My name is Sudip, though in my neighborhood everyone has always called me Biltu. I was born and raised in Chakulia village, in a small, quiet area known as Thandar Para. It is the kind of place where everyone knows everyone, where children grow up together like extended family, and where distances are measured not in miles, but in footsteps.
Her house stood just three houses away from mine.
Three houses. That was all.
It was barely a minute's walk from my front door to hers. As a child, I crossed that small distance without thinking. I never imagined that one day, those three houses would feel like the longest distance in my life. Back then, everything felt close. Simple. Safe.
I have known Rupsa for as long as my memory stretches back. There is no "first meeting" stored in my mind. She was never a stranger who suddenly entered my world. She was simply always there—like the trees lining our road, like the open sky above our village, like the familiar evening breeze that returned every day without fail.
We grew up in the same lanes, walked barefoot on the same dusty paths, and shared the same ordinary surroundings. Ours was never some dramatic beginning. We were just two children from the same neighborhood. That was all.
Sometimes, if their television stopped working, I would go over to fix it. It made me feel useful, grown-up in some small way. Other times, she would come to our house to practice her dance routines. The music would play softly while she repeated steps again and again, focused and determined. I would watch quietly, pretending not to care too much.
The neighbors often saw us together. No one raised an eyebrow. No one whispered. In a village like ours, children growing up side by side was the most natural thing in the world. We were simply childhood companions.
In those early years, our evenings were filled with kabaddi. We played with the older kids in the neighborhood, running across the open fields, shouting loudly, laughing without restraint. Dust would rise from the ground as we tackled each other playfully. Sometimes arguments broke out over small things, but they never lasted long.
As we grew older, kabaddi slowly faded away and was replaced by badminton. The energy changed. The chaos softened into rhythm. The sharp, clean sound of the shuttlecock cutting through the air echoed in the fading sunlight. The sky would turn shades of orange and purple as we played. Occasionally, she would laugh at a missed shot or tease me for losing a point.
At the time, those evenings felt completely ordinary. Just another part of growing up. Only now, when I look back, do I realize how quietly precious they were.
We often stood in the paddy-drying field near our homes and talked about random things—school homework, teachers we liked or disliked, small incidents from the day. I cannot recall every conversation word for word. Time has blurred the details. But I remember how it felt to stand beside her in the open air, the sun slowly setting, the world feeling calm.
One day, I went up to her rooftop and ate palm fruit there. It was such a small, insignificant moment. There was no confession, no dramatic exchange, nothing extraordinary. And yet, somehow, that memory stayed with me. Perhaps because it was simple. Perhaps because she was there.
When many people were around, we behaved normally. We spoke casually, like any two neighbors would. But when the crowd thinned and fewer eyes were watching, something subtle would change.
Our eyes would meet.
And sometimes, neither of us would look away immediately.
It became an unspoken contest—who would break eye contact first? Those seconds felt strangely long. I cannot say with certainty what she felt during those moments. But the way she looked at me felt different. There was something in her gaze that lingered.
Or maybe I only saw what I wanted to see.
She would always speak to me whenever we crossed paths. Simple conversations. School topics. Daily life. Nothing remarkable. Yet over time, those ordinary exchanges began to carry a quiet importance for me. I started looking forward to them. A day without talking to her began to feel incomplete.
At that time, I was in Class Six, and she was in Class Five.
Then came the day during her dance practice.
There was a particular scene in the choreography where I had to pretend to apply sindoor to her forehead with my thumb. It was only acting. Just a part of the performance. Nothing more.
But when my thumb touched near her forehead, something inside me shifted.
It was brief. Just a second. Yet in that second, my heart reacted in a way it never had before. A strange trembling spread through me. I could not explain it. I did not have the words for it. All I knew was that something had changed.
After that day, I was no longer the same.
Her smile began to mean more than it should have. If she laughed at something I said, my entire day felt brighter. If she spoke to another boy for too long, a quiet discomfort settled inside me. I did not understand jealousy at that age, but I felt it.
If I did not see her for a single day, I would feel restless. I would step outside without any clear reason, hoping to catch a glimpse of her walking by. Sometimes I would stand near the road, pretending to be busy, just in case she passed.
At night, as I lay in bed, thoughts of her would drift into my mind. I would replay small moments—her laughter, her expressions, the way she looked at me during those silent eye-contact contests. Before sleep took over, she was often the last thought I held onto.
Sometimes, I even stood in front of the mirror and adjusted my hair or clothes, wondering how I might look if I happened to meet her unexpectedly. These were small changes, quiet shifts in behavior that no one else noticed.
But inside me, everything was slowly transforming.
There was one memory from our younger days that always returned to me. Once, during childhood, I had made her cry. It was nothing serious—just a childish misunderstanding or teasing that went too far. At the time, I did not think much of it.
But later, remembering it hurt me deeply.
The idea that I had caused her even a little pain began to trouble me. That was when I realized something important: she was no longer just "a girl from my neighborhood." Her happiness mattered to me. Her tears affected me.
And then, gradually, the truth became impossible to ignore.
After that dance practice—after that single moment when my thumb brushed near her forehead—I understood it clearly.
I had fallen in love.
It was not loud. It was not dramatic. There were no grand gestures, no confessions shouted under the sky. It was a quiet realization that settled gently inside my heart.
I did not tell anyone.
Not my friends. Not my family. Not even myself, fully.
I carried the feeling silently, protecting it like something fragile. Somewhere deep inside, I allowed myself to believe that maybe—just maybe—she felt something too. The way her eyes lingered. The way she spoke to me first whenever we met. The comfort between us.
Perhaps it meant something.
Or perhaps I was simply building hope out of ordinary moments.
Our story began in the most unremarkable way possible—between three small houses in a peaceful village, among dust-filled evenings and fading sunsets.
There were no dramatic beginnings. No promises. No declarations.
Just two children growing up side by side.
What I did not know then was that this quiet, almost invisible beginning would one day become the most powerful story of my life.