“Bayaan Café — Stories That Don’t Ask for Names, Only Listen to Souls”

---

5. “The Woman — Who Wished the Train Never Stopped”

The train slowed down as it reached the station.

A woman stepped out —
a simple cotton saree, faint weariness in her eyes,
and a small paper envelope clutched tightly in her hand.

No one asked her name.
Perhaps she didn’t want to tell.

Only one thought kept echoing in her mind:

“I wish this train never stopped… just kept moving —
until I could find myself again.”

As she walked out of the station, her gaze fell on an old board:

← Bayaan Café — 300 meters

Her heart skipped a beat for a moment.

“Bayaan…” she whispered softly —
as if an old forgotten voice had called her name again.

---

6. “Bayaan Café — A Place That Waits for No One, Yet Belongs to Everyone”

When she reached the door of the café,
the air still carried that faint, familiar fragrance —
the one Helena had left behind.

Inside, there was silence —
a few chairs,
glass jars filled with folded paper notes,
and in the middle, an old bench where Baba-Bayaan sat.

The woman quietly stepped inside.

On the table nearby rested an empty cup,
as if someone had just set it down moments ago.

She softly asked Hashir:

“Do people still… write their thoughts here?”

Hashir smiled and nodded.

“Yes… and sometimes, they’re even heard.”

---

7. “Her Letter — The One No One Had Ever Read”

The woman opened her bag.

Inside was an old letter —
the paper had turned yellow with time,
and on it, a single name was written: “Syed.”

She placed the letter gently in front of Baba-Bayaan.

“I never sent this…
because the day I was supposed to,
he left… forever.”

Baba-Bayaan lowered his head slightly without opening it.

“Some letters are not meant to be answered…
they’re just meant to sit beside a cup of coffee.”

---

8. “The Girl Who Always Sat by the Window and Looked Outside”

The woman chose a seat near the café’s window.

Outside, a few neem leaves drifted lazily to the ground.

She adjusted her scarf over her chest
and took the first slow sip of her coffee.

Her face still held a thousand untold stories,
but her lips… remained silent.

Hashir walked up to her and asked softly:

“Is this your first time here?”
“No,” she said, gazing outside.
“I’ve been here many times…
just in my thoughts.”

---

9. “The Piece of Paper — That Became a Poem”

Baba-Bayaan picked up the old letter
and quietly scribbled something on its corner.

Then, without a word,
he handed it to Hashir.

“Pin this on the wall —
don’t write her name.”

Hashir looked at the words on the paper:

“I won’t stop you from leaving —
but after you’re gone,
this window will stay open every evening
towards the same direction.”

---

10. “Bayaan Became the Name of Another Story…”

When the woman finally got up to leave,
she placed a tiny wooden bird on the table —
its little eyes carved shut.

And she said softly:

“If anyone asks,
tell them…
I’ll return someday.
Perhaps when my answers start questioning me.”

---

🌒 “Bayaan’s Nights Still Move Slowly…”

Now, on the café’s wall,
there are no names —
only three things hang quietly:

1. Helena’s little bottle of perfume
2. Baba-Bayaan’s notebook
3. The corner of that unnamed woman’s letter

No names are written on any of them.

Because at Bayaan,
names are never asked…
only stories are heard.

---

11. “The Boy — Who Was Running Away from His Own Voice”

That day, the café’s window was wide open.

The neem tree’s shadow had grown longer,
stretching lazily across the street.

A soft knock came at the door —
and a young boy walked in,
around 22 or 23 years old,
wearing simple clothes,
a sling bag over his shoulder,
and eyes carrying quiet exhaustion.

Hashir looked up —

“A new story?”
The boy shook his head slightly.

“No…
perhaps a very old one.”

---

12. “All He Had Was a Blank Diary”

The boy walked inside and sat at a corner table.

From his bag, he pulled out a thick, new diary —
its pages untouched,
not a single word written.

He took out a pen,
stared at the blank page for a long time…
then quietly put the pen back.

“Sometimes I feel…
I can’t write myself down.”

Baba-Bayaan had been watching him from afar.

He slowly walked over and sat across from him.

“Do you want to write?”
“Yes… but I’m scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“That if I write it down…
and it turns out to be me…
what will I do then?”

---

13. “Bayaan’s Rule — No First Page Ever Stays Empty”

Baba opened his notebook
and placed a single slip of paper in front of the boy.

On it was written:

“If the first word scares you,
it means…
that’s your truest one.”

The boy read it carefully.

After a long pause,
he opened his diary for the first time
and wrote on the very first page:

“I don’t know who I am.
But today,
for the first time…
I’ve accepted that I exist.”

---

14. “The Girl Sitting by the Window… Was Listening to His Story”

By the café’s window,
a girl sat quietly, holding a book —
its title read:

“Bayaan: Short Stories, Long Silences.”

She had been reading…
but suddenly paused.

Her eyes drifted toward the boy —
watching him
as he tried to have a conversation with himself
for the very first time.

---

15. “The Collision — Between Two Silent Gazes”

When the boy got up to get coffee,
the girl caught a glimpse of his diary.

The boy noticed
that she was reading it.

“You have no right to read my words.”

The girl smiled softly.

“And you have no right to be afraid —
when your words are so true.”

The boy froze for a moment.

For the first time,
he saw permission, not judgment,
in someone’s eyes.

---

16. “Bayaan Café Became a Bridge Between Two Strangers”

Evening began to fall softly.

The boy returned to his table.

The girl walked over and sat across from him.

“I’m Anaya,” she said.
“And I…
I guess I’m just a word for now,”
he replied.

She smiled.

“Then let’s write a story together.”
“Where do we begin?”
“From the moment…
you stopped being afraid.”

---

Now, on Bayaan’s wall,
two new shadows of coffee cups
joined the old ones.

Baba-Bayaan whispered to Hashir:

“We’ll need a new poem for the next wall.”

And then

he wrote softly in his notebook:

“Sometimes, two strangers
share a single page —
and become an entire book.”

---

Hello friends! I’m Writer Afsana Wahid. 🌸

Please read my story, share it, and don’t forget to leave a comment.

Also, let me know who you are and where you’re from so that I can know from which corner of the world my story is being read. 🌍

✨

Bayaan Café Subtitle: Where Memories Breathe and Love Lingers

---

The First Light of Dawn

At Bayaan Junction, the soft morning sunlight was slowly cascading over the wooden benches.
The shadows on the station walls had faded now —
instead, deeper colors had settled there,
like a painting that would never lose its shades.

Hijra was there again today.
Holding a small clay cup of steaming tea,
she sat quietly, gazing at Platform No. 1.

Hashir sat beside her.
Sometimes, he tried to write something,
but stopped halfway…
and his eyes seemed to steal something from her face —
that serenity,
which once existed only as a thought.

"Bayaan still echoes with your voice,"
Hashir said softly.
"But now… it’s no longer about waiting.
It’s about being together."

Hijra smiled and looked at his diary:

"Your pen doesn’t tremble anymore…"
"Now, it writes itself… completely."

---

Bayaan Café — Where Even Silence Is Served

Near Bayaan Junction, where once stood a shuttered paan shop,
now stood a tiny book-and-tea haven —
“Bayaan Café” —
named after Hijra.

On every table rested an old book.
Under every chair, a little note was tucked away:

“If you’re missing someone,
this chair understands your wait.”

Ruhi now arranged the tables there,
and from an old tape recorder, Hijra’s velvet voice floated through the air:

“Some loves…
talk to walls too.”
“Without ever taking a name.”

---

A Letter That Was Never Posted

From the last wooden cupboard at Bayaan,
Hijra found an envelope —
with no stamp, no seal.

