“Some people meet as if by fate, like a gentle breeze brushing against you when you least expect it. She was that breeze—quiet but unforgettable. And the world was different before I saw her eyes.”
There’s a peculiar magic to meeting someone online, a blend of the familiar and the foreign. It felt almost absurd—a chance encounter on Instagram, of all places, where the universe decided to throw me into her orbit. But when her image appeared on my screen, it was as if the stars themselves had conspired for this moment, aligning their light just to pull me closer to her.
She was unlike anyone I’d ever known. Aishwarya. A name that seemed to echo through my mind, soft yet profound. Traditional yet modern, like an ancient melody woven into the hum of a city. She was born and raised in the bustling lanes of Delhi, carrying with her a quiet strength, an elegance that spoke of her roots. And yet, she was a free spirit, someone who thrived on her own independence, now walking the historic halls of King’s College in London, pursuing her master’s in psychology. Her journey was one of growth, of finding herself, of pushing boundaries, both seen and unseen.
Her posts were like fragments of her soul—pieces of her world she chose to share, glimpses into a life that blended purpose with serenity. It was the way she held herself, the way her eyes seemed to carry a depth that could pull you in without a word. Eyes that held both calm and chaos, like the moon reflected on a stormy sea. And her smile…her smile was a quiet revelation, something that stayed with you, warm and haunting, like an afterthought that you can’t quite shake.
In that first moment, I didn’t know how profoundly she would affect me. I didn’t know that the simple act of clicking “follow” would mark the beginning of a silent journey, one that would change how I saw the world, and how I saw myself.
Each message I sent felt like a step into an uncharted world, her world—a place I could only touch through words and images. My “Hello” was simple, almost tentative, yet she replied, her response brief but polite. This exchange became a quiet ritual. I would reach out, and she would answer in her reserved, almost guarded way. And though her responses were few, I found myself hanging on to every single one.
There was a rhythm to our interaction, a subtle game of give and take. I would send a message, a like, an emoji. She would respond with a polite acknowledgment, a single word that somehow kept me captivated. Each time I saw her post, it was like discovering a new page in a story I had only begun to read. She would share snippets of her thoughts—quotes on resilience, notes on self-growth, and candid glimpses of her journey through London. She had a natural gift for capturing the essence of life, not through extravagant gestures but through the simplicity of her experiences.
It was her eyes, though, that haunted me the most. In photos, they seemed to hold a thousand unsaid things—a blend of wisdom and wonder, curiosity and calm. They were the kind of eyes you could get lost in and never want to find your way back. I began to imagine her as more than a presence on a screen. She was like the moon—distant but radiant, illuminating my nights with thoughts of her.
With each passing day, my admiration grew into something deeper. It wasn’t her beauty alone, or her intelligence. It was the way she carried herself, the quiet dignity in her posts, her commitment to growth, and her kindness that reached out even in silence. She exuded a strength that was not aggressive but gentle, a resilience that didn’t demand attention but commanded respect. She was like a lighthouse, guiding but untouchable, a beacon I found myself drawn to again and again.
One evening, after much hesitation, I confessed my feelings. I poured out the words I had been holding back, telling her how much she meant to me, how deeply I admired her. I wanted her to know that she was not just a passing thought, but a constant, a silent companion in my mind. Her response was gentle but firm, like a soft whisper against the wind: “I’m not interested in a long-distance relationship.”
Her words were kind, but they felt like a quiet storm, stirring something raw within me. I knew it wasn’t rejection out of cruelty—it was her way of protecting herself, of setting boundaries she held close. And yet, the finality of her message left a hollow ache, a silent reminder that some dreams are destined to remain just that—dreams.
But I couldn’t let go. Each time I thought of moving on, I would remember her eyes, her smile, and the way she carried the weight of her life with such grace. My thoughts of her became both a solace and a torment, a reminder of something beautiful yet untouchable. As the poet Rumi once wrote, “The wound is the place where the light enters you.” In my longing, there was a strange beauty, a quiet strength I had never felt before.
Life, however, had its own plans. In those months, my world was filled with a different kind of sorrow. My mother had fallen gravely ill, her health teetering on the edge, each day an anxious wait in the critical care unit. Hospitals became an unsettling second home, their sterile air thick with worry and whispered prayers. Sharing this with Aishwarya felt like an impossible choice; it didn’t seem fair to pull her into my darkness. After all, I was nothing more than a distant admirer, a man caught in her orbit, watching from afar. Yet, I continued to message her, hoping she might see beyond my casual greetings and sense the storm within me. I continued to message her, hoping she might see beyond my casual greetings, that she might sense the storm within me.
But she replied with the same polite brevity, her responses a gentle reminder of the distance she maintained. Perhaps it was her own way of protecting herself, or perhaps she didn’t see what lay beneath the surface of my words.
The day my mother passed away was like the world coming to a standstill. In that moment, the weight of loss was unbearable, an emptiness I couldn’t describe. But as I sat there, numb with grief, her message appeared on my phone. I hadn’t told her what had happened, but her words, kind and compassionate, reached across the distance, offering a balm to my pain. “I hope you’re doing well,” she had written, a simple phrase that carried a depth I had never felt before. Her words were like a quiet warmth, a fleeting light that cut through the darkness.
And so, I continue to watch her journey from afar. She has grown, and blossomed into a woman who is fearless and free, pursuing her dreams with an unwavering spirit. She posts about her passions, her moments of joy, her love for knowledge and growth. I watch her shine, her independence a quiet flame that inspires me, even from a distance. She is still that breeze, gentle but unforgettable, a force that has changed me in ways I never imagined.
I know we may never be more than this—a silent connection, a distant admiration. But as I look up at the stars, I can’t help but think that, in some way, our paths were meant to cross. She taught me about love that doesn’t demand, about admiration without possession. She taught me that some people, like the moon, are meant to be admired from afar, their light a beacon in the night, guiding but unreachable.
In the end, I want nothing more than for her to be happy, to find love, joy, and purpose in everything she does. As Khalil Gibran once wrote, “If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they were always yours. If they don’t, they never were.” She may never return, and that is okay. She has given me a gift—a quiet strength, a love that transcends words, and a peace that lingers even in absence.
And so, I let her be, knowing that somewhere out there, she is shining, living her truth, fulfilling her dreams. I carry her memory like a gentle warmth, a soft light that will forever remain a part of me. And perhaps, in some distant future, she might look up at the moon and think of me as the one who saw her light and loved her for it, even from a distance.
For now, that is enough...