LANGUAGE OF LOVE FINAL PART

The bus pulled up, and Chippi glanced at me one last time before stepping aboard. She found a seat near the window, and as the bus began to roll away, she pressed her hand against the glass, her eyes locked onto mine. That smile—fragile yet full of warmth—was the last image I held onto as the bus disappeared into the distance, the mist swallowing it up.




Days turned into weeks. As promised, Chippi wrote to me whenever she could. Her letters became my lifeline—words scrawled on paper that brought her world into mine. She described the remote places she visited, the people she met, and how every day was a battle between exhaustion and fulfillment. There were no phone calls—she always mentioned the poor signal in the areas she worked. The letters were the only way we could stay connected.




I’d wait anxiously for the next one, my heart racing every time the postman arrived. Every letter I held in my hands felt like a thread tying her to me. I read and reread them until I knew each word by heart. But slowly, those letters became less frequent. The gaps between them stretched longer.




Then, one day, my phone rang. I saw her name flash across the screen, my heart leaping as I answered.




“Chippi?”




For a moment, I heard nothing but distant static, then her voice came through, soft but urgent.




“Shinu, I don’t have much time. There’s been some trouble here... chaos between the tribes. But we’re being moved to safety. I wanted to let you know I’m fine.”




Her words cut through the noise, but before I could respond, the line went dead.




I tried calling back, but there was no signal. Just silence. Days turned into weeks. I waited for another call, another letter—anything—but there was nothing. No messages, no letters, nothing.




The world felt like it was swallowing her up. Panic started to build inside me, like a storm that wouldn’t pass. I reached out to Médecins sans frontières, hoping for news, but their answers were vague. They reassured me that the doctors had been relocated, but when I asked where she was, they said, “She’s fine, Shinu. We believe she’s gone to another country for service, but beyond that... we don’t have any more information.”




Another country. No phone calls, no letters, no way to reach her. She had vanished, and with her, my sense of peace. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t sleep. Every night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering where she was. If she was okay. If I ever hear from her again,




I began to unravel. The days became a blur, my mind consumed by her absence. Work, friends, everything fell away. I stopped answering calls. I couldn’t focus on anything but the gnawing worry that something terrible had happened to her. The depression hit me like a wave I couldn’t escape. I stopped leaving the house, stopped caring about everything that wasn’t hers. Every time I stepped outside, I searched for her face in the crowd, desperate for a sign that she was still in this world.




It wasn’t long before my body gave up too. One evening, I collapsed, the weight of everything crashing down on me. I was in the hospital. BK had found me. He understood I was mentally not OK in my apartment. He called my parents, who rushed to my side, helpless as I spiraled deeper into the void.




The doctors said I needed long-term treatment. Severe depression, they called it. But it felt like more than that. It felt like a part of me had been torn away, leaving nothing but an empty shell behind.




For two years, I drifted through treatment, the medication numbing my mind. It took away the pain but also the memories—the beautiful moments we had shared. They became blurry, like fragments of a dream slipping through my fingers. I could feel myself losing her all over again, this time to the haze in my mind.




Then, one night, while I was still under treatment, my phone rang. Her number appeared on the screen. My heart stopped, the world freezing as I answered.




“Chippi?” My voice was barely a whisper, my hands trembling.




But there was no reply. Just silence.




“Chippi, is that you? Please, say something!” I begged, desperate to hear her voice again.




The call ended abruptly. My heart raced as I stared at the phone, tears welling up in my eyes. She was alive. I knew it. She had to be. But where was she? Why hadn’t she spoken? The questions tore at me, but all I had was that brief moment—her number flashing on my screen like a ghost from the past.




I was eventually discharged from the hospital, but nothing was the same. My parents tried to help me, but I couldn’t shake the emptiness inside. The world felt distant, like I was moving through it in a dream I couldn’t wake up from. I couldn’t stop searching for her. Everywhere I went, I looked for her face in the crowd, hoping to see her, hoping for that impossible moment where she’d walk back into my life.




I rejoined the marine, thinking that maybe the vastness of the world would bring us back together. Each port we docked at, every new city, I searched the faces of strangers, hoping for a glimpse of her. But she was never there. She was always just beyond my reach, like a shadow slipping away when I got too close.




Now, I sail the seas, carrying her memory with me, that last moment at the bus stop. Her smile, full of warmth, her eyes locking with mine, a memory burned into my soul.




And as I stood on the deck, looking out at the endless ocean, I whispered to the wind, "Like a lonely ocean, I was alone... still searching for her."




The waves answer in silence, but in my heart, I know she's still out there somewhere. 




“What’s the language of love?” I often wonder. It’s not words, not gestures. It’s something deeper, something no one can truly understand unless they’ve lived it. And even though the world has moved on, and I’ve moved with it, a part of me is still waiting, still searching for her. She’s out there, somewhere. I know it. In my heart, she’s always with me, in the memories we made, in the quiet moments we shared, and in that smile.

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