The Stranger I Like (2.7)

 [Chapter 2] 

Clairvoyant 

- Seeing a future with someone, even when they don’t.

And the story ends...

Well, that’s what everyone thought.

For days, my poetry carried a weight it never had before, each word soaked in a sorrow unfamiliar to my writing. My friends began to assume this was the final chapter—the tragic ending to a story they had been reading all along.

Really? The End?

No, darling. Not this soon.

Yes, I won’t deny that sorrow washed over me, but tell me—what meaning does light hold if you’ve never known darkness? What depth does joy have if you’ve never tasted sorrow? I don’t turn away from this pain—I accept it. I take pride in the way I preserved my softness, in how I refused to let heartbreak distort into resentment. My love never soured, and my devotion remained intact, even under the weight of disappointment.

At one point, I did consider retreating. Deleting our conversations, removing his presence from my life, closing the door and never knocking again. I told myself, "I won’t text him anymore. I won’t disturb him."

But then, what about the poetry I had written? The words I had woven with fragments of my soul? Could I simply abandon them, let them gather dust in the graveyard of unsent confessions? No. Because my art—deserved to be acknowledged. And even as my mind urged me not to share, my fingers defied me.

I sent him everything.

Every poem, every verse where I had carved his name into the fabric of my emotions. And in a moment of weakness, I sent him a voice note— I was crying. Not the soft cries, but the kind where your voice fractures, where words slip between sharp breaths and unsteady sobs. It was the kind of pain that felt like pressing your hand against a locked door, waiting for it to open, only to realize the key was lost forever.

Through the tears, I told him everything. I asked him not to hate me. I asked him to understand.

That night, exhaustion won over grief. I don’t remember when I fell asleep, but I did—curled up in the quiet ache of a heart that had whispered too many words into the void.

With daylight came swollen eyes and a throbbing heaviness—the kind that settles deep after hours of weeping in quiet desperation. And then, panic. Did he listen to it? My hands moved faster than my thoughts, fumbling for my phone, searching frantically.

Thank God.

He hadn’t come online. He hadn’t heard me like that. My voice had been too raw, too vulnerable. I couldn’t let him hear me that way. I unsent the voice note instantly, erasing the evidence of my breakdown before he had the chance to witness it.

But my heart was still unsettled. My mind was a battlefield of unanswered questions. So I did the only thing I knew could bring me solace.

I went to the temple.

I stood before Madhav, and asked Him to heal me. To mend this wound I had carved into myself.

I once heard that if you’re burdened by a question—if confusion clouds your heart and you seek an answer—just open the Bhagavad Gita at a random page. It is said to contain answers to all of life’s dilemmas. And so, with trembling hands and unstable mind, I did.

The shloka my eyes fell upon was 7.27, and as I decoded its meaning, I found the wisdom I had been desperately searching for—

"You are not wrong for feeling this way, but your pain arises from attachment to a particular outcome. Shift your focus from 'Why doesn’t he love me?' to 'What is this teaching me?' and you will find peace. True love will never require force; it will flow effortlessly in divine timing."

Reading those words, I felt something shift within me. A soothing stillness. A soft surrender. My faith deepened, my love grew even more pure—free from the weight of expectations.

I went back home, had to get ready for my classes, and as I sat down for breakfast—that roti on the plate reminded me of him. His words from days ago resurfaced in my mind, offering me a glimpse into the chaos of his life

His exams had been scheduled earlier than expected. The pressure had tightened its grip around him. He had to complete his syllabus, revise, absorb, retain—an entire ocean of knowledge crammed into a handful of days. Between all of this, he had been eaten only two rotis a day. 

I had urged him not to stress so much, to at least rest for a while, to take care of himself, to not skip meals. And yet, his reply had left me speechless—

"Don't worry. I'm getting two hours of sleep. But I can’t have more, nor do I fall asleep, even if I try. The sound of my friends revising and discussing topics in the next room doesn’t let me rest longer. I have to complete it. I can’t afford to waste time eating."

And just like that, I saw him differently. Not just as the boy who unknowingly stole my heart, but as a warrior battling his own storms. His struggles were real, his dedication true. That moment, my feelings took a new shape—Not just admiration, but something deeper, immense respect.

I realized that confessing my love to him in such a time would have been nothing but noise—a distraction he didn’t need. If love is truly selfless, it must also be considerate. And so, I held back. I chose my words more carefully, made sure that whatever I sent him wouldn’t add weight to the burden he was already carrying.

The following evening, his response arrived.

"Jhooth bol kar jhoothi tasalli nahi de sakta tha."

With those words, my heart swelled, and I loved him even more.

He could have strung me along. He could have fed me soft lies, given me false hope, kept me close even if he never truly saw me that way. But he didn’t. He chose honesty over comfort, truth over temporary relief. He did not let my emotions become his convenience.

He told me he didn’t hate me for loving him. He simply needed time. Time to understand himself, to figure out who he truly is and what he really wants in life. Because isn’t that what we all need? Before seeking love, before making choices that shape our future, don’t we first need to know ourselves?

At this age, we are all just exploring. But before we explore others, we have to explore ourselves. Our desires, our dreams, the things that truly matter to us. And I respect him for that.

Any other man in his place might have caved in. Might have let my words sway him, even if he didn’t feel the same. They might have thought, "Let’s see where this goes," keeping me close out of comfort rather than connection. But not him. He did not treat my emotions as an experiment. He did not make me an option in between his uncertainties. And that is the purest form of respect anyone could give me.

He taught me that choosing a partner isn’t something you do just because it feels right in the moment. It’s a decision that shapes the course of your life. It’s not as simple as picking up a book because the cover looks interesting. Love isn’t just impulse—it is deliberate. It is a choice that should be made with certainty, not curiosity. And I admire him for understanding that.

And you know what? I may not have him in the way I once imagined, but I have him. I have him as a friend, as a presence in my life that taught me the lessons of emotions, faith, and honesty.

He gave me the gift of inspiration. He unknowingly helped me craft some of the most beautiful poetry I’ve ever written. He made me pour my emotions into words, turning heartbreak into art. Had it not been for him, would I have been able to write the way I do now? Maybe not. And for that, I am grateful.

I am not broken. I am simply renewed.

And now, I won’t chase outcomes. I won’t measure my love by what I receive in return. I will simply give—shower him with love so boundless that it drowns him in. Not because I expect something in return, but because love, in its purest form, is meant to be given freely.

And this story?

It doesn't end here.

It stretches far beyond heartbreak, beyond unrequited love.

It carries a promise—one day, I will immortalize him in my words, that even he will fall in love with himself through my poetry.