When The Light Chose Another
A Sky That Still Remembered
The 2nd part of : The Light in Riyazul’s Sky
Riyazul never spoke about that afternoon, but he carried it with him in the way light lingers after sunset. He remembered Barishu’s laughter echoing across the courtyard, crisp as bell chimes. He remembered how her gaze met his for a heartbeat, just long enough to send warmth racing beneath his ribs. He had nodded when she asked, “Isn’t the light beautiful?” though his voice caught like a bird’s wing.
Behind them, Azmain sketched in silence beneath the Krishnachura tree. His pencil strokes seemed to capture moments Riyazul couldn’t name—her soft smile, the tilt of her head. Whatever began between Riyazul and Barishu that day unfolded in whispers and warmth, and in the hush that followed, Riyazul felt the sky itself remembering something fragile and new.
> At that moment, the horizon held its breath—soft gold fading into dusk, like a promise waiting to be claimed.
Chapter 1: Small Changes, Quiet Distances
Barishu’s messages arrived later each afternoon. Sometimes he would stare at his phone, thumb hovering over a reply he no longer found the courage to send. When she finally texted, “On my way,” Riyazul’s heart galloped—then stilled, as the minutes passed without her appearance.
In class, Azmain flipped his notebook shut. “I drew a portrait of you two under the Krishnachura,” he offered quietly, holding up the sketch. Riyazul glanced at the delicate lines—Barishu’s laughter frozen in ink, her eyes luminous. He felt a pang.
Barishu’s eyes softened. “It’s beautiful,” she said, tracing a petal with her fingertip. “Thank you.”
Riyazul forced a smile, tasting its bark on his tongue. He realized he’d become the silent observer: Azmain’s gentle confidant and Barishu’s willing friend, but never the one at the center. As the crimson petals drifted around them, the sunlight dimmed against his skin, and he understood how distance can arrive without warning.
> Under that flowering canopy, their laughter rose in tandem—while he stood a few steps away, feeling the light slipping through his fingers.
Chapter 2: The Things Not Said
The library smelled of old paper and quiet secrets. Riyazul sat at a wooden table, thumbing through his notebook, but his focus drifted. He tapped the headphone jack on his desk—on the other end, Barishu and Azmain shared a single pair of earphones.
They sat close, heads bent over the tiny speaker. Barishu murmured, “Listen to this—Reminds me of that rainy evening.” Azmain smiled, tucking a fallen strand of hair behind her ear. Riyazul blinked, the cord between them becoming a lifeline he longed to grasp.
He slid from his chair. “I’ll—go get more pages,” he mumbled, already stepping away. Behind him, Barishu’s laughter bloomed like spring flowers, and he carried its echo with him down the quiet aisle.
Later, he whispered to the empty stacks, “I wish I could say something.” But the silence that answered felt heavier than any confession. In that space, every unspoken word took shape—shadows among the shelves where he once thought he belonged.
> He looked back once, through a gap in the shelves, to see them closer than he dared imagine.
Chapter 3: A Scene He Wasn’t Meant to See
The corridor behind the auditorium glowed in late-afternoon amber, the air tasting faintly of jasmine. Riyazul paused beneath the overhang, reminding himself to breathe. His water bottle rolled from his grasp, clattering on the stone tiles.
He froze. Barishu’s head rested against Azmain’s shoulder, her eyes closed in easy trust. His voice, soft as paper, whispered, “You always know how to make me laugh.”
Azmain’s hand lingered on her arm. “Only because I see you,” he replied, voice low.
Riyazul’s chest tightened. Their warmth merged into a single silhouette, and in that moment, he felt everything he’d lost. He knelt to retrieve his bottle, but the cool metal was cold comfort in his hand.
He stepped away without looking back, each footfall carrying the weight of a name he never spoke aloud.
> In that quiet twilight, their shadows intertwined—while he vanished into the gathering dusk.
Chapter 4: The Paper That Confirmed It
Three weeks later, an envelope slipped beneath his dorm door. Riyazul stared at the cream-colored card, its gold script catching the lamplight.
Barishu A. Rahman & Azmain Haider — Engagement Celebration.
“I waited too late,” he breathed, lifting the invitation with trembling fingers. There had been no farewell. No final conversation. Just this quiet pronouncement—like a curtain drawing shut on a play he never knew he starred in.
He set the card on his desk and pressed his forehead against the cool wood. Outside, rain began to patter against the windowpane, each drop a soft hammer of truth.
> The card lay open beneath the lamp’s glow, and Riyazul sat in unspoken grief as the world outside wept.
Chapter 5: What He Let Go Of
Riyazul never responded. Instead, he found himself at the riverbank on a misty evening, where boats drifted like painted memories.
He knelt by the water’s edge and whispered, “I’m sorry I never told you.” The apology dissolved into the breeze, carried downstream.
He ran his fingertips across the rippling surface, as if tracing the lines of their untold story. Memories flickered—Barishu’s soft laughter, Azmain’s earnest gaze, and his own silence.
When the streetlamps cast their orange halos on the water, he closed his eyes and let the current carry every unspoken word.
> Under the swirling reflections, his sorrow drifted away—leaving him weighed down by what he chose not to say.
Chapter 6: A Sky All His Own
Graduation day arrived in a swirl of gowns and cheers. Riyazul’s robe felt heavier than any burden he’d known—and emptier the moment he snapped the cap in place.
Barishu approached, pale blue saree shimmering. “You look… peaceful,” she said, hesitating. “Are you okay?”
He offered a tight smile. “I will be.”
She nodded, then turned to Azmain. He watched them walk away together, their laughter soft and sure.
Riyazul dug into his bag and drew out a blank notebook. He opened it to the first page, his pen hovering. His chest felt hollow—ready to catch a single drop of something new.
> The sky above him stretched infinite and empty. He lowered his pen, the page remaining untouched.
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