The Companion

The Companion Can I halt the sun from rising each morning, disrupting my restless sleep? Or command the moon to remain hidden, denying the night its ethereal silver glow? Can I ask spring to delay its arrival, to silence the cuckoo whose melodies stir my old wounds buried deep within me?

 Who truly seeks to understand the fire that smolders within my grieving heart? Who perceives the agony of solitude, the silent burning of an unseen flame? Who can fathom the torment of yearning—the countless nights spent longing for someone very close to my heart .

 Surabhi, a delicate, graceful presence in my life,—was my batchmate during post-graduation. Though we pursued different fields of study, the sprawling campus of Bani Vihar was an open pasture where paths inevitably crossed. In the corridors, the library, the canteen—faces drifted in and out of view, familiar yet distant. It was in the fading stretch of our first year that our eyes met for the first time, and in that fleeting moment, an indelible impression was etched onto my heart. I cannot pinpoint when or how it happened, but love crept into my soul with quiet insistence.

 If a day passed without seeing her, an odd restlessness took over me. My thoughts felt unsettled. And yet, I never dared to walk to her class or hostel just to catch a glimpse. The desire was there, but what would I say if I found her? Why was I searching for her? The uncertainty gnawed at me—what if I loved her, but she didn’t feel the same?

 One fine day, I decided to break the chains of doubt. Gathering my courage, I approached her table at the canteen. She was alone, engrossed in a book, a steaming cup of tea by her side. Seeing her without company gave me a sliver of hope. I hesitated before speaking. "May I sit here?"

She looked up briefly, eyes flickering with mild amusement. "Is anyone stopping you? Did you really need permission to sit in a university canteen?" Caught off guard, I chuckled nervously. She had already sensed my awkward attempt to grab her attention. But instead of making it easy for me, she simply returned to her book, leaving me fumbling for words.

My tea arrived. I took a sip and asked,

"What’s your subject?"

: "Psychology," she replied, finally looking at me properly. "And yours?"

: "Political Science," I said. A pause settled between us. Then, as casually as I could, I ventured, "Would you mind if I asked your name?" A small smile played on her lips. "Surabhi." Just one word, soft and brief, yet it lingered in the air. "Beautiful name," I murmured. She tilted her head slightly. "And yours?" "Malay," I answered. "Nice name," she remarked, her voice light yet thoughtful.

 Seizing the moment, I added, "But I must say—your name is beautiful, and so are you. The most beautiful girl on this campus." She let out a laugh—light, unguarded, filling the air between us.

"Ah, so that’s why you needed permission to sit here? To tell me this?"

I grinned. "Not just that. There was more I wanted to say... but I wasn’t sure I had the courage." "Courage?" she smirked. "Am I a tiger or a bear that you’d need courage to talk to me?"

 Before she could say more, I countered, "If you were a tiger or a bear, I wouldn’t be afraid at all! But you’re something far more intimidating —a beautiful woman."

 Surabhi burst into laughter, shaking her head. "Alright, Malay. Let’s see if you can be brave enough next time."

 And just like that, our journey as companions began.

As the days passed, my friendship with Surabhi deepened. Though I had already fallen for her, I never dared to confess. I feared losing the warmth of our companionship. It was enough for me that she acknowledged my presence, that she enjoyed my company. We would sit together in the library, sometimes sharing books, sometimes just exchanging glances over the pages. The canteen became our usual meeting place, where conversations flowed easily over cups of tea. She would tease me about my awkwardness, while I would pretend to be offended, only to make her laugh.

One evening, as we walked through the campus, I finally gathered the courage to ask, "Surabhi, have you ever been in love?" She smiled but didn’t answer immediately. After a few steps, she said, "Love is a strange thing, Malay. Some feel it deeply but never express it. Some express it too soon and lose its essence. And some… carry it silently, hoping the other person will understand without words." Her words struck a chord in my heart. Was she talking about herself? Or… about me?

I wanted to tell her then—how much she meant to me, how every moment with her felt like a dream I never wanted to end. But something held me back. Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps it was the unspoken understanding between us, where love didn’t need to be declared—it just existed.

Then came the day of our farewell. The campus that had been our world for two years now felt unfamiliar, as if it no longer belonged to us. I searched for Surabhi among the crowd of students, but she was nowhere to be seen. My heart pounded. Had she left without saying goodbye?

Just as despair was sinking in, I heard her voice behind me.

"So, Malay… will you miss me?" I turned around to find her standing there, a soft smile on her lips, but her eyes… they held something else—something unsaid.

"I will," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. She nodded, as if she had expected that answer. Then, with a slight tilt of her head, she asked, "Will you write to me?"

"Every day, if you want," I said, attempting to lighten the moment. She chuckled.

"No need for every day. But don’t forget me, Malay."

"How could I?" I asked, looking at her, trying to etch her face into my memory. She took a step closer, hesitated for a moment, and then, with a soft voice, said, "Goodbye, Malay."

And just like that, she walked away. I stood there, watching her disappear into the crowd, knowing that something had changed forever.

I had found love in the most beautiful way, and I had lost it just as silently. Our love story took a pause there, or had an end nobody knows.