On it, only one line was written:
"To be read… when you return."

It was in Hashir’s handwriting —
from years ago.
Perhaps from that night
when he had desperately wanted to stop her from leaving.

Hijra opened it gently and read:

“I never wanted you to go —
but standing in the way of your flight
felt like standing against love itself.
If you ever return, know this —
I never forbade you from staying.
I simply couldn’t understand the rhythm of your steps.”

And then:

“If you’re reading this,
know that my love no longer has a name…
It has become your fragrance —
spread across every corner of Bayaan.”

Hijra’s eyes welled up,
but her lips curved into a quiet smile.

---

The Benches of Bayaan — No Longer Waiting

Now, those who came to Bayaan Junction
didn’t come only to leave their unfinished love behind.
Some came to rediscover familiar faces.
Some came to start new stories.

Together, Hashir and Hijra
turned every old letter,
every lost train ticket,
into a Bayaan Library.

Here,
every love story found a place,
every silence its own shelf,
and every unfinished name its own key.

---

The Last Page of the Night

One night, Hijra and Hashir climbed up
to the station rooftop.

The entire station glimmered below —
not in flames,
but lit up by the glow of someone’s memories.

“Bayaan is still a junction,”
Hijra whispered.
“But now…
it’s where journeys begin —
not where they end.”

Hashir opened his diary.
For the first time,
there were no incomplete words.
A full sentence was written:

“Some loves… come back —
because they never truly left.”

---

On Bayaan’s last wall,
one sentence is written:

“When stories no longer feel incomplete —
that’s when love has finally built a home.”

And below it:

— Hijra & Hashir
(Who never told their story twice —
they simply lived it once, completely.)

---

Bayaan Café — A Meeting Beyond Languages

1. The Old Poet Who Finds Poems in Scrap

Near the edge of Bayaan Junction, under a neem tree,
sits an old man every evening.
A white shawl, a wooden cane, and an old notebook —
on whose cover, just one word is written:
"Stay."

His name?
No one knows.

People simply call him “Baba-Bayaan.”

He asks no questions, tells no tales.
Every day, he digs through the station’s discarded papers,
picks up old love letters,
and writes new poems
on the corners of their pages.

One day, Ruhi asked him:

“Baba, you’ve been doing this for years?”

He smiled and replied:

“Because true poetry…
is always hidden
in the corner of someone’s unfinished letter.”

---

2. The German Woman Who Spoke Through a Perfume Bottle

One day, a foreign woman entered Bayaan Café.

Simple clothes, short hair, depth in her eyes.
She introduced herself: “Helena.”

She didn’t know Hindi.
Yet, she stood staring at an empty perfume bottle
hanging on the wall for a long time.

Then, she opened her notebook
and wrote a line in English:

“I don’t know whose scent this was…
but it reminds me of someone I never met.”

Ruhi quietly walked over and sat beside her.

Helena closed her eyes and said softly:

“In Berlin, there is no place like this…
where people’s love lingers,
like forgotten perfume
in the folds of time.”

Ruhi called Hashir over.
Hashir handed Helena the perfume bottle.

Helena was startled.

“This? You’re giving me this?”

Hashir nodded.

“At Bayaan, things are given…
never kept.”

---

3. A Poem in Two Tongues

Helena spent hours at Bayaan Café that day.
She read the walls,
listened to people’s stories,
and felt every word —
as if language itself had become unnecessary.

In the evening, Helena and Baba-Bayaan
sat together at one table.

Helena scribbled a few English lines,
and Baba translated them into Hindi.

Together, they created a poem —
half in English, half in Hindi.

---

“Lost are names
but not the scent.”

"छूट गए हैं नाम,
मगर महक अब भी ठहरी है…"

---

“We never said it,
but we lived it.”

"कभी कहा नहीं,
पर जी लिया तुम्हें…"

---

Now, this poem is painted on the front wall of Bayaan Café.
Beneath it, two names are written:

— Helena & Baba-Bayaan
"For a love that crossed languages,
but never missed the meaning."

---

4. Before Leaving, She Left a Twig

Before leaving,
Helena plucked a small twig from the neem tree
and handed it to Baba-Bayaan.

“For your poems…
they are trees now.”

Baba placed the twig carefully inside his notebook,
and whispered softly:

“Bayaan is no longer just my voice…
It has become my lifetime.”

---

Hello friends! 🌿✨

If you enjoyed my story, please don’t forget to leave a comment and let me know how you felt about it.

Also, it would mean a lot if you could mention the city and country from where you’re reading — especially my lovely readers from outside India, but my dear readers from India too! 🇮🇳🌍

And yes, don’t forget to share this story with your friends so more hearts can connect with it.

Thank you for your love and support! ❤️

Writer Afsana Wahid 

Bayaan Café Diaries: Who Am I?A Place Where Love Lingers in Silence

---

The First Light of Morning

At Bayaan Junction, the morning sunlight was slowly settling onto the wooden benches.
No more shadows on the station walls—
but deeper hues now rested there,
like a photograph that would never fade.

Hijran was there again today.
A cup of tea in a clay kulhad in her hands,
silently gazing at Platform No. 1.

Hashir sat beside her.
Every now and then, he would try to write something,
then stop…
and his eyes would steal something from Hijran’s face—
the peace that had once been only a thought.

“Bayaan still echoes with your voice,”
Hashir said.
“But now it’s not waiting… it’s togetherness.”

Hijran smiled and looked at his diary:

“Your pen no longer trembles…”
“Now it has started to write itself whole.”

---

Bayaan Café — Where Even Silence is Served

Near Bayaan Junction, where there once stood a closed paan shop,
now stood a small place for books and tea —
“Bayaan Café” — named after Hijran.

On every table lay an old book.
Under every chair, a small note read:

“If you are missing someone,
this chair will think it’s waiting for them.”

Ruhi now set the tables there,
and from an old tape recorder, Hijran’s velvety voice played:

“Some loves speak even to walls…”
“Without taking a name.”

---

A Letter That Was Never Posted

From the last wooden shelf of Bayaan,
Hijran found a letter —
without a stamp.

On the envelope, it only said:
"Read this after you’ve returned."

It was written by Hashir —
years ago.
Perhaps on the night when he desperately wanted to stop her from leaving.

Hijran read it slowly:

“I never wanted you to go —
but to become a hurdle in your flight
felt like going against love.
If you ever return, know this —
I never told you not to stay.
I just never understood the pace of your steps.”

“If you are reading this letter,
know that my love is no longer a name,
but your fragrance…
spreading through all of Bayaan.”

Hijran’s eyes were moist,
but a smile rested on her lips.

---

Bayaan’s Benches — No Longer Waiting

Now, those who came to Bayaan Junction
didn’t just leave their incomplete love there.
Some came looking for returned faces,
some came to begin new stories.

Together, Hashir and Hijran turned
every old letter,
every lost ticket
into a Bayaan Library.

There, every love story found a place,
every silence had its own shelf,
and every unfinished name had a key.

---

The Last Page of the Night

One night, Hijran and Hashir climbed up to the station roof.

The whole station glowed below —
not in flames,
but in the light of someone’s memories.

“Bayaan is still a Junction,”
Hijran said.
“But now journeys begin here —
they don’t end.”

Hashir opened his diary.
This time, there were no half-written words.
A full sentence was written:

“Some loves return —
because they never left.”

---

On the last wall of Bayaan was written:

“When stories no longer feel unfinished —
know that love has made a home.”

And below it:

— Hijran & Hashir
(Who didn’t tell their story twice —
just lived it once, completely.)

---

Bayaan Café: The Meeting… Beyond Two Languages

1. The Old Poet — Who Still Finds Poems in Scraps

On the edge of Bayaan Junction, under a neem tree,
an old man sits every evening.
White shawl, wooden stick, and an old notebook —
its cover bearing only one word: “Stay”.

