My blank love - My blank love Part-8

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"Abu Zarr — who returned to the city, but couldn’t find the courage to knock"

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The rain had stopped.

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Abu Zarr had reached Zoboriya’s street — that same corner where once, while turning his bike, he used to hear her laughter.

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But today… there was only silence.

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He held the same book — the one that carried letters… but never replies.

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He looked toward her window,

but the curtain was drawn.

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> “Should I really go back there?”

“Or maybe… I’m just a character meant to live only in her memory now?”

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"Zoboriya — who posted her goodbye, but hid hope behind the words"

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She had posted:

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> “I won’t wait anymore…”

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But… did she really mean it?

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She still sat by that window every night.

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Her phone was beside her — along with the “Delete” button under that post.

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Each night her finger hovered near it…

but never pressed.

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Why?

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> Because some loves don’t break —

they just begin living in new forms: in denial, in silence, or in anger.

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"Salma — who came to ask questions about Deeshan, but left carrying answers about Zobo"

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That same week, a distant friend of Zoboriya’s — Salma — came over.

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A quiet girl, who always stayed emotionally attached to Deeshan’s stories.

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While Zobo was preparing tea, Salma asked:

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> “Do you know…

when someone gathers the courage to return,

it means they’ve already lost a lot within themselves?”

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Zobo paused.

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> “Have you ever thought, Zobo…

that if someone is still coming back —

can they even bear another ‘no’ from you?”

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"Zoboriya — who, for the first time, was afraid of her own reflection"

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That night, Zobo looked at herself in the mirror.

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Tired eyes, tangled hair, and a smile on her lips… long forgotten.

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> “Even if Abu Zarr comes back…

will I still be the Zoboriya he remembers?”

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"Abu Zarr — who woke up after a letter from Salma"

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Meanwhile, Salma had sent Abu Zarr a small envelope.

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Inside it was a single line:

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> “If love returns… don’t punish it. Give it a chance.”

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Abu Zarr spent the whole night rereading it.

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By morning, he picked up his bag —

but didn’t go to see Zoboriya.

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Instead…

he wrote a letter.

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"Zoboriya received a brown envelope on her doorstep"

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Three days later…

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There was a letter beside the milk.

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She picked it up.

It was Abu Zarr’s handwriting.

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> “Zobo,

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> I’ve returned,

but not carrying myself — only your pain.

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> I didn’t come to your door,

because maybe… you’re still not ready to hear the voice

that once wore you down.

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> I won’t ask for forgiveness —

I only wish to say this:

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> I can now exist within your silence too.

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> I’ll be sitting on the same park bench each morning,

where you once said —

‘Fragrance doesn’t change things, but it refreshes memories.’

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> I’ll leave a book there every day.

If you ever feel like reading — pick one up.

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> If not — that’s okay.

I’ll still come.

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> I don’t ask for your reply anymore.

I just want to remain around you —

without disturbing your peace.

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– Abu Zarr”

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"A bench — now waiting for footsteps again"

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Abu Zarr truly came.

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Each morning, the same park.

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Every day, a book left on the bench.

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And on the first page of every book:

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> “While you learned to walk away from me,

I learned to quietly walk behind you.”

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"Zoboriya — who walks past that bench every day, but never sits"

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She still doesn’t stop.

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But that path is now hers.

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Every morning, she walks past the bench.

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Sometimes quickly.

Sometimes slowly —

pausing to see what book it is today.

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But she hasn’t picked up a single one.

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Why?

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> Because she wants to see how long Abu Zarr stays —

and how long love can keep breathing without being returned.

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"The post Abu Zarr wrote — not for everyone, but for just one person"

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It was 2 AM.

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Outside: a light drizzle.

Inside: a room, dimly lit —

where Abu Zarr’s breathing was no longer steady.

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He had returned from the hospital,

but one file still lay on the table.

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CT Scan reports…

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The doctor had said:

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> “Stage 2... but emotional triggers could worsen it fast.

