The Stranger I Like (2.10)

 Drafted 

-paused, not erased

Life — that mischievous author with an odd sense of humor — rewrote my story once again.

Only this time, the edit made me smile.

You know those cinematic breakdown moments when the playlist hits betrayal mode, and your coffee starts tasting like regret? That was me. All it took was a single message — short, sharp, and dressed as casual honesty:

"Why are your expectations so high up?"

Now, I wasn’t out here building castles in the air. Maybe a modest balcony with some fairy lights. But that line? That was a sniper shot disguised as small talk. No "lol," no soft landing. Just straight into my overthinking headquarters.

Within seconds, I had convinced myself I was the emotional version of a spam call — unwanted, overly frequent, and mildly exhausting. The spiral began. I drafted a full-blown farewell — a poetic eulogy to a connection that I assumed had been declared dead. My thumb hovered over “post” like I was launching a nuclear code called “I’m done.” I had written paragraphs soaked in melancholy, each word echoing a dramatic violin solo.

But plot twist — Maa enters, the unannounced guardian of cosmic balance and unsolicited emotional interventions.

She barges in, holding a steel glass of tulsi water like it’s a holy mic drop, and declares:

"Kal se teri Rashi mein Shani Saade Sati shuru ho rahi hai."

No context. No warm-up. Just spiritual thunder.

And there it was — a full spiritual shutdown. Brahmin mom mode activated. Within minutes, Hanuman Chalisa was echoing from the Bluetooth speaker, the family pandit was on speed dial, and my phone was side-eyed like it was the devil’s Wi-Fi.

Shani Dev,  karmic boss and zodiacal prankster had entered the chat.

And suddenly, my little heartbreak seemed like a side character in a mythological drama.

Under divine pressure and maternal threats of bad luck, I didn’t post my farewell.

Instead, I let it rot in drafts — like that one tiffin box you forget in your bag and then pretend doesn't exist.

Time moved.

Assignments, exams, emotional mood swings that would put the stock market to shame — everything kept coming.

And I kept going… sort of.

One day, a friend randomly asked,

“When’s the next part of your story coming?”

I chuckled — not because I was amused, but because I was dangerously close to turning that story into a sad TED Talk. Out of curiosity, I re-read it. And oh, it was a masterpiece of misery. I had basically written an emotional apocalypse because someone didn’t reply the way I expected. That draft? It didn’t need to be posted. It needed therapy and a warm hug.

And then… like an unexpected trailer drop at midnight — he texted.

A wish for my exam.

Simple. Short. Soft.

But it hit like fireworks in a blackout.

I read it five times.

Once for joy.

Twice for confirmation.

Thrice for emotional CPR.

He had remembered my exam. Without reminders. Without nudges.

While I was busy hosting a mourning ceremony for our “dead” connection, he was just… being himself. Calm. Present. Thoughtful.

I hadn’t texted him since that day. Not out of ego, mind you — my ego had already left the group chat. But because I thought I was that annoying side character in his life — the kind who shows up uninvited, overstays, and messes up the playlist.

Turns out, I wasn’t.

That one message — just one — turned my emotional Titanic away from the iceberg.

He remembered.

He still cared.

He’s this peculiar combination of sarcasm and sincerity — the kind who can roast you and then drop a quote that hits harder than your therapist.

And me? I’m the human version of a dramatic background score. Feelings on full volume.

I realized — maybe he didn’t mean his words to sting that day.

Maybe it was just me… translating “neutral” into “tragic.”

I’m glad I didn’t post that goodbye.

I’m glad my mom weaponized astrology to save me from my own overthinking.

Because sometimes — the pause saves the poem. The unsent message saves the bond.

And now?

Yes, I still miss him.

Yes, I still wish to sit beside him and whisper silly things like “I’m here,” without a reason.

If someday we meet — not because of luck or coincidence, but because he wants to — I hope he smiles. Not the polite smile. The genuine one. The “You stayed” one.

No, I don’t own him.

But he owns all the soft, midnight corners of my mind — the ones I dust off only when the world sleeps.

Because maybe the most beautiful stories aren’t written in loud declarations.

Maybe they bloom in pauses.

In texts sent after days.

In thoughts that never left.

And maybe, just maybe —

Some stories don’t end.

They simply wait for the right chapter to begin again.