Title Red Bangles
In the bustling streets of Lahore, Zara, a spirited literature student, spent her evenings browsing secondhand bookstores near Anarkali Bazaar. Her world was one of poetry, chai, and quiet dreams—until she met Ayaan.
It was a rainy Thursday when he first walked into her favorite bookshop. Drenched and charming, he reached for the same Faiz Ahmed Faiz collection she had just set down. Their hands brushed. He smiled. “Looks like we both have good taste.”
Over the next few weeks, Ayaan kept showing up—always with a different excuse, never directly admitting he came to see her. Zara found herself looking forward to his visits, their light debates over Ghalib versus Iqbal, and the way he listened to her as if every word she said was a verse worth remembering.
One day, he brought her a small gift: a pair of red glass bangles. “These reminded me of you—strong, bright, impossible to ignore,” he said. She laughed, slipping them on, the clink echoing between their joined silences.
But love, like poetry, isn’t always neat.
Ayaan was from Islamabad, only in Lahore for a short internship. His return date loomed like a deadline neither wanted to acknowledge. On their last evening together, they sat by the canal, the summer air thick with unspoken promises.
“I wish I had more time,” he whispered.
Zara held his hand, the bangles glowing in the fading light. “Maybe love isn’t about how long it lasts. Maybe it’s about how deeply it changes us.”
They kissed—soft, hesitant, final.
Ayaan left the next morning. Letters followed. Then fewer. Eventually, silence.
Years later, Zara became a literature professor. She still visited that bookshop, still wore those bangles on rainy days. And sometimes, when Faiz’s verses filled her classroom, she remembered a boy with warm eyes and rainy hands—and the kind of love that only needs one season to last a lifetime.
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