What they had was just a flicker-and yet it burned.
It left a wound that callused, but never healed clean.
It still throbs-at dusk, when the wind shifts, when shadows gather like memories that never learned to leave.
In the quiet aisles of a 1942 library, fourteen-year-olds Lena and Carl Michael found each other-not through declarations, but through the shared language of books, glances, and silence. Their love was tender, unspoken, and lit by poetry, the scent of old parchment, and the soft rhythm of companionship. But just as it began to bloom, war and circumstance tore them apart.
Years passed. Lives were lived. New commitments, new families, the slow erosion of youth. And yet, something endured. Across oceans and decades, fate pulled them into a haunting pattern of near-encounters: a glimpse through a fogged train window, unopened letters returned by strangers, a quiet café missed by minutes. Again and again, they almost found each other. And almost is never enough.
(Unedited Version)
If you like the stories,
Where the Crawdads sings
The Notebook
A very long engagement.
Then this story is for you.
Prose style writing.
I just felt like writing it this way matches the theme. Love in Silence.
🔕Clarification.
All novels and words quoted are now part of the Public Domain.
🌹Do not translate without my permission.
I never believed in perfect starts. I wasn't the guy who lit up a room or made girls turn their heads. But then she walked in-first day of senior year-and everything changed.
Her name was Lena. Beautiful, sharp, untouchable. The kind of girl you admire from a distance and never think will notice you. And for a while, she didn't. But then something shifted.
I asked for her Instagram.
I started texting her.
Late-night chats turned into inside jokes, nervous flirting, and long walks under empty skies. Slowly, she let me in. Slowly, I fell-harder than I ever thought possible.
She started to love me too... or so I thought.
But love is never a straight line. Not when her past is made of broken promises and bruised trust. Not when she starts pulling away just as I'm holding on tighter. I loved her harder the more she faded-and then, one day, she was gone.
No explanations. No warning. Just silence.
A year passed.
Then, one night-midnight phone call, trembling voice, the same girl who broke me once asking if I still remember how it felt to love her.
This is the story of how we began.
Of how we ended.
Of how sometimes, the people who break you are the only ones who know how to put you back together.
And maybe-just maybe-some love stories aren't about forever.
They're about surviving the parts that almost destroy you.