Dear Parul,

Love suffers long and is kind. It is not proud. Love bears all things, hopes all things, believes all things, and endures all things. Love never fails. Now these three remain—faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.

Honestly, I feel bad even writing this letter because it conveys so much of what I feel in such elementary language. You'd never write a letter like this with all your vocabulary and punctuation—you'd clothe it in such grace. But for me it's really just this: I miss you. I miss you more than I ever thought I was capable of. When I started finding myself falling in love with you, I was prepared to miss you. I told myself, "Oh boy, you know this is going to cause you immense heartbreak," and yet I did it anyway. I don't know how or if you'd ever find this letter, so this is just a squeal of pain into the void.

It has been a while since we last texted, since I finally told you what I think about you, and you responded in your classical way, diplomatically and kindly. I remember wanting to do this for so long. I had so much alcohol in the US just so I could drunk text you, but I'm glad I took my time to write down everything I wanted to tell you. You told me you would appreciate it if I took some space from you, that you had just gotten out of a bad relationship and didn't want to start something new without getting rid of the old baggage first. Damn you, fine woman—I wish you weren't so eloquent and thoughtful and had just responded with a "No, sorry." Your response, no matter how devastating, made me remember why I fell in love with you in the first place. A few months ago, I didn't think I'd be able to go one day without hearing from you. But look at me now.

But sometimes I just think: Man, I could love you through that. I could fix that, I could make it better, because that's how much love I have for you. But I know this is not for me to fix. I know at this time you need yourself much more than you need someone else. I will have to love you from here. It's like staring at a beautiful flower until you realize how beautiful you are yourself. I am so proud of the woman you're growing up to be—someone who's dedicated to their craft and is still so kind with people. I remember when I left LJI, you told me that I was very patient with you and that I never raised my voice when you asked me "silly questions." First, nothing you do is silly. And second, that day I finally figured out what people mean when they say "I'd love you if you were a worm"—I was just glad to hear your voice. My wishes will always be with you. I just hope one day you'll let me love you when you're ready to be loved.

When I first started getting to know you, I didn't have the guts to say I love you. Maybe because I was scared, but I don't think those three words could convey the gravity of my feelings toward you. So instead I asked if you had eaten lunch when you were busy with your day at the office. I'd check on you at 9 PM to see if you'd noticed it was almost time for dinner. I'd get you books from your wishlist and try to help with your day at the office in whatever way I could. In those small ways, it felt like I was taking care of you. Love, for me, lived in the concern that you might forget to eat, in the quiet attention to your well-being that you might not even notice.

I respected your request for space, though it hasn't been without its struggles. I wake up some nights feeling the whole weight of your thought being lifted off me, and I thank God for it—but then I fall asleep again so I can still think of you. I don't know why I do this to myself. Most days oscillate between thinking I'm finally getting over it and then suddenly feeling a crushing pain in my chest when I wake up.

It takes everything in me not to text you, not to tell you about my day, not to send you something that I think would make you laugh. I have to physically restrain myself from trying to do things for you, from showing you how much I want to be there with you. I still think of you when I see a bouquet of flowers, when I see a rainbow outside my window, or when I pass a Hello Kitty-themed cafe. I sit at the beach and read books from your wishlist. I see pretty earrings and bangles at the bazaar and think how beautiful you'd look in them. The other day I was cooking bhindi because I missed you so much.

The hardest part is how everything reminds me of conversations we never got to have. I read a book and think about how we would have dissected it afterward. I read an article and save it to send to you before remembering I can't. There's a whole archive of unsent messages in my drafts—little observations, terrible jokes, photos of sunsets that made me think of you. They sit there like letters to a ghost.

I can't help but feel jealous—jealous of the person who will find you when you're ready again, who I'll have to watch you fall in love with. I'm afraid of getting back on talking terms with you because I know when you do start looking again, you wouldn't look here, and I'd have to watch someone else approach you at the right time and take you away. I hate the thought that I was only meant to meet you once.

What haunts me most is the timing of it all. If I had met you six months later, would things have been different? Would you have been ready then? I replay our conversations, searching for the exact moment I should have said something different, done something more. But I know that's not how love works—you can't negotiate your way into someone's heart when they're still healing from the last person who broke it, and God knows why anyone would do that to you.

