College life had settled into its rhythm. The days passed in a blur of lectures, assignments, and hostel routines. Tandin and Tshering, though miles apart, continued to stay connected through occasional messages that meant more than long conversations ever could. Their bond had matured into something steady quiet but comforting, like a lighthouse in a storm.
One evening, as dusk painted the sky in shades of gold and blue, Tandin sat alone near the edge of the football field. The breeze whispered through the trees, and everything felt still. He looked at his phone, just to see her name. No message yet, but somehow, even the silence felt full full of memories, laughter, and her presence.
Later that night, her message arrived:
“Do you ever feel like some people aren’t just part of your story… but the reason your story feels worth telling?”
Tandin stared at her words, a smile gently forming. It was in moments like these that he realized how rare she was someone who understood without needing to explain.
Their conversation continued little details of the day, her run in the rain, his first lab practical. Nothing grand, yet deeply grounding.
That night, she sent a voice note. Her voice, soft and slightly sleepy, said:
“Some friendships feel like home. With you, even silence feels safe.”
He listened to it on repeat, as though each word was wrapping around his heart.
Then, he typed slowly, carefully choosing words that came from a place he hadn’t visited in a while:
"If ever a day comes when you feel lost, just remember my soul remembers you, even in silence"
No emojis. No need.
Because some words don’t need decoration—they carry weight all by themselves.
Even with distance and busy lives, their connection never faded. It existed in stolen moments, in gentle words, and in the kind of love that asks for nothing but presence.
They weren’t just keeping in touch—they were quietly holding space in each other’s lives.
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