That day was supposed to be special.
It was Sunita's birthday, and Sanho had spent the entire week thinking about how to make her smile. He wanted it to be perfect—simple, meaningful, and from the heart. He'd even saved money from his part-time shifts at the clinic, buying a delicate silver bracelet he'd seen her admiring once in a shop window near the college. It wasn't expensive, but it was beautiful, and he imagined how her face would light up when she saw it.
He spent the entire morning wrapping the gift, checking it again and again, practicing how he'd surprise her. Maybe he'd say something like, "Close your eyes," or maybe he'd just stand there, smiling, and let her find him. He imagined her eyes widening, that soft laugh escaping her lips when she realized he'd come all the way to her house.
By evening, the sun hung low, its orange light spilling over the narrow lanes of Kolkata as Sanho made his way to her home. The air was warm, filled with the scent of roadside food stalls and the hum of daily life. But Sanho felt nothing of the chaos around him. His heart beat in anticipation, fast and excited, a rhythm of hope.
He reached her house—an old, two-story building tucked between newer apartments. The paint was fading, but the balcony still had flowering plants. He smiled at the sight. So her mother still takes care of these.
He took a deep breath, fixed his hair in the reflection of his phone screen, straightened his shirt, and walked toward the door. He didn't call or message her—he wanted this to be a surprise. His fingers trembled slightly as he rang the bell, but no one answered.
He waited, then tried again.
Still nothing.
The door, however, wasn't locked.
It opened with a soft creak.
"Hello? Sunita?" he called softly, stepping inside.
The house was silent, unnervingly so. The living room was empty, the curtains half drawn, the faint light of dusk filtering through. A few decorations hung loosely on the wall—maybe preparations for her small birthday celebration later. He noticed the smell of perfume lingering in the air, faint but fresh, as if someone had recently passed through.
"Sunita?" he tried again, smiling faintly, thinking she might be in her room getting ready.
He walked down the hallway toward her room. Just before he reached the door, he stopped.
There was sound.
A voice.
He froze.
It wasn't hers at first—it was a man's voice. No, not a man. A boy. Young, confident, laughing softly.
And then came her laughter.
That same laughter he adored, that had always calmed him on his worst days, now floated out from behind a closed door mixed with another man's.
He blinked, unsure. Maybe a relative? Maybe a cousin? His mind searched desperately for an explanation.
Then the voice came clearer.
> "I heard you have a boyfriend in your college,"
said the boy, his tone half-teasing, half-possessive.
There was a brief silence, then her voice replied, soft and playful—
> "It's just time pass. You know me too, right? My fiancé."
The words landed like stones in his chest.
For a moment, Sanho stood still, unable to breathe. His mind went blank, his heart stopped mid-beat. He wanted to believe he had misheard. That maybe it was a misunderstanding, a joke. But deep inside, something broke—a quiet, sharp crack that spread through his being like ice.
He took a small step back, his legs trembling.
"No… no, that can't be…" he whispered to himself, voice barely audible.
He moved closer to the side of the window, drawn by a mixture of disbelief and a terrible need to see the truth. His hands shook as he slowly leaned forward, peering through the thin gap in the curtain.
And then he saw them.
Two figures in the dimly lit room—her and a boy with golden hair, dressed in clean, expensive clothes that screamed luxury. He had his arm around her waist, holding her close. She was smiling, laughing softly as she rested her head against his shoulder.
Sanho's breath caught.
His vision blurred for a second.
He blinked rapidly, hoping he was dreaming, that his mind was playing tricks on him.
But it wasn't a dream.
Then it happened.
The boy tilted her chin upward, his face close to hers. Their lips met.
A slow, deep kiss—intimate, deliberate, and filled with the kind of closeness she had always denied Sanho.
The world went silent.
The street noise outside disappeared.
The sound of his own heartbeat drowned everything else.
He stood frozen, watching the scene unfold like a cruel play written by fate itself. His heart felt as if someone had reached inside his chest and squeezed until it broke.
The bracelet box slipped from his hand, hitting the floor softly. The little silver trinket inside rolled out, catching the faint light from the hallway before coming to rest near the door.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to burst through that door, demand answers, ask why. But his voice was gone. His courage was gone. The weight of betrayal pressed against his chest, suffocating him.
She… she didn't even let me hold her hand.
She said she wanted to wait till marriage.
She said she was mine.
His mind spiraled through memories—her gentle refusals, her laughter, her words about loyalty, purity, patience. Every single moment felt like a lie now, poisoned by what he was seeing.
She had called another man her fiancé.
The girl he had loved, the one he had trusted completely, the one he believed was different, was now in another man's arms—kissing him, laughing with him, holding him close in a way she never let Sanho come near.
His lips trembled.
"Why…?" he whispered, barely audible.
What did he do wrong?
What mistake had he made to deserve this?
His mind searched for reason, but there was none. Love, once pure, now felt like a cruel illusion.
He slowly backed away from the window, not wanting to see more. The room around him blurred through the haze of tears forming in his eyes. He tried to breathe, but the air felt heavy, thick with grief.
He stepped out of the house quietly, the floor creaking under his feet, each step echoing louder in the silence of his thoughts. He didn't slam the door. He didn't shout. He didn't demand an explanation.
He just stood outside, staring at the street lights flickering on as dusk turned to night. His hands trembled. His throat burned. And then—
a single tear rolled down his cheek, warm and slow, falling to the ground.
That one tear carried everything—his dreams, his hopes, his trust, his love.
He looked up at the sky, the faint stars barely visible through the city's haze. "What… did I do wrong?" he murmured. "What was my bad karma?"
There was no answer.
Only silence.
People walked by, laughing, living their lives, unaware that a heart nearby had just broken into a thousand pieces.
Sanho stood there for a long time, watching the world move while his own came to a standstill. The bracelet still lay on the floor inside her house—its silver glinting faintly in the dark, abandoned, like his love.
He turned and began walking away, his steps slow and unsteady. Each one heavier than the last.
The night air felt colder now. The city lights seemed duller. Even the noise of traffic sounded distant, muffled, as if the world had drawn a curtain between itself and him.
Inside, he felt hollow. Empty. The kind of emptiness that words couldn't fill.
He didn't curse her.
He didn't hate her.
He was too broken to.
All he could do was walk—walk until the pain faded into numbness, until his tears dried and his heart stopped hurting enough to keep him standing.
Because sometimes, heartbreak doesn't come with thunder or fire.
Sometimes it comes quietly—like a whisper of goodbye in the evening wind, like a single tear falling to the ground without sound.
And that night, under the silent Kolkata sky, Sanho lost not just the girl he loved, but a part of himself he would never get back.