My blank love - My blank love Part-10

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"Abu Zarr — the one who never asked for a picture"

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He wrote every day.

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Sometimes a single word, sometimes a verse —

And then he would softly write:

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> “What are you thinking today?”

“The weather is beautiful… but does the heart ever really feel spring?”

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Zoboriya would respond.

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Sometimes through poetry, sometimes just an emoji...

But beneath every response — a question quietly waited:

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> “Who are you, Abu Zarr?”

“Why did you leave… when I never turned away?”

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But he never asked for anything.

Not a picture.

Not even her real name.

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> “Is love bound by appearances?”

“Or is it the words — that translate the rhythm of someone’s heartbeat?”

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"Zoboriya — who knew love could disappear even after recognition"

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She knew...

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> “This is Abu Zarr. The same one who left me behind one day.

And now, he hides behind a name — but never speaks his truth.”

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She typed many times:

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> “Are you the one… who once left me without a reason?”

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But she never sent it.

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Why?

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> “What if he denies it?”

“What if this bond breaks the moment it becomes real?”

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"A night — when Zoboriya's fingers trembled"

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She stared at Abu Zarr’s message for a long time.

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It was just a verse:

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> “Some people aren’t dreams — they’re just the reason sleep becomes frightening.”

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She closed her notebook…

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…and for the first time, found an old photo.

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A picture she had once taken for Abu Zarr —

Bathed in evening light, soft pink scarf, gaze lowered, hair gently falling across her face.

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> “Should I send this now?”

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She looked at the screen for a long time —

And then typed only three words:

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> “Can we meet?”

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"Abu Zarr — who was startled, but chose silence instead"

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He stared at the screen.

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It wasn’t a question — it was a threshold.

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> “Meeting… would that make everything real?”

“Would she recognize me as the one who once broke her heart?”

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He turned his phone upside down.

His heartbeat quickened.

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That night — passed in silence.

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He didn’t reply.

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"Zoboriya — who questioned herself the next morning"

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> “Was I too quick?”

“Maybe he wasn’t ready…”

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She looked at her screen again.

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Still no reply.

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She closed the chat window.

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But a quiet stillness settled inside her.

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"And that same day — when Abu Zarr opened an old diary"

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There was a page —

Written years ago:

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🖋️

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> “Zobo, I didn’t leave you. I just lost to the moment —

where my presence only brought you pain.”

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He flipped to the next page,

And added a new one beneath it:

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🖋️

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> “If you’re still there… just let me know.

Because now, I’m not searching for your name —

I’m searching for your eyes.”

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"Will Zoboriya receive this reply the next morning?"

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Or…

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Will Abu Zarr hide again behind silence?

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Or will Z — the shadow — leave behind a response in her stories?

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Abu Zarr — who lives inside silence,

Zoboriya — tangled in questions,

Safwan — who became “Z,” a quiet shadow around her.

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Now the story gently shifts — as Zoboriya begins to decode the real name hidden behind Z:

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"Z — who appeared each night as a silent figure on her screen"

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That night again — same black and white profile picture.

ID: @InkbyZ

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No name.

No face.

Just one post every few days —

Like someone breathing in the shadow of her heartbeat.

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> “You never speak, so I hide my name in the quietest corners of your silence.”

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Her fingers hovered again over the screen.

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> “Who is this?”

“Could it be Abu Zarr… trying to hide his guilt under a new name?”

“Or someone else… who knows me — but never steps forward?”

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"Zoboriya — now searching for identity in every SMS"

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Every time she read a message from @InkbyZ,

A familiar echo stirred inside her:

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> “This tone… it feels known.”

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One day, Z wrote:

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> “Some people aren’t meant to come close —

They’re just meant to witness the pieces before anyone else does.”

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Her eyes filled with tears.

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She didn’t reply.

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But she wrote on paper:

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> “Z… if you are the one who lost me once —

Then send me the one verse that only we both know.”

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"Safwan — who finally sent that verse, though his hands trembled"

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It was the verse Zoboriya had once spoken beside the office coffee machine…

A quiet evening, her eyes a little broken:

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> “The words were incomplete, but the tea was full —

That’s why that evening still tastes sweet in memory.”

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Safwan — as Z — sent it.

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With just one line:

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> “Maybe you remember these lines.”

