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… 💫
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.
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