We met on Snapchat, just like that. No build up, no dramatic timing, no background music playing somewhere. Just one random add on an ordinary day that didn’t feel important at all. Funny how the most unimportant days quietly turn into something you keep remembering again and again, like your mind refuses to let it go.
We started talking. Normal talk first. Hi, hello, what do you do, where are you from. The usual script people follow when they don’t know each other yet but still want to. Then slowly, it turned into longer conversations. The kind where replies get faster without you realizing it. The kind where you open the app not because you’re bored, but because you’re hoping there’s a message waiting.
She was also a Gurung. That made it feel a little closer instantly. Like some invisible connection was already there before we even tried to build one. It’s weird how small things like that matter more than they should.
Her ID name was “moon”. And for some reason, my brain decided her real name had to be something like Chandrama or Purnima. I didn’t ask at first. I just kept guessing silently, smiling like an idiot at my own imagination. Later, when I found out her real name, it wasn’t even close. But somehow, “moon” still suited her better.
She worked at a pharmacy. Busy most of the time. Long hours, tired eyes, probably dealing with people who only show up when something is wrong. Still, she made time to text. Not always instantly, not always in long paragraphs, but enough to make me wait for the next message. And I did wait. Happily. That’s the dangerous part. When waiting doesn’t feel like waiting anymore.
We kept talking. And I don’t know exactly when it happened, but I got comfortable. Like really comfortable. The kind where you don’t think before typing. Where you say random things and don’t worry about how they sound. Where silence doesn’t feel awkward. Where even a simple “Khana khayau?” feels important.
One day, the tone changed a little. Not suddenly, but you could feel it. She opened up about her past. Heartbreak. The kind that doesn’t just end, it stays. The kind that follows you even when you pretend you’ve moved on. I listened. Properly. Not like people who wait for their turn to speak. I just listened.
And then somehow, I ended up sharing mine too. I wasn’t planning to. It just happened. Maybe pain recognizes pain. Maybe broken stories feel safer when they sit next to each other. Two people, two pasts, one chatbox trying to act normal.
Somewhere in between those conversations, I started wanting more. Not something big or dramatic. Just… her. Her presence, her messages, her randomness. It wasn’t loud love. It was quiet, slow, and a little confusing.
But she wasn’t ready. She told me clearly. No mixed signals, no half promises, no false hope. Just a simple truth.
She said she would only hurt me. She told me not to have expectations from her.
It should have hurt more than it did. Maybe it did hurt, just in a softer way. Or maybe when someone is that honest, you don’t feel like arguing with it. You just accept it, even if you don’t fully want to.
So I respected it.
We stayed. Not lovers. Not strangers either. Something in between. A weird little space where we cared, but didn’t label it. Maybe more than friends, definitely less than best friends. Just… there.
I liked making her smile. Even if it meant being a little stupid sometimes.
Okay, maybe not a little. A lot.
I would send random jokes, weird texts, unnecessary messages just to see that one reply where she laughed or called me dumb. That became enough for me. Funny how your standards change without permission.
At one point, she blocked me on Instagram. Just like that. No warning, no explanation, just gone. I remember checking twice, thinking it was some glitch. It wasn’t.
I sat there staring at my screen like I just got eliminated from a reality show I didn’t even know I was part of.
Later, she told me the reason.
I was too cringy.
And honestly… fair.
Looking back, I probably deserved an award for that level of cringe. If there was a competition, I would at least make it to the finals. Maybe even win.
But I didn’t give up. Not in a dramatic “I will prove my love” kind of way. Just in a quiet, normal way. I told her everything. Properly this time. Less jokes, more truth. Less trying to impress, more just being real.
Somehow, I fixed that disaster. Don’t ask me how. Even I don’t fully understand it. Maybe she understood me. Maybe she just gave me another chance. Maybe both.
And yeah… she rejected me. Not once. Not twice. But thrice.
Saying it like that sounds painful. And maybe it is, a little.
But it’s not fully sad.
Because even after all that, we still talk. Still share random parts of our day. Still exist in each other’s routine somehow. It’s not intense, not dramatic, not something you post about. But it’s there.
And I still like making her smile. Even if it’s not always because of me. Even if sometimes I’m just one small part of her day.
I don’t know what this is. And I don’t think she does either.
Maybe love isn’t always about getting the person. Maybe it’s not always about ending up together, taking pictures, telling stories about how it all worked out.
Sometimes it’s just about staying. In whatever space they allow you to be in. Without forcing it, without breaking it.
She is still healing. Maybe she will take months. Maybe years. Maybe she will never fully go back to who she was before. And that’s okay.
We all carry things we don’t talk about.
And I’m not here to fix her. I’m not some hero in her story. I just… want to be someone who doesn’t make it worse. Someone who can sit there, talk, joke, and maybe make things feel a little lighter.
That’s enough for me. At least for now.
And yeah… if she rejects me again in the future?
I’ll probably still be there.
Making another bad joke.
And this time, maybe… slightly less cringy.
—
