We met in a group chat—random, unplanned, and honestly, at a time when I wasn't looking for anyone new. I already had a girlfriend back then—or at least, I told people I did. At first, it was a lie, one of those small ego-driven fabrications. But eventually, the lie became real. She became my ex-girlfriend. And like most things that start with a lie, it didn't last. She ghosted me without warning. One day we were calling each other "baby," the next—silence. No closure, no goodbye. Just absence.
And then she entered.
Khushi.
She didn't act fake like so many others did. There was something raw and genuine in the way she spoke. It felt like I could tell her anything.
I don't know exactly when we started talking privately, but once we did, we didn't stop. She quickly became someone I leaned on, someone I waited to talk to every day.
At first, I joked around with her. I even said, "Mujhe ek ladki chahiye, meri gf banegi koi?( I need a girl, anyone wants to be my Girlfriend) Help me na." She laughed, never helped, never introduced anyone. So one day, jokingly, I asked, "Tu hi ban jaa na meri." (You become mine).
Her reply was soft, a gentle no. Not harsh, but a refusal nonetheless. Then she said something that stayed with me forever:"I won't be your girlfriend. But I'll love you more than any girlfriend ever could."
That sentence hit differently. It wasn't love at first sight. It wasn't flirting. But whatever we had… it was real.
We didn't label it. We didn't need to. We became best friends. Or at least, that's what we called each other. But deep down, we both knew it was more than that.
Every morning, I'd wake up to a message from her. Every night, I'd fall asleep with her voice still echoing in my mind. We talked about everything—school, family, our past, our dreams. I shared more with her than I ever had with anyone else. And she shared too—her childhood, her neighborhood best friend who moved abroad, leaving her behind. It made me feel something I couldn't explain—jealousy, maybe. Or maybe I wanted to be the one she missed like that.
We even fought sometimes. Small disagreements—when she went missing for a few hours, or replied late, I felt ignored. Or when she replied dryly at night, I'd overthink. But even those fights felt… intimate.
Then I noticed her Snapchat score—350k+. I asked, "Bro, how?? Tu karta kya hai?" She said it was all from ninth and tenth grade and that she barely used it now. Still, it made me uneasy. Was she close to other guys too? Did she call them "best friend" like she called me? I didn't question her too much—I trusted her. More than anyone else.
One incident stands out. Dhiraj, a mutual friend, called me randomly one night."Bro, you should stop talking to Khushi. It's not healthy. You're too attached."
It pissed me off. Who was he to decide what was healthy for me? Khushi heard about it and texted me immediately:"Did Dhiraj tell you to stop talking to me?""Yeah.""Will you?""Never."
She sent a heart. Then a long paragraph thanking me for standing by her. Small, but meaningful. In a world where people leave for the tiniest reasons, having someone who stays—it matters.
During those three months—from April to June—I started falling for her. Slowly. Quietly. Not the Bollywood-style love. Not "I'll die without you" love. But the kind where someone becomes part of your routine without realizing. The kind where their mood affects yours, where just their voice can fix your worst day.
We never met. We weren't dating. No kisses, no flirting like typical online couples. But one night, I found myself staring at her picture… smiling for no reason. That's when I knew. I was in trouble.
By the end of June, my previous online relationship with Abhiti had ended. Short-lived, intense, and now gone. And in the hollow left behind… only Khushi remained. I wasn't looking for anyone new. I didn't want to flirt or chase or fake anything. I just kept talking to Khushi. Every day. She became my peace, my diary, my distraction from everything wrong in life. And she never asked for anything in return.
Sometimes I wanted to confess. But I didn't. Not yet. So I kept my feelings locked away, hoping the right time would come. That was stage one—the unexpected bond that felt too comforting to define, too delicate to destroy. Something between "just friends" and "almost lovers." And in that grey space, our story began.
July came like a continuation of a dream. The comfort we found in each other didn't fade—it grew. "Good morning" and "good night" messages became rituals. Sometimes we'd fall asleep on call, phones warm against our cheeks, breaths in sync, like a long-distance heartbeat. We weren't dating. But from the outside, it could look like we were.
We talked about everything—from weddings we liked to how the world sometimes felt too loud. She opened up like never before, telling me her insecurities. "Sometimes I feel like I'm too much for people to handle," she whispered one night. I replied without hesitation, "Not for me." Moments like these kept pulling me deeper. I wasn't just falling for her—I was drowning in her.