I wonder if you think about me at all. Not romantically—I'm not asking for that—but just as a person who existed in your life for a brief, bright moment. Do you remember the way I used to make you laugh? Do you ever catch yourself about to text me something funny before remembering we don't do that anymore?

Everywhere I turn, there seem to be signs that feel like more than coincidence. Just the other day, I parked my car and was walking back to my apartment when I realized I had left my phone behind. I turned back and found that I had parked between cars with Tamil Nadu and Uttar Pradesh registrations. I went out for dinner the other night and saw a girl who looked so similar to you from behind, wearing a dress you wore frequently. In those small slivers of hope, I still pray deeply when the clocks turn 11:11, praying that we meet each other again when we're both ready.

People told me to be less available, to act "nonchalant" with you to get your attention. But, oh my dear, I can never do that with you. I love you too much for that. There's just so much I want to do with you and for you. People say I put you on a pedestal, and I probably did. But to me, you were never just someone to win over with games and calculated distance. You were the person I wanted to love openly, without strategy or pretense.

I need to work on myself too—I was approaching this relationship from a point of desperation, not abundance. I recognize that now. But recognizing something and feeling it are different things entirely. In my rational mind, I know you made the right choice. In my heart, I'm still that person who wanted to take care of you, who saw in you everything I didn't know I was looking for.

You know what's funny—when I started talking to you back in early 2023, I discovered this band called The 1975. They have two songs in particular that always stood out to me: "Robbers" and "About You." I always felt the songs somehow went together really well but couldn't pinpoint why, even though they varied completely in their vibes. Later that year, Matty Healy, the lead singer, confirmed my hypothesis. "About You" was indeed a companion to "Robbers," made thirteen years later. "Robbers" is about reckless love, giving it all—lyrics like "And I'll shoot him if it's what you ask." Whereas "About You" is more composed, mature—"Did you think I'd forgotten about you?" Over the last few weeks, I've come to realize the songs mirror us perfectly. I'm "Robbers" and you're "About You." I went all in, recklessly in love. When I fell for you, I got attached without practicality. But you're significantly more mature, composed, and thoughtful. Exactly how the two songs play out—one raw and desperate, the other measured and reflective.

You told me in one of our last messages that I'd get over it in a few days. It's been months now, and my ache seems never to stop, even when I try to drown myself in work. We always had an inside joke that I never seem to disagree with anything you said. I'd even ask you to think of the most outrageous thing, and I'd still agree to it because your opinions aren't that unreasonable, and I'll never disagree unless it was something that would hurt you physically or mentally. I guess this is the first time I've disagreed with you. But I'm not angry at you—I know in your kindest heart you meant it in the best possible way.

I can't hate you just because you couldn't love me now.

It's interesting how I found you through circumstances that don't seem to make any sense unless I look in hindsight. Every wrong turn, every mistake, every decision I second-guessed—they were all necessary to get me to you. All those unlikely events had to align perfectly for us to meet. In the moment, nothing felt connected. But looking back, I can trace a clear line from who I was to meeting you, like my life was being quietly rewritten to ensure our paths would cross.

And yet the timing was still wrong. We found each other through fate but lost each other to circumstance. Sometimes I wonder if we were meant to meet now just to recognize each other later, in another time when we're both ready.

I don't regret a single second of meeting you. Life would have been significantly more painless if I hadn't, but I'm still proud to love you. This grief is the receipt for my love—proof that what I felt was real, that it mattered. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

We both love traveling. I would have loved to travel the world with you—with you falling asleep on my lap during flights, watching the first rays of sun hit your face by the window seat as God showcased your beautiful brown eyes in all their glory to the world, gently brushing my hands through your hair. I'll still continue to travel the world and see everything it has to offer. But I'll have to do all this without you—that will be my loss. All this I wanted to do with you—that would have been my gain. All this I'd have gladly foregone for just one minute of your company.

In Past Lives, they talk about the concept of Inn-Yun—meaning providence or fate. It means when two people meet in this life, it's because there's been something between them in their past lives. And when two people get married, it's because there's been 8,000 layers of Inn-Yun between them.

I hope this is not our 7,999th.

I prayed for your happiness, your healing, and your good luck during the anjali at Durga Ashtami this year. I prayed that the karmic knots between us get destroyed. I pray that you heal and I find you when you're ready. Till then, I hope that you're nothing but happy.