"Two Sorrows, One Table"
Snow was still falling outside.
Through the bakery’s mirror, a breathtaking scene was visible —
on the street outside, a thin layer of snow was covered in a soft white glow.
The kind of glow that makes the world look gentler than it actually is.
Inside, the light aroma of coffee mingled with the chilly air that followed the snowfall —
as if time itself had paused.
As if nothing painful had ever happened to anyone sitting there.
Zoboriya took the last sip from her cup and spoke softly —
“Strange, isn’t it… we both were wounded in someone else’s love,
and now here we are… like two pages from an old book.”
Her voice didn’t tremble.
But something behind her eyes did.
Ehsan smiled faintly —
“Maybe because the tone of pain in that book is the same…
only the names of the stories are different.”
He didn’t say whose story hurt more.
Some comparisons are better left untouched.
They both stayed silent for a moment.
The silence wasn’t heavy — rather, it was the kind of stillness that gently runs its hand over your head.
The kind that doesn’t demand explanations.
"Things That Go Unsaid"
Ehsan placed his camera on the table.
As if putting away one way of seeing the world, even if briefly.
Zoboriya pointed towards his blue diary —
“Do you still write about her in it?”
She didn’t sound jealous.
She sounded curious — the way someone is when they already understand pain.
“Yes,” Ehsan replied, “but now it will have some of your words too…
so that whenever I feel truly alone, these pages will remind me
there was someone who listened to my pain… without interrupting.”
Without correcting.
Without judging.
Zoboriya touched the diary and said gently —
“Then give me one page too…
I’ll leave two or three lines of my own…
so you know your pain is not alone.”
She wasn’t offering love.
She was offering presence.
"The Company That Lightens the Load"
The hands of the bakery clock kept moving forward,
but for the two sitting at the table, time seemed to have slowed.
As if the world outside could wait.
“You know, Ehsan…” Zoboriya said,
“I always feared my pain might become a burden to someone.
But today, I feel… with the right person, the load can be halved.”
She had carried it alone for too long.
Ehsan lifted his coffee cup and simply said —
“And sometimes, listening to someone’s pain…
can be a healing balm for yourself.”
Some wounds don’t heal by talking —
they heal by being heard.
"A Relationship of Equals"
The street outside was now almost entirely covered in snow.
Footprints disappearing as quickly as they were made.
They both stood up — no goodbyes, no promises,
just a quiet glance shared between them.
No expectations, no commitments —
only the trust that the next time their hearts felt heavy,
this table would always have an empty chair waiting.
Not ownership.
Just availability.
Late at Night
It was 11:30 p.m.
Ehsan lay in bed, lights dimmed,
cold air drifting in through the window, phone in his hand.
Sleep felt unnecessary. Thoughts didn’t.
He opened Instagram and looked at his recent post —
a picture taken at the café.
His smile was clearly visible in the picture,
but the face of the girl sitting beside him had been blurred.
Some things were too fragile for clarity.
Suddenly, a notification popped up —
"New Comment from AbuZarr"
"Great pic, Ehsan! But why did you blur the girl’s face?
Please… I’d like to see that face."
Ehsan started typing for a moment, then stopped.
He remembered — the weight in Zoboriya’s eyes that day,
how she had said, “I don’t want to get tangled in someone’s hope again.”
Hope, when forced, becomes a trap.
He smiled faintly,
then typed only this beneath the comment —
“AbuZarr… some beautiful people are better left hidden.
Because we don’t want them caught in the world’s evil gaze.”
He set the phone aside and looked up at the ceiling.
The room was silent,
but even in that silence he could almost hear Zoboriya’s soft laughter —
the kind that had passed through pain to arrive.
Ehsan knew —
some relationships are so fragile
that showing them completely in a picture…
might just mean losing them.
"An Unwanted Question"
The phone lay face down on the table.
Ehsan thought he’d fall asleep now,
but the soft glow of the screen lit up the room —
another notification.
"New Message from AbuZarr"
"Plz Ehsan… plz tell me just once. I request you… where is my heartbeat, my Zoboriya? I want to meet her… plz."
The lines on Ehsan’s forehead deepened.
He picked up the phone and read the message two or three times.
Some words don’t ask — they demand.
Somewhere in his chest, a strange unease stirred —
as if someone had stood at his door and called out Zoboriya’s name.