But closeness brought cracks. Small arguments turned heavy. Late replies, dry replies, sudden disappearances—they all shook us. When she returned, she acted fine. But I could feel the shifts. Her tone, her delays, her distance. I wanted to scream, "Then why does this friendship feel like love?" But I stayed silent.
Dhiraj returned, trying to warn me again. "You've become obsessed, bro. This isn't healthy. You're wasting time on something that won't become real." I snapped. "You don't know our bond." Khushi defended me. But seeds of doubt had been planted—in all three of us.
She still called me "best friend," sometimes "baby" out of habit. She teased me about liking other girls. But I didn't want platonic anymore. I wanted clarity. I wanted to be chosen, not just included.
By the end of August, I realized I was emotionally addicted to her. Her replies controlled my mood. A late reply, and I spiraled. A dry reply, and I questioned myself. A sweet message, and my whole day brightened. It wasn't healthy. But it was real. And deep inside, I hated how powerless I felt.
Fear of ruining it. Fear of losing her. Fear of hearing, "I don't feel the same." So I waited. Watched. Hoped.
September came, and the cracks widened. A small fight turned big—a joke about one of her guy friends irritated her. "You don't trust me?" she asked. "I do," I said. "But I know how easily people get attached. I just don't want to lose you." She stayed silent. That silence broke something in me.
That night, I called her. She picked up, voice tired. "Why do we keep fighting?" "Because we care," I said. "Or maybe because we don't know what we are."
I whispered, "We're more than best friends." She didn't reply. Just a long, heavy sigh that said everything she didn't want to say out loud.
September ended with me more confused than ever. We hadn't defined anything. We hadn't ended anything. But something had changed. The bond was still there—but so was the damage. And both of us… were drifting closer and farther from the innocence we once had.
October came like a storm.
Everything between Aahan and Khushi was changing—not slowly, but suddenly, like a dam had cracked and the water was pouring in too fast to stop. They still talked every day, but every conversation had an edge now. The comfort was still there… but it was sharp, uneasy, tense. Like something beautiful on the verge of breaking.
They were no longer just best friends. But they weren't lovers either. That undefined middle ground had started to feel like torture.
It began with the first real fights.
Some days, Khushi would give him all her attention—asking how he was, if he had eaten, whether his headache had gone, if he'd slept enough. But other days, she would disappear. Messages left on read. Replies hours later. Short. Cold.
"Sorry, was busy."
Aahan couldn't take it anymore. "Busy with what?" he typed.
"You were online."
"You're just… different these days."
Khushi snapped back, "Not everything is about you, Aahan!"
That line burned. Because for him, everything was about her. They were fighting like a couple, but they weren't one. No labels. No "boyfriend rights," no "girlfriend duties." Yet the expectations hung between every call, every message, every silence.
By mid-October, Aahan couldn't lie to himself anymore. He was in love with her. Not infatuation. Not a crush. Real love—the kind that aches quietly. The kind that keeps you awake not with butterflies, but overthinking. He wanted her to be his. He wanted her to stop calling him just her best friend. To choose him. And yet, he hesitated.
Maybe she wasn't ready. Maybe she didn't feel the same. Maybe he was afraid of rejection again. That hesitation cost him more than he expected.
Dhiraj returned—again. This time, not with concern, but accusation. "Bro, you're messing with her head. You're not even her boyfriend, but you act like one. You're not giving her space."
Aahan lost it. "I've been giving her space! Too much! She's the one pulling me in and pushing me away!"
Khushi had grown tired of Dhiraj too. She messaged him privately and told him to back off. That night, she called Aahan. For a few brief moments, everything felt calm again.
"I don't care what Dhiraj says," she said. "You matter to me more than he ever did."
Aahan smiled. But something inside him broke. Because even though she said those words, she still hadn't chosen him. She still wasn't his.
Overthinking became a constant. Khushi spoke often about her real-life friends—especially her childhood friend who had gone abroad. He couldn't shake the feeling of being left behind.
"Why do I feel like you've been closer to everyone but me?" he asked.
Khushi replied, softly, "Because you only know my online version. You've never seen how I behave offline."
That line stayed with him. And it stung.
By December, the emotional closeness between them had turned into exhaustion. The fights became normal. Affection faded into anxiety. But then… Radhika entered the picture.
A girl, met on Snapchat. Not meant to be anything serious—just a new voice, a new connection. She was lively, talkative, quick to reply, and laughing more than Khushi ever did online. For Aahan, the contrast was clear—and confusing.
