In a small riverside town lived a girl named Meghla.
She didn't talk much.
But her eyes… they carried stories.
Every afternoon, she would sit near the old banyan tree beside the river, reading novels and watching the water flow. People said she was proud. But in truth, she was just afraid — afraid that if she spoke too much, someone might hear the loneliness in her voice.
One day, a new boy came to town. His name was Arin.
He wasn't extraordinary.
But when he smiled, it felt like winter sunlight.
Their first meeting wasn't magical.
It was awkward.
Meghla dropped her book.
Arin picked it up.
"You like stories?" he asked softly.
She nodded.
He smiled, "Then maybe one day… we can become one."
And for the first time in years, Meghla's heart skipped.The rainy season arrived.
The river swelled. The sky grew darker. And somehow, Meghla and Arin grew closer.
They didn't confess love.
They didn't hold hands.
But they talked — about dreams, fears, stars, and the future.
Arin wanted to leave town one day and build something big in the city.
Meghla wanted to stay and protect the quiet beauty of her world.
They were different.
Yet somehow, they fit.
One evening under heavy rain, Arin said,
"If I ever leave… will you forget me?"
Meghla looked at the river and whispered,
"Rivers don't forget the rain."
Arin didn't understand fully.
But he felt it.Life is gentle… until it isn't.
One morning, Meghla heard that Arin was leaving for the city — suddenly. His father got a job there.
No warning.
No farewell.
She ran to the banyan tree.
But he wasn't there.
Only a folded letter lay beneath her favorite spot.
It read:
"Meghla,
You once said rivers don't forget the rain.
If destiny is kind, I will return like the monsoon.
Until then… keep one story unfinished for me."
Tears rolled down her cheeks — silent, like always.
That day, Meghla realized something.
Love doesn't always stay.
But it always leaves a mark.Years passed.
Meghla became a writer. Her stories carried quiet pain and hopeful endings. People loved her words — because they felt real.
One evening, as rain began to fall again, she sat under the same banyan tree.
Footsteps approached.
"Did you keep a story unfinished?" a familiar voice asked.
Her heart stopped.
Arin stood there — older, tired, but still with that winter sunlight smile.
She didn't speak.
She just held out her notebook.
On the last page, it read:
"The rain always finds its river."
And this time —
He didn't leave.