Name?
No one knows.

People just call him “Baba-Bayaan.”

He neither asks nor tells,
just takes old papers from the station dustbin —
and on the corner of someone’s old letter,
he writes his new poem.

One day, Ruhi asked him:

“Baba, have you been doing this for years?”

He smiled and said:

“Because real poetry…
is always found in the corner of someone’s unfinished letter.”

---

2. The German Woman — Who Spoke Through a Perfume Bottle

One day, a foreign woman came to Bayaan Café.

Simple clothes, short hair, deep eyes —
she introduced herself: “Helena.”

She didn’t know Hindi.
But she kept staring at an empty perfume bottle hanging on the wall.

Then she took out a notebook —
and wrote a line in English:

“I don’t know whose scent this was…
but it reminds me of someone I never met.”

Ruhi quietly came and sat beside her.

Helena closed her eyes and said:

“In Berlin, we have no place like this…
where people’s love lingers,
like forgotten perfume in the folds of time.”

Ruhi softly called Hashir.
Hashir gave Helena the perfume bottle.

Helena was surprised.

“This? You’re giving me this?”

Hashir nodded.

“Things from Bayaan are given —
never kept.”

---

3. One Poem — In Two Tongues

Helena spent hours there.
She looked at the walls,
listened to people’s stories,
and felt every word —
as if language wasn’t needed at all.

By evening, Helena and Baba-Bayaan were sitting at the same table.

Helena wrote some words in English —
and Baba turned them into Hindi.

Then together they made a poem —
half in English, half in Hindi:

“Lost are names
but not the scent.”

“छूट गए हैं नाम,
मगर महक अब भी ठहरी है…”

“We never said it,
but we lived it.”

“कभी कहा नहीं,
पर जी लिया तुम्हें…”

Now, that poem is written on the front wall of Bayaan Café.
Below it are two names:

— Helena & Baba-Bayaan
(“For a love that crossed languages but never missed the meaning”)

---

4. Before Leaving… She Left a Twig

When Helena was about to leave,
she broke a small twig from the neem tree —
and gave it to Baba-Bayaan.

“For your poems… they are trees now.”

Baba-Bayaan placed the twig in his notebook.

And softly said:

“Bayaan is no longer my tongue…
it has become my age

Hello 

To all my dear readers — wherever you are reading my story from, please don’t forget to leave a comment and let me know your location.

It’s always extra special for me to hear from those reading outside India.

And if you’ve enjoyed this story, please share it with your friends and family.

Your love and support mean the world to me — thank you! ❤️

When the Heart Speaks — The Tale of My Pen

---

When the Heart Speaks — The Tale of My Pen

I am someone who gives voice to the silence of her heart through her pen. Everything that I cannot say — my joys, my pains, my hopes, my sorrows — is contained within my writing. For me, writing is not just a collection of words, but the truest reflection of my soul.

Often, I get tired. While writing, I sometimes feel lost. It feels like all my efforts might vanish into thin air, and no one will understand me. When no one reads my words, my heart breaks.
Many times, I have thought of giving up writing, but the pen picks itself up again. It’s not a compulsion; it’s my passion. That little part inside me, that wants its voice to be heard, compels me to write again.

My writing is my friend — one that listens to all my happiness and sorrow without any complaints. When my world feels empty and no one understands my pain, my pen becomes my greatest companion.

Perhaps the world isn’t ready to hear my story yet, or maybe people don’t feel the way I do. But I believe that somewhere, someone will understand me. That one person is enough to comfort my writing.

I know this journey has many struggles. Clouds of despair hover, fatigue embraces me. But I also know that every written line, every word of pain and happiness, brings a new ray of hope for me.

My story is not just mine — it belongs to all those who seek someone to understand their feelings. I write for all of them who, like me, long to be heard.

So, if you ever feel lost, if your heart says you want to write but you fear no one will read — remember, your voice matters. Your writing is your strength.

And as a writer, I want to say — never give up. Keep writing. Because your truth, your feelings, somewhere in the ink of your pen, hide a ray of hope for someone.

---

To My Dear Readers,

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking the time to read my words. Every line I write is meant to connect with you, to share a part of my soul and to hopefully touch yours.

Your support, even if silent, gives me strength and courage to keep writing. If my story or feelings resonate with you, please know that you are not alone — we are connected through these words.

I hope you find comfort, hope, and inspiration in my writing, just as I find solace in putting my thoughts on paper. Your presence means the world to me, and I am grateful for every reader who listens with an open heart.

Please feel free to share your thoughts, your stories, or even your silence with me. Together, we can create a community of hearts that understand, heal, and grow.

With love and gratitude,

Afsana Wahid

Bayaan Café Diaries: Who Am I?

---

📦 "The One Who Stayed — But Said Nothing"

That day, it was raining at Bayaan Junction.
The walls were slightly damp, yet the stories written on them were still dry —
waiting for someone.

A young man arrived — his name was probably Eshan.
He carried neither an umbrella nor a notebook.
Just a small bundle — filled with scattered papers.

He didn’t say a word, only looked toward the wall.

On the wall, someone had written:
"Sometimes it’s not voices — even eyes can say everything."

Eshan opened his bundle and placed it beneath the wall.

Inside, there was no letter.
Just a torn scrap of paper with broken lines —
as if someone had drawn a map with their tears.

Elina glanced at it and quietly said:

"You don’t want to speak, that’s alright.
But maybe… what you didn’t say is what mattered the most."

---

🕯️ "The Bayaan Candle That Lit Itself"

From then on, every week at Bayaan Circle,
the candle would light itself before anyone arrived.

As if it already knew that today,
someone would come carrying their broken pieces.

One day, a woman came — older,
with shadows of sleeplessness in her eyes.

She said:

"I am a mother…
who never apologized to her daughter."

And she fell silent.

No one said anything.
Only Hashir slid a paper toward her.

On it was written:
"In Bayaan, apologies are not spoken —
they are placed gently into someone’s gaze."

---

🎧 "Voices That Returned"

Ruhi still sat in the corner of the station,
recording sounds.

But one day, she sat before the mic herself.

She told her first story — the one
she had never even told herself.

"I was someone’s sister,
but he never once called me by my name.
Only once he said — ‘Always stay with me.’"

Now, that voice became the echo of Bayaan Junction each night.

For travelers who came there for the first time,
it felt as though someone whispered to them —

"You are not alone —
someone once asked you to stay."

---

📮 "Bayaan’s First Post Box"

In one corner now stood a blue box —
everyone called it the Bayaan Box.

People placed in it the letters
that were never sent.

Like:

"Dad, what you did broke me — but now I’m fine."

"I couldn’t come to your wedding, but my prayers were always with you."

"I cried that night — but now I can smile."

There were no addresses,
no postman.

But every week, replies appeared in the box.

As if someone had read the letter —
and left the answer hidden inside another’s silence.

---

🌠 "Bayaan Was Becoming a Book…"

Quietly, Hashir began collecting all the unfinished pages
into an old diary.

No names were written.
Only a title:

"Unsent, Unspoken — Yet Understood"

And on the very first page, a single line:

"If you too can never say it —
know that here, someone is still writing your story."

---

🌌 "Next Story: The Scent Left Behind"

Bayaan’s next tale would be about a nameless character —
whose memory survived
as a dried rose petal pressed inside an old book.

---

🌸 "The One Who Never Returned — But Left a Scent"

That day, after a gentle rain at Bayaan Junction,
the air carried the earthy fragrance
that often lingers after someone’s departure.

A girl arrived —
she never told her name,
but there were jasmine flowers in her hair.

