The Tenderness I Ran From

Phir le aaya dil, majboor kya keeje
Yaad woh meethi, bahut door kya keeje…
“Yet again, my heart brings me back—what can I do?
That sweet memory… so far away—what can I do?”

(The old ghazal hums through my phone. Rain tapping against the balcony rail. And just like that—I’m there again… with you.)

It’s raining again.

The kind of rain that feels like a memory. Gentle. Lingering. Like the sky is quietly mourning something it never got to keep.

I sit there, a cup of chai warming my palms, watching droplets trace their way down the railing.
And then the song plays.
That song.

And suddenly, the ghost of you drifts back into the room.

It’s been a long time.

Since I let your name pass through me. Since I thought about what you might be doing now, where you might be, if you’re still smiling the same way when you’re nervous.

I used to believe that forgetting was the destination.
But now… I think healing is just being able to remember—without completely falling apart.

Because even now, after all this time, I still love you.
Not loudly. Not longingly. Just… gently. Quietly. Like a secret the rain knows about.

Your memories still come around—especially on your birthday.
Especially on days like this.

I was always the girl who ran.

From people.
From feelings.
From anything that felt too much like home—because homes crumble, don’t they?

What if I gave my heart away and they left?

What would I be left with?

Me?
This half-version of myself that already felt like she was disappearing?

Life often feels like a book I never finished.
Too many pages skipped.
Too many chapters I couldn’t bear to read.

And my heart?
A poet with bleeding ink.
It feels.
It remembers.
And more often than not… it breaks in silence.

Once, someone asked me—
“What are you most afraid of?”

And I smiled.
Because how do you say you’re afraid of getting exactly what you once prayed for… only to lose it?

Because the scariest kind of love is the one that teaches you how to breathe again—
and then disappears.

Can you love someone so much that you lose yourself?

I couldn’t.
I tried.
But I was too afraid.

Afraid of the way I glowed when I was loved right.
Afraid of the girl I saw in the mirror when you looked at me.

So I ran.
And in trying to protect myself, I lost something even more important—
I lost the version of me that believed in love.

Now I understand…

When someone leaves, they don’t just take their love.
They take a part of your story.
A version of you that existed only in their presence.

And every incomplete love, every abrupt ending… steals a little more of your wholeness.

We become wanderers—
Longing for a feeling that once made us feel like we belonged somewhere.

Yes, I was running.
Not from you.
But from the tenderness that made me feel too alive, too seen.

But maybe the real tragedy isn’t losing someone.
Maybe it’s giving up on the love that could’ve saved you—just because you were afraid it might someday hurt you.

So the next time you feel the urge to run—
Pause.

Ask yourself:
Are you really running from love… or are you just trying to outrun your fear of it?

Because maybe…
just maybe…
the peace you’ve been chasing for years
is the same love you once let go—out of fear.

And somewhere in the distance, the song still plays…

“Woh jo hum mein tum mein qaraar tha
Tumhe yaad ho ke na yaad ho…”

“That quiet comfort we once shared…
I don’t know if you remember, but I still do.”

(Jagjit Singh’s voice is fading into the rain… but never out of memory.)

—

This post was previously published on medium.com.