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"Zoboriya — whose breath stopped for a moment"

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She pulled the screen closer.

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Those lines…

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She had never shared them with anyone else.

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> “So… is Z really Safwan?”

“The one who silently watched me in office… but never said anything?”

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That night, she finally replied to Z:

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> “Only someone sitting close could remember that…”

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And for the first time, she asked:

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> “Who are you?”

“Abu Zarr?”

“Or… Safwan?”

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"Z — who gave no reply now"

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That night, the screen only showed “Seen.”

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But no typing.

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Z had fallen silent.

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Why?

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> “Because the truth was now close —

And truth… is always the scariest thing.”

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"Next morning — Zoboriya sat on that same bench again"

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Abu Zarr didn’t come that day.

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She opened her diary right there.

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> “Someone repeated the most intimate verse I ever spoke…

Was it someone from my memories?

Or someone who now knows me better than I know myself?”

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And that day — all three stood before each other for the first time.

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The wind had picked up.

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They all waited for the other to speak.

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"An evening — when the bench saw three shadows"

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It was the same evening, with a drizzle gently falling.

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Outside the café — that same old bench

Where Abu Zarr had first spilled his wounds,

Where Zoboriya once hid her name,

And where Z had first separated feeling from identity.

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Today, an envelope lay on the bench.

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No name written.

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Just a page blown by the wind — landing at Zoboriya’s feet.

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"A letter — with no names, just three shadows"

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She opened it.

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Words from someone familiar, someone hidden, and someone who had always stayed:

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> “I don’t know who matters to you most —

The one who touched you first…

The one who passed through your silence…

Or me, who only had the courage to stay nearby.”

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> “If you want the truth —

Come to this bench at 8:00 p.m. tonight.

I won’t be alone.

But the answer… will be only yours.”

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— Z

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"8:00 p.m. — when three heartbeats arrived at the same place"

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Abu Zarr came first.

Tired eyes, but hopeful heart.

He carried the same old notebook — where only the first page ever held words.

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Zoboriya followed — pink scarf, trembling eyes, and a search for an old answer.

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Safwan came last — plain jacket, a coffee mug in hand, a shadow in his own way.

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They all stood.

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Looking at one another.

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Silent.

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"Z was no longer a name — but a trial"

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Zoboriya turned to Safwan.

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> “So… you are Z?”

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He said nothing.

Just pulled out the first note from his pocket — the one that read:

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> “Some people aren’t God, but they remain beside you… like prayers.”

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Abu Zarr saw the note.

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> “That line… I’ve read it before.”

“But I never sent it…”

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"Abu Zarr — who lowered his gaze for the first time"

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“Zobo…” he whispered,

“I never said your name —

Because I feared…

If you stood in front of me…

Could I even hold your gaze?”

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> “I only learned how to become a shadow —

But maybe even shadows shouldn’t ask for rights.”

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"Zoboriya — who no longer needed an answer, just her own truth"

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She looked at both of them.

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> “Abu Zarr… you left me incomplete —

But incomplete things don’t break. They become roots.”

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She turned to Safwan:

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> “You were Z, yet you never claimed me —

You only stayed.”

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"She gave them both the same question"

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“One last question —

And I won’t answer. You will.”

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> “If my love lived without names —

Can it still survive, now that everything stands exposed?”

“Do you still love me… without expecting my answer?”

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"Abu Zarr’s answer"

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> “I no longer need a reply.

If you’re at peace — then my love is complete.”

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"Safwan’s answer"

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> “I never asked for anything beyond love.

If you’ll allow it…

I’ll stay Z —

Just close enough.”

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"Zoboriya — who didn’t want to choose just yet"

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She opened her diary.

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Looked at both.

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> “There’s still one blank page left.

And I don’t want to decide today.”

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> “Sometimes… love isn’t answered with love.

Sometimes, it’s answered with a second chance.”

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And then…

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She sat down on the bench.

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Placed her book in between them —

And wrote:

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> “I’m not choosing today.

But whoever returns tomorrow…

Will become my truth for today.”

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Now the story rests at a fragile turning point:

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💠 Abu Zarr — who returned from the past.

💠 Safwan/Z — who quietly stayed in the present.

💠 Zoboriya — who is learning to choose for herself, perhaps for the first

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