Agape

I never knew I'll be again at love's doorstep.

Aahan Trivedi's Journal Entry

Loving you is so easy, I didn't even have to try. You were the smell of sand on a rainy day, cup of hot chocolate on a winter evening.

You made existing easy for me. My share of sunshine with yellow in her eyes, soft as honey.
The amber glow they hold, drags me in like drugs. they're as dangerous as addiction but twice as sweet. They take me in like home. But i feel I might lose myself and drown, I fear your love will swallow me. You make the world a soft place, and that scares me more than loneliness ever did.

What scares me the most
Isn't the pain
But the love running through my veins

But here I'm still wondering if the moon still look at me with those eyes, eyes that don't hold pity but that teasing glint. Whispers your name to the stars like my heart does everytime I see the moon or your fav flower.

You are sunlight falling through trees. You’re the comfort that breaks through pain. You the fireplace on a too cold evening. You are clarity in the midst of cloudy days.

I fear I might love you too much, that the ink would find its way back to my hands, though I thought I'd burn every poem meant for love

I fear...
Tum Mera sab kuch na ban jao
(You don’t become my everything)

Aahan had everything in place-keys where they belonged,  meetings that ran on time, a life that didn't spill. But it never felt full
The morning grey light hit the window sill. Papers scattered everywhere, smell of coffee lingering, as if someone has bathed the room with coffee. Empty cups on the table with pens and a book,
His Journal- where he allowed his heart to be vulnerable.
Aahan finally opened his eyes after quite good time of Pretending to be asleep. His sleep seems to be gone, not in the way something haunts you or maybe it did. She haunted him.
The phone on his side table rang between the pile of poems he has been writing.

The phone buzzed again.
"Aahan, you have to attend the event. I can’t get you out of this one."
"...But—"
"No buts. You’ve been locked in that room for weeks. You have a meeting with your editor tonight, and yes—you're expected to show your face."
He exhaled, a long, tired breath.
"Fine. Just... send me the schedule."
He finally sighed. And looked at the mess in his room. The air was stale with the ghost of yesterday’s coffee. Aahan ran a hand through his hair, eyes grazing over the disheveled bed, ink-stained pages, and the scattered words that refused to rhyme.
She was everywhere. In his breath, in the silence between pages. In the curve of every metaphor
Reluctantly, he rose up from his bed, his limbs heavy as if the bed clung to him in mourning
“Get up, Aahan,” he muttered to himself, voice almost breaking.
“You’ve got poems to pretend you don’t mean.”
He moved toward the window and cracked it open, letting the outside world spill in—birds, traffic. Everything felt distant
He opened the drawer, pulled out a clean shirt, and headed to the shower.
It's been weeks he hasn't stepped out of his room. The air has consumed every bit of joy and energy he has left. The water ran through his skin, it felt a little too cold, taking away his little bit of sanity left.
After the shower, he sat on the edge of his bed, towel draped around his neck, drying his hair in slow motions. His eyes wandered, tracing the scattered pages that lay like fragments of a conversation he never finished.
The clock ticked in the background, each second louder than it should’ve been. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, at the hollowness carved beneath his eyes.
His face was a poem in itself—one without a happy ending.
He buttoned the shirt mechanically. It didn’t feel like armor, just another layer between him and the truth.
His phone popped up
"2.30 pm
Don't be late, and yes- do something about your face"
A small, humorless smile tugged at his lips. It was the first one in weeks.
He slipped the phone into his pocket, grabbed his notebook—worn at the edges, spine breaking from being held too tightly too often—and stepped out of the room unwillingly.
The hallway light was too bright.
Each step down the staircase felt like walking through molasses
"Just today" he told himself "then I'll disappear again"
The city hadn’t changed, but it felt unfamiliar
The lights were too bright, it stung in his eyes.the traffic felt like a jolt to him.
When he reached the venue the grand hall covered in red and golden felt too heavy on him. It wasn’t the first time, but it was the time after he stopped writing about the one thing he felt was real- Love.
It felt like a museum of everything he no longer belonged to.
Outside the venue, huge banners fluttered under silver as if they borrowed the light from the moon.
The words "An Evening In Metaphors- featuring Aahan Trivedi" flashed against the glass door
He froze his name didn't felt his anymore.
Inside, chandeliers burned too bright, like frozen fireworks, the room was filled with people in silk champagne flutes tilting in well-practiced laughter.

The crowd moved in clusters, perfume and pretension thick in the air. Voices spilled over each other—conversations about books, politics, half-remembered poetry. It all spun around him like a carousel of noise he didn’t want to ride. The hum of cultured conversation buzzed against his skin like static.
He kept his gaze low, fingers wrapped tightly around the notebook in his coat pocket.
“Look who remembered how to walk.”
A voice cut through the haze—familiar, biting, warm.
Aahan turned to see Asher, his manager and oldest friend, dressed in a navy blazer, one brow arched, arms crossed like a proud mother hen and an overworked agent rolled into one.
"You survived the front door. Should I alert the press?”
“I’m still considering turning around.” Aahan stated
“Too late. You're in. You disappear for weeks, and now you’re the headline act. Congratulations, Trivedi.”
Asher clapped a hand on his shoulder, not gently.
“Also... SURPRISE. I signed you up for a reading.”
Aahan blinked. “You did what?”
“Hey—your publisher begged me. You’ve ghosted everyone, including me. This is called damage control.”
"Atleast don't make it obvious" he glared “You’re enjoying this.”
“Only a little,” Asher said, grinning. “You’ve got ten minutes. You’re up after a kid who just performed a spoken-word breakup piece comparing heartbreak to overripe mangoes.”
“What the hell—”
"Just... don’t die on stage.”
Aahan groaned. “This is my legacy now.”
Asher leaned in with a smirk. “Make them remember why your metaphors used to make people cry.”
He handed him the card with-
His name. His time slot. The spotlight he didn’t ask for.

10 mins later, which happen to slip in a blink of an eye.
The lights outside hum low, the chatter beyond the curtains muffled but alive. Aahan sits on a lone folding chair, his fingers clasped tightly together. He’s been still for nearly five minutes, staring at the floor as if something there held all the answers.
A faint tremble in his knees betrays him, but his face remains unreadable. Calm, even. Too calm.
Someone calls his name—once, twice. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.
In his pocket, folded and creased like a battle-worn letter, is the poem. To The Edge— but not over. His truth. His scream without sound.
He doesn’t want to perform it. But he has to.
He’s performed before. Hundreds of times. But never like this.
This one isn’t for the stage.
It’s for something—someone—else.
The lights dim. The curtains shift. The silence feels like a scream.
A hand touches his shoulder lightly. A friend? A handler? He doesn’t look up.
“You’re on in one.”
He stands slowly. The poem feels heavier now.
He breathes in—not for the audience, not for the stage. For himself.
This isn’t a performance.
This is a confession.
And if she is out there—he hopes she hears it.
A flicker of movement in the crowd outside—he thinks he sees her. Just a silhouette in motion, a familiarity he can’t place.
He blinks and it's gone. Or maybe it was never there. Maybe he’s just looking for something to hold onto before he drowns again.
His heart stutters.
He whispers, under his breath—
“Evara.”

Some names aren't spoken aloud-

They slip from memory only to return as echoes.

Whispered by silence,

Etched into hesitation,

And stiched into the breath we hold right before we break.

Word count is 1957

I hope you guys like the story, and would like to explore AAHAN’S deeper

I love y'all

Biee<3