Full Circle

It began in a house that smelled of cardamom tea and nostalgia.

Arjun wasn’t supposed to be there that day. He had come along with his parents to visit distant relatives — the kind you see twice a decade but hug like you’ve known forever. The house was buzzing with laughter, children running around, uncles arguing about cricket, and somewhere in between — her.

Aarohi.

She was sitting near the window, feeding marigold petals into a bowl, helping her aunt with the decorations for someone’s engagement. There was nothing particularly cinematic about her — except maybe the way she smiled when she caught him staring, as if she had already forgiven him for it.

They talked that evening. About nothing and everything — about music, about how she hated physics but loved the rain, about how he wanted to study abroad because “India feels too small for my dreams.” She laughed at that. “Dreams are never too big,” she said, “only the courage to chase them.”

By the end of the week, they were texting. By the end of the month, they were inseparable. Love didn’t come crashing; it arrived like dusk — quietly, gradually, and before he knew it, the sky was already different.

Two years later, Arjun got his admit letter from a university in the U.S. Aarohi cried when he told her, but she didn’t ask him to stay. “If I love you,” she said, “I have to let you go chase it.”

They promised to make long distance work. They called every day, sent letters at first, then gifts, then silence. Time zones stretched their bond like an old elastic — it held for a while, then slowly lost its shape.

By the fifth year, their conversations had become polite. By the sixth, she had stopped replying altogether. And one day, she called — not to rekindle, but to say goodbye. Her parents had found someone. He was kind, stable, and nearby.

Arjun didn’t fight it. He’d lost her long before that phone call.

The next few years passed in a blur. Arjun built his career, founded a company, got featured in magazines. Money came, awards followed, and the world started calling him “visionary.” But sometimes, when he stood alone in his penthouse looking at the city lights, he wondered if success was just loneliness wearing expensive clothes.

Then, one day, an invitation arrived. A wedding. His cousin’s.

He went because his mother insisted again. Funny how life circles back that way.

The venue glittered with lights and laughter. Cameras flashed. People swayed to loud music. Arjun stood near the bar, half-distracted, when someone tapped his shoulder.

“Sir! I can’t believe it’s you!” a man exclaimed, his face bright with excitement. “I’m such a huge fan — your story is incredible! Can we take a picture?”

Arjun smiled, the practiced smile of a man used to admiration. “Of course.”

The man handed his phone to someone nearby and turned.
“By the way,” he said proudly, “meet my wife, Aarohi.”

Time didn’t stop. It just slowed enough for the air to feel heavy.

She turned toward him. Same eyes. Same quiet. For a second, the room disappeared. Then she smiled — a soft, formal smile, nothing like the ones she used to give him.

He extended his hand. She took it. Their fingers brushed for a heartbeat — the kind of touch that carries years of things unsaid.

The husband laughed about something, pulling Arjun closer for a photo. Flash. Another flash. He kept talking, thanking him, complimenting his work. Aarohi stood beside him, her eyes lowered, her silence louder than the music around them.

When the pictures were done, Arjun nodded politely and stepped away. He didn’t look back.

Neither did she.

And that was it — no words, no tears, no closure.

Just the ending of a story that had once been everything, now reduced to a handshake and a photograph.