There’s still time to reverse this — if you want to live.”

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Abu Zarr picked up his phone.

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Opened Instagram.

And typed a new post.

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🖋️ @zar.poetry

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🕯️ Caption:

“Sometimes the truest words come… at the very end.”

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> “Some wounds aren’t deepened by time —

but by someone’s silence.

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> The doctor said —

‘The brain is tiring… take care of the heart too.’

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> But no doctor knows

how long I’ve been quietly breathing inside someone’s memory.

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> This illness didn’t show in my reports —

but it bloomed in every beat of my heart.

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> I won’t name anyone…

because she still doesn’t listen.

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> But if you ever read this post —

just know…

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I am not okay anymore.

And maybe…

there’s not much time left.”

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#NotAFarewell

#SomePeopleFadeInSilence

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"Zoboriya — who wasn’t tagged this time, but heard her name in every word"

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Next morning, Zobo woke up to a call from Salma.

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> “Zobo… check Instagram.

Abu Zarr posted something…

but read it alone.”

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Zobo opened the post.

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Every line…

like a silent scream against her chest.

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> “I’m not okay anymore…”

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Her fingers trembled.

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> “Is this really happening…?”

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"She didn’t post anything. Didn’t say a word."

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The entire afternoon, she kept rereading that one post.

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She knew — Abu Zarr never said things lightly.

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So… was this truly his final message?

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She put the phone aside…

but then, an old habit awakened.

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She pulled out the notebook…

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The one with Abu Zarr’s very first poem.

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And whispered:

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> “If you’re truly not okay…

then should I really stay silent now?”

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"That night — a new test was whispered into the wind"

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Zoboriya didn’t go to the bench.

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But that night, she saved the post.

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And… for the very first time,

she followed Abu Zarr back.

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No message.

No comment.

Just… a quiet notification

that said more than words ever could.

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"But she didn’t follow as Zoboriya… she followed as @RuheSukoon_11"

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It was 3 AM again.

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Zoboriya read Abu Zarr’s post over and over.

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And this time,

her fingers were typing something new.

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She created a new account.

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> @RuheSukoon_11

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No posts.

Just a pale pink flower as the display picture.

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And one line in her bio:

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> “Becoming someone’s prayer — is love’s greatest triumph.”

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Then…

she followed him.

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"The first message — seen, but unanswered"

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> “There was so much pain in your post.

If you’d like…

you can talk to a stranger.”

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Abu Zarr saw it.

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Stared at the screen for a long time.

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But didn’t reply.

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He never opened up to strangers before.

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But then again…

he was no longer who he used to be.

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"Three days later — a response arrived"

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> AbuZarr_poetry:

“Thank you.

Sometimes only strangers understand —

because they expect nothing.”

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Zoboriya’s fingers trembled.

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She knew it then —

it was him.

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The boy who built bridges with words,

and fell in love through silence.

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"Now they spoke every night — anonymously, quietly"

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> RuheSukoon: “Is your illness real… or just poetic metaphor?”

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> AbuZarr:

“I wish it were metaphor.

But now, even my reports feel like ghazals —

each page another sigh.”

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> RuheSukoon: “Are you alone?”

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> AbuZarr:

“Yes.

Only silence remains beside me.

And maybe… a stranger who somehow still cares.”

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Zoboriya didn’t reply for a while.

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Just stared at the screen,

wiping the tears that wouldn’t stop.

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"One day, he asked: 'Who are you?'"

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> AbuZarr:

“Who are you, RuheSukoon?

How can a stranger care this deeply?”

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Zoboriya paused.

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Then slowly typed:

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> “I’m just someone…

who doesn’t want you sitting alone on cold benches anymore —

but in someone’s arms… safe.”

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> “You are not alone.”

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Abu Zarr read it.

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But didn’t reply.

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Not because he didn’t want to…

but maybe because his heart did.

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Too much.

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