She looked at the wall, then sat on a chair.

In her hands, there was no diary,
no letter.

Only a handkerchief —
with the scent of an old perfume.

She said:

"He never came back…
but his scent still lives in my books."

---

📖 "The Story of the Scent"

That day, someone wrote on Bayaan’s wall:

"Some people never return —
yet the scent of their name hides in our drawers."

Hashir sat in the farthest corner of the station.
He heard, he felt — but spoke nothing.

He only pulled a piece of paper from his pocket,
placed the scented handkerchief inside it, and said:

"Bayaan is now a library of feelings.
Every page here is soaked in someone’s silence."

 

---

🌙 "A Name Written in Moonlight"

The girl returned every Saturday,
same chair, same handkerchief, same shadow of perfume.

One day she said:

"I never managed to say anything to him.
Maybe that’s why he left…"

That night, the moonlight in Bayaan’s courtyard was unusually clear.

And in that moonlight,
someone used water to write a name on the ground —
which dried up within minutes.

But Elina saw it.

She said:

"What fades in Bayaan
is what’s written the deepest."

---

🧵 "The Rose Petal"

The following week,
the girl brought an old book.

Between its pages lay a dried rose petal —
still carrying that same perfume.

She said:

"This is my last memory —
I’m giving it to Bayaan now."

Hashir took the book,
flipped a page, and wrote:

"He never returned —
but every time Bayaan’s pages turn, his scent returns."

---

🚉 "The Passenger Who Was Always Left Behind"

There was another face at Bayaan Junction —
an elderly man who stood watching
before every train left.

He never spoke to anyone.
Only took out a small perfume bottle from his pocket,
inhaled it,
then put it away.

One day, Hashir asked:

"Who do you watch for, every time?"

The old man replied:

"The one I never let go —
but who still went away…"

---

🎙️ "The Scent Became a Voice"

Ruhi poured that perfume into a small glass vial
and placed it beside Bayaan Studio’s microphone.

She recorded a single line:

"If you too speak to someone’s scent,
know this — your loneliness is no longer alone."

Now, whenever a storyteller sat to speak,
the vial would open slightly,
and the fragrance would fill the room —

as if an invisible hand whispered:

"I’m right here.
I just didn’t say my name —
because some bonds don’t ask for voices."

---

🌸 "Bayaan Now Breathes in Fragrance…"

Now, when someone comes to Bayaan Junction,
they don’t just find words on the walls.

Someone leaves behind a trace of perfume.
Someone presses a rose petal into a book.

Someone leaves a handkerchief —
still carrying the breath of an unfinished love.

And someone simply says:

"He never returned,
but my wait is still the same."

---

To be continued…

---

Enhanced Version

Hello friends, I’m writer Afsana Wahid. 🌸

My latest story “The One Who Stayed Silent… Yet Left a Scent” is now live.

If you felt something while reading it — even a tiny spark of emotion — please share your thoughts in the comments. Your words mean a lot to me.

💌 Share it with your friends and family — maybe they’ll find a piece of themselves in it too.

🌍 Special request to readers outside India: Tell me where in the world you are reading my story from.

🇮🇳 To my Indian readers: I’m waiting to hear from you too!

Thank you for being part of my storytelling journey. ✨

Bayaan Café Diaries: Who Am I?

---

Uzayfa

By Afsana Wahid

---

 “Bayaan: The City’s New Silence”

Something had changed.

The café chairs weren’t as old anymore,
The tables had shifted a little too.
But the silence hanging on the walls—
Was still the same,
The one that had come to breathe
During Uzayfa’s time.

Now Elina sat there every evening,
But her eyes searched
For a lost face.

---

 “The Lost Register”

One day, a boy came in—
Probably a college student, young and weary-faced.

He asked simply:

“Do you still keep the blue register here?”

Elina didn’t flinch.
She simply pointed to an old drawer:

“Now we keep registers of every color…
So everyone can recognize their own ink.”

---

 “A New Wave — The Same Bayaan”

Once a week, "Bayaan Circles" began to gather there.

There was no stage, no microphone.
Just a single candle—placed in the center.

Whoever had something to say
Would sit close to the flame and speak.

The others didn’t just listen—
They felt.

---

“A Letter That Was Never Sent”

One day a girl came in—
With an old phone in hand
And a draft message never sent.

She said:

“I never sent it.
I just typed it out and saved it.
I was always afraid to delete it.”

Elina said:

“At Bayaan, no message gets deleted.
You can leave it here if you like.”

She left the phone behind—charging.

“Maybe someday someone will read it…
And understand my silence.”

---

 “The First Bayaan Walk”

One evening, Elina organized a “Bayaan Walk”—
Where no one wrote, they just walked.

Each person wandered with their shadows
Through the very streets where they had once broken down.

At every corner, there was a poster:

“If you once cried here—
Then come back and say, ‘I’m okay now.’”

---

 “Bayaan’s Old Mirror Table”

One day, Elina restored the table
Where Uzayfa used to sit.

Now a mirror sat on it.

Below it was a note:

“You won’t be asked to share your story.
Only this—
‘How much of yourself can you feel today?’”

---

 "And One Day, A Child Came..."

A little boy—maybe ten years old.
He had no diary, no letter.

Just a small boat made of clay.

“Is there a river here?” he asked.

Elina leaned down and asked softly:

“Whom are you looking for?”

The child said:

“The one whose story hasn’t been written yet.”

Elina smiled.

“You begin—
We’ll listen.”

 

---

 “Uzayfa’s Return?”

No one said her name aloud anymore.
But some moments
Still brought her to life.

Like the day a girl asked Elina:

“Can I sit where the one who no longer writes used to sit?”

Elina nodded:

“Yes, but don’t think she’s gone.
She’s now inside you—
Just like Uzayfa lives inside every empty register.”

---

 “Bayaan”

Now no one comes there searching for love.
They come looking for themselves.

For every voice that was never heard.
For every character that never truly ended—
Just grew tired.

---

And Now...

If one night,
You’re walking down a quiet alley in some unfamiliar city,
And a door slightly opens before it shuts—

Take a peek.

Maybe Elina is still sitting there,
Holding the first word of someone’s new story.

Maybe Bayaan is still breathing—
So that someone who still doesn’t understand themselves
Can simply say:

“I’m not completely broken—
Just a little tired.”

---

Bayaan’s Next Story:

“The One Who Came, But Didn’t Stay”

---

Hello friends, I’m writer Afsana Wahid.

I hope you’re all doing well.

As always, I just want to say one thing —

If you enjoyed my Bayaan Café story,

if my words touched your heart in any way,

please do leave a comment and share the story with your friends and loved ones —

especially those living outside India.

I’d truly love to know where in the world my story is reaching. 🌍

And yes, my dear readers in India —

please don’t forget to comment as well. 😊

Thank you so much for reading & supporting my writing.

Much love. 💫

Bayaan Café Diaries: Who Am I?

Bayaan Café 

---

Who Am I?

(by Afsana Wahid)

---

🌌 "Bayaan: When the City Became a Dream"

It wasn’t a rainy night.
Yet droplets still clung to the café window —
as if they had fallen from someone’s eyes,
or from fingers brushing along the café’s wall,
carrying the warmth of some unspoken memory.

Elina now sat there every evening —
at the same old table where Uzayfa once sat,
but with a new notebook each time.
Sometimes yellow in colour,
sometimes just bound by threads,
and sometimes nothing more than an old envelope,
with someone’s breath sealed inside.

---

📮 "Bayaan was no longer just a place to write — it was a place to lay down your exhaustion."

People came now with weary thoughts,
with scattered hours in their hands,
and they left — a little lighter,
a little more whole,
and sometimes, a little older.

