SaidNoopur

Years ago, I sent you a story.

Once Upon a Time — by Tagore.
I loved it, and I knew you would too… if only you read it once.

But you had this particular distaste for fiction. I knew that.
You wouldn’t even look towards it, let alone read it. I begged, I remember.
So I did something a little sneaky. A little heartfelt.

I framed another story along with it.

That story had you,
It had me,
And the time I longed to look ahead to.

I turned the original lines bold.
And in smaller, quieter letters, I wove my own.
The future I saw with you, scattered in between Tagore’s prose.
A piece of my heart, tucked into tiny fonts, resting beside his emerald words.

Do you remember any of it?

Pika — our golden retriever.
The sofa seat.
The trash talks.
The coffee mugs. Lipstick stains.
Tagore. World Cup. That winning six.

I added our mysteries.
I added the instances — imagined or hoped for.
The idea of our living room.
The space on your lap.
The comfiest blanket.
Your fake bawling, face tucked into the crook of my neck.

You know? Back then, I was learning you daily.

I wrote about how you’d interrupt me — because I was sure you would.
I wrote about how you’d poke me to keep reading, pretending to hate it.
I wrote about the love I’d fill you with,
And how it would be enough for the three of us.

I added your sighs.
Your gasps.
Your building interest.
The whole of you. And me.
I wrote about it all.

I was there.
I was seeing it.

Anyway. I picked up Tagore today.
Read the story again.

I cried.
Then I read it again.
I read it the way I had sent it to you — with us tucked inside.

I sighed, shut it close, and placed it back on the shelf.

I’m afraid now.
Terrified, actually.

Let there be ages before I pick it up again.
I fear the version I loved might shift too.
And I don’t know if I would be able to bear that.

---

A brief note to self

Stories don’t always end where the book closes.
And some chapters — even the imaginary ones — live on, inside us.

Even when the person changes. Even if we let go.

Because what we imagined with love
still teaches us how to love.

And sometimes, self-reliance begins
in the quiet space after a goodbye —
when you realize you still have the story.
You still have yourself.

You will always have yourself.