Abu Zar — Who Smiled for the First Time Without a Name
That night, Abu Zar held his phone the way one holds a fragile truth.
Not expecting a message.
Not daring to send one.
The screen stayed silent.
But his heart didn’t.
Something inside him had shifted — quietly, irrevocably.
The voice that once felt unfamiliar no longer frightened him.
It rested in him now.
Like warmth after a long winter.
Every night, he met that nameless presence — RuheSukoon.
And every morning, on the same old park bench, he stopped writing.
The book lay open.
The first page blank.
As if his words were no longer meant to begin the story.
As if he was waiting… for someone else to arrive.
Zoboria — Who Almost Stepped Forward, Then Chose Silence
That same night, Zoboria tried.
She opened Abu Zar’s chat window.
Her fingers trembled as she typed:
“I’m Zoboria…”
Then — she erased it.
Fear rushed in faster than courage.
What if he pulled away once he knew?
What if forgiveness hadn’t survived time?
What if love, so safe in silence, shattered the moment it was named?
She put her phone on silent and sat by the window.
Rain tapped softly against the glass.
Inside her, an old habit stirred.
She opened Abu Zar’s last post:
“If only you were ever in front of me…”
Her eyes filled — not with regret,
but with longing that refused to leave.
The Morning the Bench Held a Rose
Abu Zar came as usual.
But instead of words waiting for him,
there was a rose.
Soft pink. Fresh. Alive.
Beneath it, a note:
“Today I bring no words — only a flower,
where something unsaid is still breathing.”
His fingers shook as he picked it up.
For the first time, his certainty trembled.
Was it her?
Was someone finally coming closer?
He placed the rose inside the book and wrote:
“If this is you… I’m ready now
to give your silence a name.”
An Evening of Almost-Meetings
Dusk wrapped the city gently.
Zoboria sat at the café by the window — the same place where Abu Zar’s books once rested.
Her hand lay on her notebook.
She was logged in as RuheSukoon_11.
Outside, Abu Zar arrived.
Through the glass, he saw her —
a pink scarf, a journal, quiet hands turning pages.
His heart recognized her before his mind could.
He didn’t enter.
Because now, even he was afraid.
What if it really was her —
and losing her again would break him beyond repair?
A Letter Without a Name
Three days later, a letter found Abu Zar.
No sender. No signature.
Just three lines:
“If someone returns, don’t call them by their old name.
Some come back carrying silences, not identities.”
He pressed the letter to his chest.
On the bench, he wrote:
“I no longer search for names.
I only want to hold the feeling
that kept me alive — even without one.”
Fate’s Quiet Warning
The doctor called.
“Mr. Zarar… the MRI results are concerning.
Your condition is worsening.”
Abu Zar smiled softly.
“Life is fragile, Doctor.
But love… love makes it bearable.”
That night, he posted:
“I don’t need medicine.
I need one meeting.
Don’t tell me your name.
Just sit beside me.
I’ll recognize you.”
Zoboria — Who Finally Chose Truth
She erased everything.
@RuheSukoon_11 disappeared.
She logged in with her real name.
@Zoboria
And sent one message:
“If you still sit on the bench — I’m coming tomorrow.
Recognizing me is your responsibility.
Forgiving me… is mine.”
The Morning Silence Broke
7:00 a.m.
Abu Zar waited.
His breath heavy. His heart loud.
Then he saw her.
Pink scarf. Slow steps. A notebook held close.
He stood.
They faced each other.
No words.
Just two books placed on the bench.
And the line they both knew:
“Some loves don’t break —
they only learn to live under new names:
silence, distance, patience.”
One book opened.
One silence ended.
One story began again.
Safvan — Who Read Her Without Being Seen
In a quiet office in New Delhi, Safvan saw her story.
A bench.
A book.
One line:
“Some loves don’t return —
but we keep walking behind them anyway.”
He understood her now.
Zoboria — strong in meetings, soft in solitude.
Whole, yet unfinished.
That night, he wrote for the first time:
“I like her —
like someone listening to a broken music box.
But she’s still dancing to another tune.”
Safvan — Who Became Z
He created @inkbyZ.
No face.
Only truth.
“Some people aren’t your love stories.
They’re the quiet company in your loneliness.”
And later:
“She passes the bench every day —
like a question that never becomes an answer.”
Zoboria felt it.
Not Abu Zar’s pain.
Something gentler. Deeper.
She didn’t reply.
She didn’t block him.
She saved him.
The Question That Remained
Safvan spoke only through silence.
Zoboria listened without admitting it.
And somewhere between presence and absence, a question lingered:
Can Zoboria learn to love again —
not through recognition,
but through understanding?
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📖 Next Short Part
“When Silence Started Choosing Sides”
The bench was no longer empty.
Zoboria came regularly now — sometimes with Abu Zar, sometimes alone.
But Safvan noticed something subtle.
Her posts changed.
They weren’t reaching backward anymore.
They weren’t calling someone lost.
They were… standing still.
One evening, Safvan saw her delete a draft.
Then another.
Finally, she posted just one line:
> “Some silences are no longer waiting —
they are deciding.”
Safvan closed his phone.
For the first time, he understood —
love doesn’t always reject you.
Sometimes, it simply finishes elsewhere.
And that night, for the first time,
Z didn’t write.
---
Dear Readers,
I am deeply grateful for the love you’ve shown this story.
Knowing that readers from more than 100 countries are connecting with these words fills my heart with humility and strength.
If this story touched you —
please leave a comment mentioning which country you’re reading from.
And if you believe in silent love, unfinished emotions, and stories that breathe —
share this with your friends.
Your comments and shares don’t just support my blog —
they give me the courage to keep writing.
Thank you for walking with these characters.
With love and gratitude 🥰
https://afsanawahidwrites.blogspot.com/2025/12/hashim-zille-huma-ek-raat-ka-sannata.html
https://timespeakestruth.blogspot.com/2025/12/mini-cooper-car-india-price-features-2025.html
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