Unfinished love story

 Unfinished Love Story

It began on an ordinary afternoon, the kind that never hints at becoming a memory. She was sitting in a quiet café,

It began on an ordinary afternoon, the kind that never hints at becoming a memory. She was sitting in a quiet café, lost in her notebook, and he walked in like a moment out of place. Their eyes met the way small miracles happen—without announcement, without plan.

They started talking, first about coffee, then about everything else that mattered and didn’t. There was laughter, long silences that felt safe, and the strange comfort of being understood without trying. He told her about his love for rain; she confessed her fear of goodbyes. They promised not to complicate things. Of course, they did.

Love crept in quietly. It lived in the late-night texts, in songs they shared, in the way he looked at her when she wasn’t watching. But life, as always, had other plans. He had to leave—another city, another job, another dream pulling him away. They said they’d make it work. People always say that.

Calls became shorter, messages slower. The silence grew heavier until it swallowed the words altogether. There was no fight, no ending, just distance that turned love into memory.

Years later, she still goes to that café. She orders the same coffee, writes in the same notebook, and sometimes, without meaning to, glances toward the door. She knows he won’t walk in—but a part of her still listens for his laugh, still waits for a story that never got its ending.

Some loves don’t fade; they just pause in time, unfinished yet unforgettable. Maybe that’s what makes them last—the mystery of what could have been, echoing softly between two hearts that once found home in each other.

lost in her notebook, and he walked in like a moment out of place. Their eyes met the way small miracles happen—without announcement, without plan.

They started talking, first about coffee, then about everything else that mattered and didn’t. There was laughter, long silences that felt safe, and the strange comfort of being understood without trying. He told her about his love for rain; she confessed her fear of goodbyes. They promised not to complicate things. Of course, they did.

Love crept in quietly. It lived in the late-night texts, in songs they shared, in the way he looked at her when she wasn’t watching. But life, as always, had other plans. He had to leave—another city, another job, another dream pulling him away. They said they’d make it work. People always say that.

Calls became shorter, messages slower. The silence grew heavier until it swallowed the words altogether. There was no fight, no ending, just distance that turned love into memory.

Years later, she still goes to that café. She orders the same coffee, writes in the same notebook, and sometimes, without meaning to, glances toward the door. She knows he won’t walk in—but a part of her still listens for his laugh, still waits for a story that never got its ending.

Some loves don’t fade; they just pause in time, unfinished yet unforgettable. Maybe that’s what makes them last—the mystery of what could have been, echoing softly between two hearts that once found home in

each other.