One evening,
a girl walked in without saying a word.
She simply opened the café’s cupboard,
pulled out a piece of paper,
and on it was written:

“I never made a promise to anyone,
yet every time… I was the one who broke.”

And she left the note there.

Elina didn’t read it.
She simply folded the paper and placed it
at the very back of the cupboard —
right beside Uzayfa’s blue diary.

---

💬 "Now, Bayaan didn’t echo with words — it floated with feelings."

The walls no longer carried fresh writings.
They faded and reappeared
with the rhythm of people’s breaths.

One day, an old man came and asked:

“Do you still have the letter my wife once wrote?”

Elina pointed to an old cover —
inside it was a letter tied with a pink ribbon.

He took it in his hands and said:

“I never replied to her back then…
but I’ve come to read it to her today.”

---

🕯️ "Bayaan was now a temple — of emotions, silences, and belonging."

Every Sunday, a corner was reserved.
People would just sit quietly there.

No one spoke.
No one asked.

But in every pair of eyes,
an entire book floated silently.

---

📜 "Then one day, when a page drifted into Elina’s lap…"

It read:

“I spent my whole life
searching for the answer to one question —
and that question is still incomplete.”

That day, Elina didn’t stay late.
She walked out quietly from the café —
without the blue diary in her hands.

---

🌙 "The night Bayaan saw itself for the first time"

A shadow paused outside the café window.
Perhaps a traveller —
or someone left behind by time.

He peered in,
looked at the tables,
and then walked in with an old register filled with ink.

He wrote:

“Do you still have room for someone new?”

Elina looked at him and smiled:

“If you haven’t come to speak,
perhaps you’ve come to listen.
Sit here — someone, somewhere,
is still writing for you.”

---

🕊️ "Bayaan now belonged to everyone who couldn’t shape themselves into words"

A new corner had been made there:
“Chup Diaries” (Silent Diaries) —
where people didn’t leave stories,
but their fears.

Each diary bore the same line:

“Leave here what you couldn’t say.
No one will read it.
No one will judge.
But your heart will feel lighter.”

---

🌸 "One evening, Elina wrote for someone for the first time"

She wrote:

“Before you came, there were only stories here.
After you, there’s a ‘you’ in every story.”

She didn’t place that register in the cupboard.
Instead, she left it on the table
where someone always sits for the very first time.

---

🧷 "Bayaan was no longer a story — it had become an identity."

Now, if someone in the city lost themselves,
people would say:

“Go to Bayaan —
maybe someone there still holds a part of you.”

---

📘 And the blue diary?

It now rested inside a glass box.
Beside it, a small board read:

“This is the diary of words
that were never spoken —
only felt.”

---

And Elina?

She was still there.
But she no longer wrote.
Now, she let others write.

Sometimes she laughed at a child’s first poem,
sometimes she simply placed her hand gently
over the trembling hands of someone broken.

---

🌌 And Bayaan?

It was no longer just a café —
it was an era,
a voice,
a home for all those
who had never met themselves.

---

If you ever go there,
perhaps a blue diary
will still have a page left open for you…

---

🧭 Where is Uzayfa now?

Uzayfa handed her place to someone else,
but she didn’t fade away.
She was now in every table of the café,
in every unfinished page,
in every silence still searching for words.

---

💙 Where did she go?

She went to that turning point
where a character grows bigger than themselves —
where they are no longer a name, but a feeling.

People no longer search for her —
they feel her.

---

🕊️ Will she return?

Perhaps yes,
when Elina can no longer stay still,
or when a new soul becomes afraid of their own story —
then, one evening,
she may appear again by the café window.

But this time —
there will be no blue diary in her hand.

Only a blank page,
and a smile that says:

“You write… it’s no longer my turn.”

---

💙📖✨ "Some stories never end…
They simply wait for someone to read them again."

---

Hello, I am writer Afsana Wahid, my dear friend.

If you enjoy my story — or should I say, if the magic of my words has touched your heart — then please, please leave a comment.

Also, share this story with your friends and relatives.

I have tried to write something different, and I truly want to know your thoughts.

To all those reading this — whether from India or outside India — please do let me know in the comments how you liked my writing.

Thank you.

If My Words Touch Your Heart"

---

Some Fundamental Principles of Love

("If love is truly understood,
life becomes a form of worship.”)

---

🌹 1. Love never asks — it only gives.
True love is not a transaction.
No deals, no conditions.
It’s a one-sided surrender —
where heart, emotions, and time are sacrificed…
without expecting anything in return.

“What is given without asking —
that alone is called love.”

---

🌹 2. Love is not bondage — it gives freedom.
If a relationship suffocates you,
it's not love — it's possession.
True love lets you fly,
but keeps a space where you feel safe to return.

“That which cages you is not love —
love is liberation.”

---

🌹 3. Love knows how to forgive.
People make mistakes,
but love forgives from the heart.
Not by scolding,
but by gently guiding the way with affection.

“Where forgiveness exists,
love continues to breathe.”

---

🌹 4. Love needs no show.
Not in daily pictures,
nor in status updates.
It speaks volumes even in silence.

“The more the display,
the less the truth.”

---

🌹 5. Love is patient.
It doesn’t depend on dates or timelines.
If true love has to wait,
it waits — but it never breaks.

“The one who doesn’t rush time —
is the one who truly loves.”

---

🌹 6. Love thrives in equality.
If one is always bowed and the other always above,
that’s not love — that’s compromise.
True love is between two equals.

“Love is a bond between two hearts —
and both must hold equal value.”

---

🌹 7. Love is built on trust, not suspicion.
When every word is doubted,
love dies a slow death.
True love makes you feel safe,
not scared.

“Where love resides,
there’s no room for suspicion.”

---

🌹 8. Love speaks even in silence.
Some feelings need no words.
Eyes, breaths, and quiet moments —
say it all.

“If you can understand someone’s silence,
believe me, that love is complete.”

---

🌺 9. Love doesn’t mean losing yourself.
Don’t become so attached
that you forget who you are.
In love, it’s important to remain ‘you’,
or else the relationship becomes a burden.

“Love that distances you from yourself,
is not love — it’s deception.”

---

🌹 10. Love may be fearless…
But it must still carry grace and respect.
There must be boundaries,
respect, and dignity —
where even the deepest feelings
are expressed with modesty.

“If love becomes wild and reckless,
it turns into foolishness.”

---

🌹🌹✨ Final Thought — 🌹🌹
If love were to be written,
even ink would run out.
But the one who lives it truly,
finds in it a form of sacred devotion.

---

🌹Writer: Afsana Wahid 🌹

Bayaan Café Diaries: Who Am I?

 

---

Uzaifa (by Afsana Wahid)

“She no longer collected stories to preserve them — but to listen to them.”

Uzaifa still came to the café.
But now, she no longer carried a register.
No prepared questions.

Just a blue diary —
whose corners had grown more frayed,
as if touched by many fingers.

---

One day,
an elderly man sat in the corner.
An old shawl draped over his shoulders,
his eyes full of sleep… and memories.

He asked Uzaifa:

“Do you also hear the words hidden in people’s silences?”

Uzaifa didn’t reply.
She simply slid her blue diary towards him.

It opened to a blank page —
on which was written only:

“I don’t answer anymore — I write down people’s silences.”

---

📚 “Bayaan was no longer just a café — it was a document.”

Now, there was no register on any table,
but each table held a story.

A girl who came every Tuesday,
to write poems for her late father.

A boy, who read the same page every time —
the one Uzaifa had once left behind.
It said:

“Love needs neither time nor destination — just a single word.”

---

✨ “One night — when even time learned to pause”

That night, there was no rain.
No noise.
Just a soft melody,
and faint shadows on the wall.