He began typing for a few moments, then erased it.
He told himself —
"It’s her name, her life… only she has the right to answer this."
Still holding the phone,
he archived AbuZarr’s message without replying.
The room was dimly lit.
Somewhere far away, a dog barked,
but Ehsan’s mind was stuck on only one thought —
"Does Zoboriya even know that someone is searching for her like this?"
"Morning Silence"
The bakery’s shutter was half open.
Inside, the soft hiss of the coffee machine filled the air,
while the chilly breeze from the window rustled the newspaper pages.
Morning always pretended nothing had happened the night before.
Ehsan sat at his usual spot —
camera on the table, blue diary beside it.
Soon, Zoboriya walked in.
Her hair was in a simple bun,
a light shawl around her neck, and her eyes carried the faint rest of an unfinished night.
“You’re here early today?” she asked, pulling out a chair.
Ehsan took a sip of coffee,
stayed quiet for a while… then spoke carefully —
“Zobo… there’s something I want to tell you.”
Zoboriya raised her eyebrows,
as if trying to guess what it might be.
“Last night… I got a message.
From someone — AbuZarr.
He’s looking for you.”
The cup in Zoboriya’s hand paused midair,
then she gently set it down on the table.
“And?”
“He said… he wants to meet you.
Called you… ‘my heartbeat, my Zoboriya’.”
Zoboriya let out a small laugh —
but it was the kind that escapes when an old wound is touched by air.
“People… they think taking a name is easy, Ehsan.
But who understands the exhaustion behind that name?”
They stayed silent for a moment.
Outside, a bicycle passed by,
its bell briefly brushing against the stillness.
“Do you want me to reply to him?” Ehsan asked.
Zoboriya slowly shook her head —
“No… if someone truly wants to find me,
they should find the way themselves.
I don’t have the strength to pull anyone towards me anymore.”
Ehsan didn’t argue.
He simply removed the cover from his camera and, in a casual tone, said —
“Alright… then let’s capture some sunlight in today’s picture.”
Zoboriya smiled faintly and looked into the lens —
as if leaving her old stories on that table
and choosing to live only in this moment.
What Can Happen Next in This Story? (Story Direction)
The next phase of this story is not romance — it is realization.
AbuZarr will begin actively searching for Zoboriya.
Zoboriya will be forced to confront her past directly.
Ehsan’s inner conflict will deepen:
Does he have the right to be her protector, or should he remain only a listener?
The emotional bond between Zoboriya and Ehsan will grow stronger,
but without confession, without claims, without ownership.
The core of the story will remain this:
“Sometimes healing is staying, not owning.”
What Does This Story Teach Us?
Key Learnings
Not every kind of togetherness is love.
Some people come into our lives simply so we do not break.
Boundaries are also a part of love.
Zoboriya choosing to stay hidden is not weakness — it is self-respect.
Listening is a form of devotion.
Ehsan does not try to fix anyone — he simply listens.
Not everyone who uses your name has a right to you.
AbuZarr calling her “my heartbeat,” without understanding her pain, is possession — not love.
Healing does not happen in noise.
It happens in silence.
🔹 NEXT SHORT PART (Teaser / Mini-Continuation)
“A Message That Was Never Sent”
That evening, Zoboriya stood by her window.
The sky was pale, undecided — neither day nor night.
Her phone lay beside her, untouched.
She opened Instagram, scrolled absent-mindedly…
and stopped.
Ehsan had posted another picture.
Just sunlight.
No faces.
No names.
She smiled — a real one this time.
Somewhere far away, AbuZarr typed another message.
Somewhere closer, Ehsan adjusted his camera lens.
And Zoboriya?
She closed her phone and whispered to herself —
“Not everything that searches for me deserves to find me.”
The window stayed open.
The air felt lighter.
For the first time in a long while,
she didn’t feel chased by her own past.
🔹 READERS KE LIYE SHUKRIYA MESSAGE
💬 Thank You Message
Thank you for reading Two Sorrows, One Table 🤍
This story isn’t about love that demands —
it’s about presence that heals.
If these words made you pause, feel, or breathe a little softer,
then this story has found its purpose.
More chapters are coming —
slowly, honestly, and quietly.
Just like healing does.
Thank you for staying.
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