It's strange how quietly some things transform. Not with grand decisions or goodbyes, but with time, slow, imperceptible time. What began with nervous glances and unspoken curiosity has softened into something calm, familiar, and lasting. I no longer feel the ache of wanting to be seen by him; I feel the quiet joy of knowing that I am.
When I think back, it almost feels like a different lifetime, the blurry glimpses across the garden, the anxious voice notes, the endless self-questioning. I remember the early thrill, the restless wondering, the quiet desperation to understand what I was feeling. Back then, everything about him seemed larger than life. And yet now, he feels human, wonderfully, beautifully human.
He became real to me in ways I didn't expect. Not as a fantasy or an ideal, but as a person I grew to know. Piece by piece, moment by moment, the books we read, the ideas we debated, the laughter that spilled easily between sips of chai. There was no defining moment when we became friends; it just happened, like sunlight gradually filling a room.
We shared hours that never demanded to be more than what they were. Afternoons in the library, half-finished coffees, scribbled NGO notes, shared playlists. The kind of moments that built a world of their own, unremarkable to anyone else but quietly sacred to me. I can still picture his thoughtful pauses, the way he would tilt his head when he disagreed, the way he'd smile when he caught me overthinking. Each gesture, each glance, each unspoken word became a thread in something neither of us planned, yet both of us kept weaving.
And then, as life always does, things shifted. The pace slowed. The intensity eased into steadiness. There were days when we didn't talk, and somehow that was okay too. I used to think silence meant distance, but with him, it simply meant peace. A quiet knowing that the connection didn't need to prove itself.
He once told me he doesn't let many people in. Just four, he said, his parents, his partner, and me. I remember smiling at that, not out of pride, but out of tenderness. Because it made me realize something simple yet profound, that love doesn't always need to announce itself. Sometimes it's just in the way someone keeps showing up, the way they let you see them as they are, the way they make space for you in the smallest corners of their life.
We still talk, not every day, not as constantly as before, but deeply when we do. Our conversations still stretch and meander, from faith to philosophy to the ridiculousness of life. There's laughter, teasing, mutual understanding, the same old rhythm, only gentler now.
He tells me about work, about home, about thoughts that keep him up at night. I tell him about the books I'm reading, the questions I can't shake. And somewhere in between, without saying it, we reassure each other: I'm still here. You're still here.
I like him. I really do.
I love him too, not in the way I once mistook love to be, full of urgency and ache, but in a way that feels calm and enduring. It's love without wanting, affection without confusion. It's a quiet kind of joy that asks for nothing more than presence.
He makes life lighter. When I see his name pop up on my screen, I smile without realizing it. When something interesting happens, he's the first person I think to tell. When a quote moves me, I wonder what he'd think of it. He has become that constant, a gentle thread woven through the fabric of my days.
There are still small gestures, random voice notes, shared memes, those simple check-ins that mean more than they seem to. He still finds ways to make me laugh unexpectedly, to challenge my thoughts, to make me pause. And I still find comfort in knowing he's out there, somewhere between Multan skies and quiet reflections, still a little like the person I first met, yet evolving all the same.
When I look back, I see how far we've come. From strangers who barely made eye contact to friends who can sit in silence without unease. From unspoken feelings to a bond defined by understanding. From wondering what this could be, to simply appreciating what it is.
He once said that maybe we were meant to meet to learn something about ourselves, and I think he was right. He taught me to listen, to slow down, to see the beauty in thought. To love without needing to possess. To stay without holding too tightly.
And I think I taught him something too, that vulnerability isn't weakness, that words can heal, that being known isn't always frightening.
So no, it didn't end. It simply changed shape. What once was a flutter became stillness, what once was wonder became trust, what once was maybe became always, just differently.
Now, when I think of him, I don't ache. I smile. Because we found something better than what I once thought I wanted. We found connection, real, quiet, lasting. The kind that doesn't fade with time or distance, but grows softer and deeper in its own way.
We may not be in love, but we love, deeply, kindly, endlessly.
And that, I've realized, is rare enough to be called extraordinary.
I loved him once.
I love him still.
Just differently.
And that, I've learned, is enough.
Some stories don't fade. They just keep breathing quietly between two hearts that still understand each other.