Uzaifa sat in silence for a long time —
as if waiting for a new letter,
or reliving an old phrase.

Then she opened her diary,
and for the first time,
wrote something for herself:

“I no longer wait for someone to return.
Now, in every stranger,
I search for a forgotten moment.”

---

🕊️ “She wanted to fly now — without a destination”

One day she told the café manager:
“Install a small cupboard in this corner —
I want people to leave their stories here.”

And slowly, every day,
someone left behind a page.

Some stained with tears,
some spotted with coffee,
some half-burnt,
some marked only by a name.

---

💫 “She didn’t write anymore — she made others write.”

Uzaifa had a new habit now.
She’d sit at random tables,
look into people’s eyes —
and wouldn’t ask anything,
just smile.

Her smile seemed to say:

“Leave behind what you wish to say.
I won’t read it —
but I’ll feel it.”

---

📖 “Bayaan’s new identity”

A board now hung in the café:

“Bayaan: A corner
where words aren’t read —
they’re simply felt.”

---

🔚 “Then one evening — a page fluttered”

Someone old returned.
He had no register in hand,
but a camera —
and eyes that held an old search.

He pulled a chair,
sat down, and picked a page from the blue diary.

It read:

“I never forgot you —
I just learned to find you in everyone else.”

 

---

🧷 “Who was Uzaifa now?”

Maybe a girl
who didn’t write in registers —
but had become the destination
of every incomplete love.

She no longer belonged to a single story —
She was now the voice
of everyone who had once been unable to say:
"I feel it too."

---

🌙 “Bayaan was now a city — of words, silences, and hope…”

And Uzaifa?

She still comes.
Sometimes alone,
sometimes with a stranger.

But every time, she leaves something behind —
a phrase, a smile,
or just a faint feeling…

So someone may return one day and say:

“Let me live again,
in your words.”

---

🌼 “Bayaan now needed a new voice…”

That evening felt different.

No strong winds,
no dark clouds,
no heavy silence.

Just a girl entered the café for the first time.

Seeing her walk in,
Uzaifa didn’t smile —
but a trembling story stirred in her eyes.

---

✨ “Her name was Elina”

Elina —
a girl who was quiet,
but her eyes carried the weight of many untold things.

She silently sat in the same corner
where Uzaifa had once written her first line.

But she had nothing before her —
no diary, no pen, no questions.

Just empty hands… and heavy breaths.

---

Uzaifa gently slid her blue diary toward her.

“If you have nothing to say,
then just think of it —
Sometimes even silence becomes a script.”

---

📜 “Bayaan was no longer a book — it had become a journey”

For days, Elina kept coming.

Sometimes she wrote nothing.
Sometimes she flipped through old registers.
Sometimes she stared at the poems pinned on the wall.

One day —
she asked Uzaifa:

“Will I ever be able to write something
that makes someone else see themselves?”

Uzaifa said:

“If there’s a trembling feeling in your silence —
then it’s already written.
You just need to learn how to read it.”

---

🖋️ “She wasn’t taught how to write — she was taught how to read herself”

Elina began bringing a small register.
Every day, she wrote one line in it.

Sometimes like this:

“Today I looked into someone’s eyes for the first time —
and I wasn’t afraid.”

Or like:

“What had once broken inside me —
has now started talking to the air.”

---

📦 “Then one day, Bayaan’s cupboard was full”

That little cupboard
was now packed with hundreds of letters.

Uzaifa called Elina —
and without a word,
handed her a pile of registers.

Then smiled and said:

“Now they’re yours.
People will keep writing —
but now, you’ll be the one to read.”

---

🌻 “Uzaifa now stood behind — and the stories moved ahead”

One evening, Uzaifa didn’t sit —
she stood near the window.

And watched:
Elina now sat in the corner
that once belonged to Uzaifa.

Before her lay three pages —
A girl remembering her mother.
A boy forgiving himself.
And an unfinished letter…

That simply said:

“I could never say it —
but I kept listening.”

---

📖 “Bayaan was now a legacy — passed on”

One morning —
Uzaifa closed the blue diary.
Its corners were more worn than ever.

She placed it above the cupboard —
for the last time.

“I won’t sit here anymore, Elina…
Now you must meet the stories
that have waited for years.”

---

“Sometimes a story ends
right where another one begins.”

Now in the café, people ask:

“Whose blue diary is that?”

And Elina smiles and replies:

“It’s not mine…
It belongs to the woman
who never said anything —
but heard it all.”

---

✍️ “Uzaifa was no longer a name — she had become a feeling”

Now when a child writes their first poem,
an old man brings a story from his youth,
or a lover leaves behind an unfinished letter —

Their first stop is always Bayaan.

And when someone seeks an answer —
the last page of the register
still says:

“I never saw you —
but I recognized myself
in your words.”

---

— Afsana Wahid
Because some tales never truly end…
They simply turn the page. ✨📖💙

Hello, I’m writer Afsana Wahid.

If this story touches even one heart, please do let me know in the comments —

so I can feel the magic of my words reaching you.

And please tell me where you're reading from, especially if you're outside India.

Thank you so much!

Bayaan Café Diaries: Who Am I?

---

Uzayfa (By Afsana Wahid)

🌙 “He returned — but without saying a word”

The next evening —
Raindrops gently tapped against the window.

Uzayfa walked into the same corner,
the one she now quietly called her home.

There was no one there —
but on the table sat an old, empty mug,
its base still holding a faint ring of coffee.

As if someone had just sat there moments ago,
gazing at that register for a long time...
yet writing nothing.

Uzayfa picked up the mug —
a lukewarm mug, a cold evening, and that register.

---

✍️ "A new page was opened inside the register"

Today, she wasn’t silent.

Instead of yesterday’s unfinished words,
she turned to a new page — and wrote:

“You were here yesterday, perhaps.
I didn’t see you,
but the table still held the warmth of your fingers.”

“You’re not outside anymore —
you’ve settled somewhere inside me.”

She gently closed the register
and turned to watch the soft drizzle outside.

---

☁️ “Another stranger — but not quite”

That same evening,
someone else took a seat in the corner.

A new face —
completely different,
but his eyes carried the same fading moonlight.

Uzayfa looked at him — but didn’t recognize him.

The stranger said nothing.
He simply looked at the half-written poem on the wall and smiled,

As if a third person had heard the voice
that had only ever echoed between two souls.

---

💌 “The letter no longer lived in the register, but in the heart”

That night, Uzayfa returned home
without bringing the register with her.

She no longer needed to write something every time.

Some memories, after all,
aren’t meant to be kept in books —
but folded gently inside the heart.

That stranger still appeared sometimes —
but now his eyes no longer searched for the register.

Maybe now he understood —

Uzayfa had never given him a name,
but she treated every silence as if it carried his.

---

📖 “A woman who no longer writes a book…”

Now, Uzayfa often sat in that café — though not always alone.

Sometimes an old woman would join her,
sharing stories about her grandson.

Sometimes a young girl would open
an unfinished poem in front of her.

And Uzayfa would gently smile and say:

“Write — but not with the words people want to hear.
Write with the silences
that only you can feel.”

---

🕯️ “The one she never fully knew — but always fully felt”

That stranger doesn’t come anymore.

But sometimes,
the wind still flips through the pages of the register.

Sometimes, a forgotten line quietly rises to the surface:

“I’m no longer where I used to be —
because now I exist where you never wrote me.”

Uzayfa had come to understand —

Some people never truly leave us —
they stay right where we first felt them.

---

🌸 “Bayaan — no longer just a café, but a feeling”

Those two chairs were still there.

One still held Uzayfa at times,
and the other — time itself.

