The Last Fight- "Isn't a story about betrayal. It's about timing. About silence. About a love that gave everything... and still wasn’t enough."

He asked me, with a playful smirk,
"So, when’s the next time you’re going to fight with me?"

And I smiled, the kind of smile that hides more than it shows,
"The day you come to me and say you’ve found the one for yourself—
That day, I’ll fight with you."
Not out of anger. Not out of jealousy.
But because something inside me will shatter.

That day…
When another girl touches you.
When your eyes hold someone the way I always wished they’d hold me.—
When your heart belongs elsewhere—, I will stand still, bleeding without blood.

And yes— I’ll say a lot of things.
I might punch your shoulder, your stomach, your chest—
Not to hurt you,
But to stop myself from hugging you one last time.

And in the end, I will take your hand—
That same hand I used to imagine slipping a ring onto someday.
I will kiss it, softly, as if it’s my final prayer.
And I will hold you in a hug that says all the things words failed to. One that says:
I’m happy for you.
I’m letting you go.
But don’t ever forget—
You were loved. Deeply. Madly. Truly.
Even when you didn’t know what to do with that love.

I will wish you everything—
Love, luck, laughter, peace, magic, a forever kind of happiness.
And then, I will walk away, with the last goodbye echoing louder than any 'I love you' ever did.

He looked at me, eyes a little heavier,
"And what will you do after that?"

I smiled again, but this time my heart trembled.
"I will wait for my Shah Jahan," I said.
"Because maybe my kind of love isn’t meant for this world—not in this lifetime."
Today’s world doesn’t value what it has until it’s gone.
They want quick love, loud love, love with filters and followers.
But I wanted something timeless.

He asked, "What do you mean?"

And I said softly— "Heer-Ranjha, Laila-Majnu, Romeo-Juliet… They all died loving. But I— I lived through it. Alone."
I couldn’t be them. They had that mad, consuming kind of love. The kind people write poems about. Our love didn’t turn into poetry. It turned into silence.
It ended here. With you. With us. Our story ended quietly. Not in flames, But in the slow, unbearable fading of something that could’ve been everything.

Now, I’ll wait for the one who might see me, Not someone to love me now, But someone who will realise what I was after I’m gone..
Maybe in another time, another form.
My Shah Jahan, who will build memories in my name after losing me—
Just like the Taj Mahal stands
because love didn’t.

Because love—real love—was there between us.
I felt it. Maybe you didn’t know how to show it. Maybe it wasn’t loud enough, brave enough.
But what we had… No matter how much you deny it- It was there. I felt it.
Let’s not erase what we both know lived in the silence between our words.That strange warmth in our awkward pauses. That care that slipped in through the cracks.
No, this kind of love… It doesn’t happen again.

If my love was a full 100—
Yours may have been 10, 20 maybe 30.
You couldn’t reach 35. You couldn’t pass.
And that’s okay.

But me? I gave it my all.
And now, I’ve failed to find another you in this whole world.
So I’ll stop trying.

Because that kind of love— Won’t happen again. Not in this lifetime. Not with anyone else.


“Some love stories end without a villain. Just two hearts, not beating at the same rhythm.”
~AV✍🏻✨

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