Love Was Never Equal

Love Was Never Equal

Ayan had never believed in soulmates until he saw her misplace her library card.

It was a Tuesday. She was fumbling at the counter, embarrassed. He silently handed her his spare card. She looked up—brown eyes, a crooked smile—and said, “You just saved my entire research paper.”

Her name was Nidhi. She was a literature student. He was a software developer who hadn’t read a novel in three years.

That didn’t stop him from memorizing every book she checked out.

For eighteen months, Ayan loved her the way rain loves earth—quietly, completely, without asking for permission. He’d wait outside her department with her favorite chai. He’d stay up helping her edit essays on postcolonial theory. He once walked seven kilometers in a thunderstorm because she’d mentioned feeling sad.

She never asked him to.

She also never stopped him.

“You’re so sweet, Ayan,” she’d say, patting his arm like a grateful puppy. Then she’d turn back to her phone, texting someone else.

He told himself patience was a virtue. He told himself she was just busy. He told himself a thousand lies because the truth was unbearable: she liked his attention, not him.

One night, they were sitting on the college rooftop. Stars out. Her head almost touching his shoulder.

Say it, his heart screamed. Just say it.

“Nidhi,” he began.

“Oh!” She sat up, suddenly animated. “I forgot to tell you. I met someone. His name is Kabir. He’s in the film society. I think… I think I really like him.”

Ayan smiled. It felt like swallowing glass.

“That’s great,” he said. “Happy for you.”

She didn’t notice the way his voice cracked. She never noticed anything.

The next few months were a masterclass in self-destruction. Ayan watched her fall in love from the front row. She’d send him voice notes gushing about Kabir’s poetry. She’d ask Ayan for date spot recommendations. She once made him proofread a love letter she’d written—for someone else.

He did it. Every single time.

Because saying no would mean admitting he was hurt. And admitting he was hurt would mean admitting he had expected something. And expecting something meant he was foolish.

So he stayed foolish.

The tipping point came on her birthday. He’d spent weeks planning—a scrapbook of their “friendship” (his love disguised as nostalgia), a playlist of songs that reminded him of her, and finally, a letter. A real one. Three pages of everything he’d never said.

He reached her flat at 7 PM. Through the window, he saw her laughing with Kabir. Their faces close. A candle flickering between them.

Ayan stood there for ten minutes. Then he turned around, walked to a public bin, and dropped the scrapbook inside. He kept the letter.

That night, he opened his notes app. He’d been writing drafts for her since day one. Confessions he never sent. Poems he deleted. One sentence, written six months ago, glowed on the screen:

“I am writing forever. You are reading temporarily.”

He added a new line below it:

“Some people love with their whole heart. Others just pass time.”

He didn’t cry. He just archived the note and closed the app.

A year later, he saw her at a coffee shop. She was alone. Her eyes lit up when she spotted him. “Ayan! Oh my god, I’ve missed you. Kabir and I broke up, by the way. Men are terrible, right?”

She laughed. She expected him to laugh too. To slide back into his old role—the eternal audience, the safety net, the boy who waited.

He smiled. A small, tired smile.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Nidhi.”

He paid for his coffee and left. He didn’t look back.

Outside, the rain had started again. Not the thunderstorm kind. The quiet kind—the kind that falls without anyone noticing. The kind he had loved her with.

He pulled out his phone and deleted her number. Not dramatically. Just… finally.

Some people write entire libraries. Others don’t even finish the first page.

He was done being a footnote in a story she was never serious about.

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