She was the kind of girl who drew people effortlessly. Her laughter echoed through the crowded college halls, and everyone seemed to know her name. To her classmates, she was cheerful, confident, and the life of every gathering. When she entered the canteen, conversations would pause just to greet her. When she walked through the corridor, someone was always calling her to join a group.

And yet, beneath the surface of that extroverted cheerfulness, a softer longing lived. She was not lonely—her phone was always buzzing with messages, her weekends filled with plans. But in quiet moments, when she lay awake at night, she often wondered: Is this all there is? Just chatter, jokes, and noise?

The college campus was loud with energy. Buses honked at the gates, lecturers hurried past with thick files in their arms, and the canteen smelled of samosas and steaming tea. She joined the laughter, she joined the noise, but she also knew something about herself that her friends didn’t: after classes, she preferred a different world.

Every evening, she would take the same path home. And along that path stood a house—a small, old house, its walls faded with time. What made it remarkable was not the house itself but the garden that surrounded it. Roses of every color climbed the fences and spilled across the yard. Every time she passed, she slowed down. Sometimes she pretended to adjust her bag or tie her shoelace, but the truth was simple: she couldn’t take her eyes off the roses.

The house was not grand, but it had character. Its paint peeled in places, the windows looked weathered, but the roses transformed it into something magical. Red roses heavy with dew in the morning, soft pink ones leaning toward the sunlight, white ones glowing like pearls in the dusk—she felt as if the flowers themselves were alive, whispering stories.

She never saw anyone in the garden until one warm afternoon. The old iron latch clicked, and the gate creaked open. A woman stepped outside, her hair silver like moonlight, tied neatly in a bun. She was wearing a simple cotton sari, and her eyes—though tired—carried a spark that made the girl stop.

“You like the roses, don’t you?” the woman asked with a faint smile.

The girl flushed. She hadn’t realized she’d been staring too long. “Yes… they’re beautiful. I pass this way every day just to look at them.”

The woman’s smile widened gently. “Then don’t just stand outside, child. Come in. The roses are meant to be shared.”

That moment changed the rhythm of her days.

The first time she stepped inside, she felt as though she had entered a different world. The scent of roses hung thick in the air, mingling with the earthy smell of watered soil. The garden was wild yet lovingly cared for, every bush carefully pruned, every plant arranged with thought. It wasn’t just a garden; it was a home for memories.

Inside the house, the air smelled of roses and old books. Photographs lined the walls—black and white portraits of people she didn’t know, sepia-toned images of places that seemed far away in time. The girl sat nervously on a wooden chair as the woman poured tea into delicate porcelain cups, her hands steady despite her age.

Curiosity finally overcame hesitation.

“Aunty,” the girl said softly, “why do you love roses so much?”

The old lady placed her cup down, her eyes drifting to the window where a red rose leaned against the glass. Her voice, when it came, was quiet.

“Years ago, I was young like you. I worked in a wealthy household, cleaning floors, serving meals. And it was there that I met him—my employer. He was different from the others. Kind. Gentle. He treated me not as a servant but as a human being. Slowly, without realizing it, we… we fell in love.”

The girl’s eyes widened. She had never expected such a story.

“But society would never allow it,” the lady continued, her gaze far away. “He belonged to a world of rules and reputation. I belonged to the shadows of service. We could never be together openly. Before he left, he gave me a gift: roses. These roses.” Her fingers trembled as she touched a bloom. “I planted them here, so that his memory could live with me. Every time they blossom, it feels like he is still with me.”

The girl was silent, her heart swelling. She had always thought of love as something mutual, something seen by the world. But this… this was love that survived in silence, that bloomed even when fate tore two people apart.

 After spending time with that old lady , she left for home.

From that day, the girl’s after-college routine changed. She no longer went straight home. Instead, she walked eagerly to the flower house, where the old lady often waited in the garden. Sometimes the lady was pruning, sometimes watering, sometimes simply sitting with a cup of tea. But her face always lit up when she saw the girl.

They spent hours together. They spoke about books, about life, about small joys like the smell of rain or the taste of mangoes in summer. At times, they didn’t speak at all, just sat in the garden, letting the fragrance of roses fill the silence.

It was an unusual friendship, one that crossed generations. The girl, who had so many friends her own age, found something rare in the old lady—peace, wisdom, and honesty. And the lady, who had lived alone for years, found warmth in the girl’s youthful chatter.

The roses became the backdrop of their bond. When the girl laughed, the flowers seemed brighter. When the lady told stories, the flowers seemed to nod in agreement. Slowly, the girl began to understand something new: love wasn’t just about romance. It was about connection, about caring, about being present.

Then, one fine afternoon, everything shifted again.

As she left college, her attention was caught by a group of boys playing cricket in a nearby ground. Among them was one whose smile shone brighter than the others. His laughter rang out clearly, and he moved with the easy confidence of someone who belonged everywhere.

The first time she noticed him, she kept walking. The second time, she slowed down. By the third time, she was stopping to watch for a few minutes before moving on.

Her heart began to beat differently. The way he tossed his hair back, the way he encouraged his friends with laughter, the way he wiped sweat from his forehead—all of it made her chest feel light and restless at the same time.

At the flower house, the old lady caught on quickly. “Ah,” she said one evening, watching the girl’s absentminded smile, “the roses are not the only reason you hurry here these days, are they?”

The girl blushed crimson. “No… it’s nothing. Just someone I saw.”

The lady chuckled knowingly. “Love often begins that way—quietly, unexpectedly. One day, child, you will understand its power.”

The girl looked away, smiling shyly. But inside, her heart was already dancing to a rhythm it had never known before.

_____

The weeks that followed felt strange and heavy for Ananya. The corridors of college buzzed with voices, laughter, and the familiar aroma of tea and snacks, but she barely noticed. Her mind was elsewhere, always drifting toward the cricket ground she passed on her way home.

Every afternoon, her footsteps slowed unconsciously as she approached. There he was — laughing, running, playing with the carefree energy of someone untouched by worries. The way his bat swung, the effortless way he moved across the field, the sound of his laughter that carried across the empty ground — it all made her chest tighten with an ache she couldn’t name.

She would stand behind a tree or on the edge of the path, pretending to check her phone, yet her eyes never left him. Time stretched, each second heavy with the weight of wanting someone who didn’t even know she existed.

At the flower house, the roses seemed to notice her unrest. She would sit among them, fingers brushing the petals lightly, staring at the garden as if it could whisper answers. The old lady poured her tea with quiet understanding.

“Love has a way of making time both sweet and unbearable,” she said softly.

Ananya looked up, startled. “You knew?”

The woman smiled, eyes soft yet knowing. “The roses always know, child. They bloom brighter when a heart is restless, when it dreams of someone unseen.”

Ananya pressed her lips together, letting the warmth of the tea seep into her cold fingers, her heart full of both hope and fear.

fear of what? Losing him or not having him? Ananya doesn't know anything now. She just wishes her world would see her for once. She just want the world to know love is peaceful.