And the register?
Its last page never arrived —

Because some loves never really end.
They simply keep walking to the rhythm of our heartbeat.

---

“And I only write what you never said —
but I still heard it.”

🌧️ The language of silences — and a memory that kept returning

Three days had passed.
Bayaan Café remained the same — but Uzayfa hadn’t returned.

The corner sat empty.
The register still lay there.
But the letter — once tucked in between —
was now quietly beating in someone’s pocket.

That stranger returned.
But this time, not with a book,
rather with a piece of paper — folded, trembling.

---

💭 Uzayfa’s voice now lived in his silence

He asked the waiter:

“That girl who used to write here…
does she still come?”

The waiter smiled but didn’t answer.
He simply pointed toward that same familiar corner.

That space was still lit with shafts of sunlight —
as if even waiting had grown habitual.

The stranger sat down,
opened the same register.

A page that once lay in the middle,
now became the final one.

---

📜 And for the first time, he wrote:

“What you wrote has now grown inside me.
But I too never said what I should have —
and yet, it was heard.”

“After you left,
I’ve begun searching for my own voice.
Perhaps that’s why I keep returning —
so I can borrow yours
from your silences.”

Then he turned the page — and left the register behind.

---

✨ One more evening — and Uzayfa’s return

She came back.

Not with hurried steps,
but carrying something within.

She held a small diary — blue-covered, its corner frayed.

She sat in the same place,
but didn’t open the register.

Instead, she opened that blue diary and wrote:

“I’m no longer reading you —
I’m offering you my part of the story now.”

“If you ever find my voice in a book,
know that it was born from your silence.”

 

---

🧳 An unknown reader — and a new beginning

Later that evening, a new face entered the café.

A camera on his shoulder,
a book in hand,
and a deep, worn fatigue in his eyes.

He flipped through the register —
Uzayfa’s words were there.

He didn’t smile.
But he kept reading.

And then softly said:

“I wish someone would write for me, too…
someone who’s never even seen me.”

---

🕯️ Bayaan — no longer a book, but a bridge

Now, Uzayfa is not the only one who comes there.

Now, stories come.

Some incomplete prayers,
some unsent letters,
some verses that were never read aloud.

That café corner now belongs to everyone —
but means something different to each one.

And Uzayfa still sits there at times…
Sometimes reading someone else’s story,
sometimes leaving behind just a word on a page…

And then she quietly walks away.

Because she is no longer searching for someone —
She has become a voice herself.

One that can be read,
can be felt —
but never fully understood.

---

Some people never really meet us —
they just take shelter inside us.

— Afsana Wahid
A quiet love story breathing in words… 💫

---

Hello, I’m Afsana Wahid.

To everyone reading my story from anywhere in the world — please leave a comment and let me know how it made you feel. I would truly love to know if my words have cast any magic on your heart.

Friendship Day Special

---

The Color of Friendship

No relation, no name,

Yet it silently works its flame.

Friendship is that gentle light,

That gives us hope in the darkest night.

Paths may be rough, full of strife,

But with a friend, they feel light in life.

A color in laughter, a balm in pain,

Friendship is life’s sweetest gain.

Sometimes we quarrel, sometimes we mend,

Without a word, our hearts comprehend.

It’s true—this bond we always trust,

The most beautiful faith on earth is just.

Come, on this day, let us vow,

In joy and sorrow, we stand here now.

This priceless bond, forever to keep,

In our hearts, till eternity deep.

---

Friendship – The Most Beautiful Tune of the Heart

Friendship is not a deal signed on paper,

It’s a silent promise from one heart to another.

No difference of faces, no distance too far,

Where love is true, that place becomes a sacred altar.

When paths grow difficult,

And the world feels cold and strange,

A friend’s shoulder becomes a shelter,

Greater than the whole world’s range.

Sometimes he shares a smile unasked,

Sometimes he wipes your tears unmasked,

Sometimes his scolding hides his care,

Sometimes his silence just says, “I’m there.”

Friendship is a treasure rare,

That deepens with every passing year.

And when all ties seem to drift away,

It’s this bond that quietly chooses to stay.

This Friendship Day,

Let’s remember those friends dear,

Who make life a little easier,

And a lot more filled with laughter and cheer.

💕💕Happy Friendship Day 💕💕

Bayaan Café Diaries: Who Am I?

---

“Waiting Has No Sound”

Three days had passed,
yet something inside Uzayfa was still paused.
That corner of Bayaan Café,
that gentle light,
and that one line—

“If you ever write again…
the reader will still be here.”

That one simple line
kept pulling her back
to the very place
where someone had once listened to her,
without even knowing her name.

---

That afternoon,
when the whole house was lost in the laziness of a nap,
Uzayfa quietly gathered her books,
opened the door gently,
and stepped outside.

There was an earthy fragrance in the air,
like an old letter that had been locked away somewhere,
and today, had been opened again.

---

Outside Bayaan Café, a board hung:

“Every silence is a story.”

Uzayfa sat down again
in the same corner where she had once sat.
The same register lay there.
But today, its pages seemed heavier.

She opened it—
there were fresh words on some pages,
and on one page,
that stranger had returned.

He had written:

“In your words,
I saw a home…
A home where no one lives,
and yet it was full of light.
Maybe because…
you are still there.”

---

Uzayfa paused.

These lines—
they awakened a part of her soul
that had been asleep for a long time.

With trembling hands,
she wrote in an empty space of the register:

“I am no longer a home…
I am just a closed door—
a door no one knocks on.
But today,
I felt that knock.
Will you knock again?”

---

Soft music floated across the café—
something like an old, lost note of Raag Yaman,
as if a lover was waiting quietly in the distance.

At that very moment,
a cup of coffee was placed on her table.
The waiter smiled:

“Someone said—
‘Give this to her, if she ever comes back…’”

Uzayfa picked up the cup.
Underneath it was a folded slip of paper.

Only two words were written on it:

“I’m here.”

---

That day, she sat there for a long time.
Sometimes looking out the window,
sometimes running her fingers over the edge of the register.

She didn’t know who that stranger was,
what his face looked like,
or what his name might be…

But she knew one thing—

Waiting has no sound,
but its presence…
reaches the quietest corners of the heart.

---

Before leaving, Uzayfa closed the register,
and wrote just one more thing:

**"If you can hear me…
then one day,
in that same corner,
we will both sit quietly—
and speak nothing.

Just listen…
to each other."**

---

Evening was falling outside.
The shadows of the people walking on the street
were growing longer.

But in Uzayfa’s heart,
nothing felt small anymore.
Something… was beginning to connect.
Someone… was coming closer.

---

“Not by the body, but by the voice, we are known”

That evening, after returning home,
Uzayfa said nothing.
She didn’t talk to anyone,
didn’t open a book,
didn’t even touch her phone.

She just opened her hair,
leaned her back against the wall,
and kept thinking of that corner in Bayaan—
and those two words:

“I’m here.”

---

The next morning,
as if her heart had found its own way,
she returned to that café once again—
this time without hesitation,
without a reason.

But today, something had changed.
The corner where the register usually rested,
someone else was already sitting there.

That man—
a simple white kurta,
a faint beard,
twirling an old pen between his fingers.

Uzayfa saw him.
He said nothing—
just kept looking at an unfinished poem on the wall,
as though he was recognizing a voice hidden in it.

---

The waiter smiled:

“Ma’am, today the register is at that table…
If you wish, you can sit there.”

Uzayfa stood still for a moment.
Then, with slow steps, she walked to that table.
As she sat down, their eyes met for just a moment.

The man did not smile—
he only lowered his eyes,
as if to say:

“I recognize you, but I do not wish to know you.”

---

Between them was a register,
two cups of coffee,
and a silence—
but it was not a heavy silence.