After one call with Radhika, he called Khushi. But something felt off.
"Is something wrong with your voice?" he asked.
"Nope. Tereko alag lag rahi hoon kya?(did you feel smth change?) " she replied.
Aahan realized the truth: he had started liking Radhika's voice more. It wasn't love—it was comfort. Later, he texted Khushi, "Maybe I like her voice more. She just sounds… sweeter."
After that, she went silent. No calls. No long messages. Not even one-liners. He tried to call once, but the conversation was cold. She started talking about her childhood friend abroad again, and Aahan interrupted.
"I told you before—don't talk about guys on calls with me."
The call ended. And so did everything else.
Aahan sent a final message days later: "Let's just end this."
Khushi replied quickly: "Why?" "What happened?" "Don't say that." "Please don't leave."
But she didn't say what he had hoped for. She didn't fight. She didn't promise anything. And that silence told him everything he needed to know.
It wasn't that he never loved her. They just loved in different ways, at different depths, on different timelines. Khushi loved the comfort, the routine. Aahan wanted more—the label, the clarity, the commitment. And when he didn't get it, he searched elsewhere.
He walked away.
By late December, Aahan had moved to Noida for work. New city. New schedule. New people. But every night, he checked her profile once, just to see if she was okay. She didn't text, didn't call. No "Take care." It was over—but he never got closure. That hurt the most.
Months passed. Radhika left too—she got a boyfriend. He tried messaging Khushi, calling her. She never picked up. She never replied. That was supposed to be the end.
Until April 28.
Aahan had just finished his RTO training for the day. Tired, drained, ready to go home. And then his phone lit up. Khushi.
He stared at the screen. Breath caught. He hadn't seen that name in months. His hand trembled as he picked up.
"Hello?"
Her voice was soft, shaking. "Aahan…" And then—she started crying.
At first, she said nothing was wrong. But Aahan knew better. He kept asking, gently pushing, until she broke down.
"After you left in December… I couldn't handle it," she said. "I missed you sooo muchhhh. I didn't know how to say it. But I missed you so much."
That one sentence shattered him. She had felt everything he had. The pain. The silence. The regret. But they had suffered separately, never telling each other.
After that call, things changed. They started texting again. Sending long voice notes. Random updates. Cute messages: "Don't skip lunch." "Tell me when you reach." "I wish we never stopped talking." Slowly, Aahan felt like maybe this was their second chance.
About a week later, he told a friend, "I think I want to propose."
Friends warned him, "If not now, then never." "She just wants attention. Don't fall again."
But Aahan didn't listen. He had waited four months. Endured silence. Regretted every decision. He wasn't going to let her go again.
Still, he didn't confess yet. He wanted her to feel safe first. To build it up slowly. But she… misunderstood that silence.
It was past 1 AM. Another small argument. She felt distant. He felt she wasn't serious. Words got sharp. Tone heavier. They argued, but this time, Aahan didn't hold back. He slept that night with a stone on his chest. Woke up at 4 AM, wide-eyed. Still couldn't breathe right.
He opened WhatsApp and typed in all caps:
"I HAVE GENUINE FEELINGS FOR YOU. ACCEPT THEM—OR BLOCK ME."
He gave her twelve hours to respond.
By 5 PM, she did the only thing that could break him completely. She blocked him. No goodbye. No explanation. Just gone.
He stared at the empty chat. The grey profile picture. The name he couldn't click anymore.
This wasn't just a situationship. It had become a memory he would carry forever. She had said she loved him more than a girlfriend ever could… but she never became his. And that irony would stay with him like a scar. Now? There was no one to talk to. No Khushi. No good nights. No "baby" in late-night calls. Just silence.
After 3months..
a mistake that couldn't be undone..
Because, Aahan had made a careless decision, shared her private number to his friend because he keep asking for girlfriend. That friend of his had asked for something inappropriate—dirty pictures. He didn't think. He just wanted to help his friend, nothing else. But it backfired. The moment Khushi realized, it triggered her. The trust they had, fragile as it was, shattered. She felt betrayed. Angry. Hurt. And that was when her patience ran out. she threatened him and said she'll file a legally case.
Aahan tried to apologize— promised it would never happen, that it was his fault, that he hadn't thought. But nothing could undo the damage.
And so, it ended.
No fight. No reconciliation. Just silence. And a lesson learned too late: sometimes love isn't enough when trust is broken.
--A Story by Ayan