Years passed like autumn leaves swept away by the wind swift, silent, and irreversible. Life moved forward, as it always does, filling its pages with new places, new faces, and responsibilities that left little time for nostalgia. Yet, some memories remain untouched by time, woven so deeply into our souls that even the years cannot erase them.

Surabhi was one such memory—more than a name, more than a face. She was the echo of unspoken words, the unfinished verse of a poem that still lingered in my heart.

I built a life, found success, and even moments of happiness. But every now and then, on quiet evenings, when the world slowed down, I would find myself lost in thoughts of her. What if I had stopped her that day? What if I had spoken, just once, the words that had burned within me?

One such evening, as I was flipping through an old book, a folded note slipped from its pages. The paper was fragile with time, but the handwriting—delicate, familiar—was unmistakable.

"Malay, some words remain unspoken, not because they don’t matter, but because they matter too much. Perhaps in another time, in another life, we will say them."

I traced my fingers over the ink, feeling a lump rise in my throat. She had known. She had felt it too. And yet, like me, she had chosen silence. Maybe it was fear, or maybe it was the quiet understanding that some loves are not meant to be defined by words, but by the spaces between them.

As I sat there, holding that piece of paper, a cool breeze stirred the curtains. And in that moment, I closed my eyes and imagined her laughter, carried softly in the wind, as if time itself had conspired to bring me one last whisper of her presence. Perhaps, in another time, in another life, our story will find its ending. But for now, she remains—my companion in memory, my unfinished poem, my forever unspoken love.  

Years passed. Life moved on. I never heard from Surabhi again. Perhaps she had waited for me to take the first step, to say the words that had remained unspoken. Even now, on quiet evenings, I sip tea and sometimes hear her laughter in the wind. And I wonder—if I had spoken that day, would our story have ended differently? But then, some love stories are meant to remain unfinished, aren’t they? Maybe love doesn’t always need a conclusion. Some love stories are meant to remain unfinished—lingering in the spaces between words, in the echoes of laughter long gone.

And so, as the night deepened, I sat there, holding that piece of paper, listening to the wind. Somewhere, in its murmur, I imagined I could still hear her voice. Fate, however, had its own plans.

One day, an invitation arrived—an alumni meet at our old college. My heart pounded. Would she be there? Was this life giving me one last chance to say the words I had left unspoken?

With nervous anticipation, I stepped onto the familiar campus grounds. Laughter echoed through the corridors, old friendships rekindled over shared memories. My eyes wandered, searching. And then, I saw her. Surabhi stood by the library entrance, scanning the crowd. The years had touched her with grace, but her smile—it was unchanged. The same smile that had once paused my world. Our eyes met. Time held its breath. She walked toward me, and I toward her.

"Malay," she whispered. "Surabhi," I replied, my voice carrying the weight of the years between us. For a moment, neither of us spoke, as if gathering the fragments of time we had lost. Then, with a soft chuckle, she asked,

"Still writing?"

: "Still holding onto unfinished stories," I said, smiling.

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes searching mine. "Some stories are never meant to be finished," she murmured.

"Or maybe," I said, drawing a deep breath, "some stories are just waiting for their true beginning."

A quiet smile touched her lips. And in that moment, I knew—perhaps we were never lost to time.

Perhaps love, even when unspoken, finds its way back. The evening unfolded like an old melody—soft, familiar, full of memories wrapped in silence. We walked through the corridors that had once been ours, pausing where time had left its footprints.

"So, tell me," Surabhi said, her voice laced with nostalgia. "Did you ever write about us?"

I hesitated before nodding. "In many ways, yes. Every story I wrote carried a part of you. Sometimes as a name, sometimes as a feeling, but always as an unfinished thought." She stopped walking, turning to me with eyes that held the weight of a thousand silent nights. "And now? Is this still an unfinished thought?" I met her gaze, steady this time. "No," I whispered. "This is the moment the story finally finds its words." Something flickered in her eyes—relief, happiness… perhaps even love.

We talked long into the night, filling in the gaps left by years of separation. There was no regret, no bitterness—only the quiet understanding that sometimes, destiny writes its own chapters.

As the night deepened, she glanced at her watch. "I should go," she said, reluctantly.

I nodded, though my heart resisted. Before she could turn away, I reached for her hand—gently, as if afraid the moment would dissolve into a dream.

"Surabhi," I said, my voice thick with unsaid emotions. "If life ever brings us together again…" She placed her other hand over mine, her fingers warm against my skin. "Then this time, let’s not leave things unsaid." A tear slipped from the corner of her eye as she whispered, "Malay… life has been hard without you. I’ve spent endless nights lost in your memories, aching for your presence, living each day in silence."

Words failed me. No language could carry what surged within my heart. Instead, I opened my arms. And she ran into them. Like a river rushing to meet the vast sea, she merged into my embrace, dissolving the distance that time had carved between us.

This time, she did not walk away. This time, there was no farewell—only the quiet promise of a love that had waited too long to be spoken. Perhaps, some stories don’t need an ending. Perhaps, they are meant to be lived.

**22/02/2025**

This is English version of my original Odia story "Sahajatri" translate by self with AI assistance.