Uzayfa said nothing.
She opened the register,
and wrote gently:

“I had heard your voice before,
and today I have seen your face.
But the bond that was created…
belongs only to a feeling.”

---

The man read it—
picked up his pen—
and wrote below it:

“Thank God,
you didn’t see my face first.
Otherwise,
I might not have been
what you felt.”

---

A little while later,
he stood up.

Before leaving,
he turned a page in the register
and added one last line:

“If someday,
you search for a voice again—
don’t come here.
Go somewhere else—
because by then,
I might have already made my home inside you.”

---

Uzayfa sat there for a long time.

She knew now
that this meeting wasn’t complete—
but it wasn’t unfinished either.

Because sometimes,
a person’s presence
is not tied to a name, a face, or an identity.

It is just a feeling—
one that builds a home
inside us.

---

“The one I never knew, and yet is part of me”

Time had moved on a little more.
Now, at Bayaan,
the mornings seemed to take longer to arrive—
and Uzayfa was no longer the same.

She didn’t come there just to hear someone anymore,
but to hear herself.

---

That day, she came without a book,
without a diary,
only carrying an old letter.

For that stranger.

The one she had never called by name,
but whose silence had become
her own voice.

---

That corner of the café—
now it felt like hers.

The register was still there,
but today she didn’t write in it.

Instead, she took out that letter—
the old paper wrinkled lightly,
as though words had been locked in it for years.

---

She placed the letter in the middle of the register.

Then, slowly rising,
she whispered as she left—
so soft, wrapped in silence:

“I never knew you…
but now…
you are a part of every piece of me.”

 

---

Some time later,
that stranger returned.

The same white kurta,
but now his eyes held
an old, waiting ache.

He opened the register—
and from between the pages,
he found the letter.

---

In the letter, she had written:

**"Before you, I was just alive…
After you, I began to ‘be.’

I have given every voice within me
to your name.

Now, if ever my heart beats—
know that someone is remembering you…
without a sound.”**

---

He stayed silent for a long while.

Then, on the last page of the register,
he wrote only this:

“You never saw me—
you only read me.
And more than being seen,
to be read…
was always my deepest wish.”

---

In that corner of Bayaan,
there are now only two chairs.
One of them is where she sits,
the other… always remains empty.

But sometimes,
when a soft breeze passes through,
it feels as if someone is sitting there…
and Uzayfa says nothing.
She just smiles.

Because some loves simply exist—
whole,
and yet incomplete.

---

Some loves simply exist—
whole, and yet incomplete.

— Afsana Wahid
A pen that shapes silent feelings into words… 🌸

---

"Hi, I’m writer Afsana Wahid. I have written this story with a lot of effort, keeping today’s times in mind. So, I request everyone reading this—especially those reading from outside India—to please leave a comment.

Thank you."😊😊

Bayaan Café Diaries: Who Am I?

---

“Who Am I?”

Author: Uzayfa (Afsana Wahid)

Some questions seem simple—
but their answers are oceans deep.

“Who am I?”
This is a question every woman has asked herself at least once in life.
On some tired evening,
in the silence of a lonely afternoon,
or while standing behind the smoke of a kitchen stove…
this question comes quietly,
knocks on the heart, and waits.

This book is the story of a woman’s spiritual search—
a woman who kept dissolving herself
in the happiness of others…
until one day
she found her own voice again.

---

This is not just Uzayfa’s story.
This is the story of every girl
who became a sister,
then a wife,
then a mother—
but never remained just herself.

---

If you’ve ever looked at your own reflection and wondered—
“Am I truly happy?”
Then trust me…
this story is for you.

---

The afternoon was slowly fading.
The sun was no longer harsh—
only a faint warmth touched the walls of the room,
and seeped quietly into the soul.

Uzayfa sat near the window,
an old handkerchief twirled around her fingers.
On the table lay an old diary,
its pages covered with years of silent dust.

What she wrote yesterday
had made a small crack—
and through that crack
her forgotten voice had begun to return.

“I still exist… somewhere.
I have only been unseen.”

---

She looked around the room.
Everything was in perfect order.
The neat kitchen,
the spotless curtains,
children’s books,
her husband’s files…

Everything had its own place—
except her.

---

The gate creaked outside.
Her son had returned from school.
“Ammi!”
A gentle smile touched her lips—
not just for her son,
but for the life his presence brought into the house.

And yet, as soon as he disappeared into his room,
she went back to the same silent corner of her heart—
the one she returned to every day.

---

That day, for the first time,
she looked at herself in the mirror.
Not just at her face—
but at the question behind it.

Tired eyes,
lips holding back unshed words,
lines on her forehead that spoke
of an age measured not by years
but by weight she had silently carried.

---

While cooking dinner that evening,
she turned on the radio.
Suddenly, an old ghazal began to play:

“Someone deceived me gently…
and I drifted far away from myself…”

She lowered the flame,
closed her eyes for a moment,
and in every verse of that song
she saw herself—
as if someone had written it
only for her.

---

“I don’t want everything inside me to suffer silently,
while outside, only silence flows…”
She whispered these words to herself
and opened the next page of her diary.

“I don’t just want to survive anymore,
I want to feel alive.
I don’t want to be someone else’s shadow—
I want to find my own light.”

---

That night, Uzayfa kept her phone aside.
No chats,
no calls,
no noise of social media.

Only an old laptop before her,
and a woman trying to untangle herself
from her own questions.

She opened a blank document.

Subject: “A Letter—To Myself”

---

**“Uzayfa,

How are you?

Yes, I know this question sounds strange,
because everyone asks you this every day.

But today, no one else is asking.

It’s you.

You are asking yourself—
How are you, really?

Are you tired?
Have you forgotten that you once spoke to the wind?

Is this all your life has become?
Afternoons of cooking,
evenings of exhaustion,
and nights of quiet sleep?”**

Her fingers stopped.
Her breath became heavier.
And yet, something inside her felt lighter—
as if a burden had been lifted.

---

**“Do you remember that girl
who used to count tiny joys in the pages of an old diary?
Who wrote little poems while looking at clouds?
Who wanted to get drenched in the rain—
just to feel it,
not worrying about wet clothes drying?

That girl still exists somewhere.
She hasn’t died.

She has only hidden herself—
beneath the folds of your forced smiles.”**

Two tears slipped from her eyes—
one falling on her cheek,
the other on the laptop keyboard.

---

**“Uzayfa…

For how long will your love only belong to others?

Save something for yourself too—
a sweet word,
a small piece of dessert,
a corner of the world
where only you exist,
with no one else but your own soul.”**

---

She closed her eyes for a moment,
and then slowly began to type:

**“I promise…
the next time someone asks me—‘What do you want?’

I will not stay silent.

I will say—
I want me.
My own voice,
my own choices,
my own day.

Because I am not incomplete.

I am just forgotten…
and now I am finding my way back.”**

 

---

She saved the document.
Title:
“A Letter—The First Meeting With Myself.”

---

That night, Uzayfa didn’t do any chores.
No cleaning,
no cutting vegetables.

She just opened a small pink box—
inside it were an old anklet,
her college ID,
and a letter she had once written
to her elder sister.

---

That night, after many years,
Uzayfa had a dream.
In the dream, she was walking in a wide open field…
the wind lifted the veil from her face…
and a distant voice whispered:

“You came late…
but now,
it’s finally your time.”

---

When she woke up the next morning,
there was a strange peace in her heart.
Not new—
but something she had forgotten long ago.

---

Sometimes, finding yourself is the most beautiful homecoming.

---

This is the English version, carefully translated to keep the same softness and deep feel as your original Hindi.
Perfect for blog posting or turning into a series.

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