The night was unusually quiet in Dhaka. The usual hum of rickshaws and street vendors seemed muted under the heavy drizzle. Arman sat on the rooftop of his old apartment building, his guitar resting on his lap. Music was his refuge, the only language he trusted when words failed.
He strummed a soft tune, letting the rain mix with his chords. Then he began to sing—a melody he had never written down, a song he only played when his heart felt unbearably full.
Down below, in the apartment across the street, a light flicked on. Behind the glass window, a figure appeared—a girl with long hair, holding a book. She paused, her gaze drawn toward the source of the music.
For a moment, Arman thought he was imagining it. But then, she smiled.
A Chance Encounter
The next morning, as the streets bustled with life again, Arman went down to buy tea from the corner stall. To his surprise, the girl from the window was there, bargaining with the shopkeeper over mangoes.
“Your song last night,” she said suddenly, turning to him. “It was beautiful.”
Arman froze, nearly spilling his tea. “You… heard that?”
She laughed, her eyes sparkling. “The whole lane probably did. But I liked it. What’s it called?”
He hesitated. “It doesn’t have a name. I just… play what I feel.”
“Well then,” she said, extending her hand, “I’m Raina. And I think your nameless song kept me awake in the best way possible.”
He shook her hand, a little awkwardly, but inside, something shifted.
Slowly, Carefully
In the days that followed, they began crossing paths more often. Sometimes at the tea stall, sometimes in the narrow alley where laundry hung like colorful flags. Arman learned that Raina was a literature student, obsessed with poetry. She carried notebooks filled with half-finished verses, much like his guitar held half-finished songs.
One evening, she climbed up to his rooftop, uninvited but welcome. “You know,” she said, settling beside him, “poetry and music aren’t so different. They’re both confessions in disguise.”
He played a tune softly, glancing at her. “So what do you confess in your poems?”
She smiled, looking out at the city lights. “That I’m waiting for something that feels alive. Something that doesn’t fade the moment morning comes.”
Arman didn’t reply. Instead, he let his music answer her, the notes carrying what his words couldn’t.
The First Touch
One stormy night, when thunder rolled and the power went out, Raina came to his rooftop again. The city was dark except for candles flickering in windows.
“Play something,” she whispered.
Arman strummed, his fingers trembling not from the rain but from the closeness of her presence. She leaned in, resting her head lightly on his shoulder.
The song faltered. He stopped playing.
She looked up at him, her face inches away. “Why did you stop?”
“Because,” he said softly, “this feels louder than any song I could play.”
And then, in the quiet storm, their hands found each other—hesitant, yet certain.
When Doubt Creeps In
But love isn’t always made of perfect melodies.
Raina’s family didn’t approve of her spending so much time with “the boy with the guitar.” They had other plans for her—a stable career, a respectable marriage, not nights spent on rooftops listening to nameless songs.
“You’re a dreamer,” her brother told her sharply. “Dreams don’t feed you.”
Raina felt torn, but she didn’t tell Arman everything. Instead, she grew quieter, her visits less frequent. Arman noticed, of course, but didn’t press. He feared that asking might push her further away.
One night, he found a folded paper tucked under his guitar strings. It was one of her poems.
“If I could live inside a song,
I would stay where the notes belong.
But outside, the world pulls me apart,
And silence strangles my beating heart.”
Arman’s chest tightened. He realized then that he couldn’t let silence win.
The Midnight Song
On her birthday, Raina stayed home, refusing to see anyone. Her family had arranged for her to meet someone “suitable.” She felt trapped, her heart aching with the weight of choices she didn’t want to make.
At midnight, just as the city quieted again, music floated through her window. She rushed to the balcony, and there he was—Arman, standing on the rooftop across the street, guitar in hand, singing the nameless song.
But this time, the song had words.
“If love is just a fleeting flame,
Then let it burn, I’ll take the blame.
For even one night, even one breath,
I’ll sing for you till nothing’s left.”
Tears blurred her eyes. She didn’t care about who might be watching. She ran downstairs, across the street, and up to his rooftop.
When she reached him, breathless, she said, “You gave it words.”
He smiled, setting the guitar aside. “I gave it a name too. Raina’s Song.”
She threw her arms around him, the rain falling once again, as though the skies themselves had chosen to listen.
Epilogue: The Song Lives On
Years later, in a small café filled with warm lights, Arman played on a tiny stage, his guitar still carrying that same melody. Raina sat at the front table, her notebooks now full of published poems, her eyes never leaving him.
They had faced storms, disapproval, and uncertainty, but the song had never faded. It had only grown stronger, woven into every choice they made.
And every time Arman strummed the first chord, he looked at her and whispered, “This one’s for you.”
Because love, after all, was the song that never needed an end.
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