly,
"This seat is taken."
For me.
I never said thank you. I never needed to. It was understood.
As years passed, innocence slowly turned into awareness. I began noticing things I had never noticed before—the way my chest tightened when another girl stood too close to him, the way my smile disappeared when he laughed with someone else.
I didn't like sharing him.
That realization scared me.
Because friends aren't supposed to feel that way.
His cousin noticed it before I did. The jealousy in her eyes was sharp, quiet, and dangerous. She smiled at me, but it never reached her eyes. I could feel it—she didn't like me. Not because I had done something wrong, but because I mattered to him.
And she hated that.
Our families were close once. My father owned a famous jewellery shop in the city. People respected him. Gourav's father and mine were like brothers. Our houses were connected not just by roads, but by trust.
Until one day… something changed.
I don't know when love became silence.
I don't know when laughter turned into distance.
I only know that something happened—something so deep, so painful—that it tore everything apart.
We stopped talking.
No fights.
No explanations.
Just silence.
The kind of silence that screams.
I saw Gourav every day after that, but it felt like seeing a stranger who knew all my secrets. His eyes avoided mine. His presence still shook me. And my heart still recognized him—despite everything.
I never got closure.
I never got answers.
Just memories.
And a love that was never spoken… yet never died.
Because some stories don't end.
They wait.
.
.
.
.
.
The story has just begun…
Next episode on Sunday.
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