Quiet Drafts

It was August in Biratnagar. I was in my third year at Western Engineering College, waiting outside the main gate with a notebook in my hand while new first-year students searched for their rooms. A small girl came up to me, hair a little messy, clutching her file like it might float away.

“Brother, can you show me Block C?” she asked in a shy, light voice.

I pointed, then decided to walk with her so she would not get lost. At the classroom door she gave a quick bow. “Thank you, brother.” The word was only courtesy, yet it settled on my heart like a quiet weight.

From that day she kept appearing—under the neem tree, near the canteen, beside the computer lab. Every meeting began the same way: “Brother…” She asked about bus schedules, lab rules, even why the hostel cat liked sleeping on the warm concrete. I explained things, lent her notes, fixed her pen drive when it crashed. She simply smiled, said thank you. I told myself she was like a little sister, but each time she waved and ran off, the campus looked brighter for hours.

Mid-semester the monsoon arrived. One evening a heavy shower trapped us under the workshop shed. The lights went out, thunder rolled, rain filled every sound. Water slid down her glasses. I wiped one drop away with my sleeve. For a heartbeat she looked straight at me and my heart jumped. Then the generator started, the bulbs flickered on, and she laughed. “Brother, we both look like wet crows!” The magic broke, yet my new truth stayed: I loved her.

I began writing letters I never gave her—simple notes that said she turned ordinary days into spring, that hearing her call me “brother” made my name sound soft. But she was too innocent to guess. She spoke of her village, her parents’ hopes, her dream of building safe bridges as a civil engineer. She trusted me completely. If I spoke of love, I feared I would break that trust. So I folded each letter and hid it inside my mechanics textbook.

Final exams ended at the start of July. She ran up, eyes shining. “Brother, first year is over! Only because you helped me.” She pressed a small box into my hands. Inside lay a simple blue pen with my initials written in white corrector fluid. “Use it for your final-year project,” she said. Words crowded my mouth—I love you, please understand—but she stood there smiling like a happy child, waiting for her big brother to be proud. I only said, “Thank you. Travel safe.” She waved and boarded the night bus to her village.

Another August came. I sat in the library, fourth-year project plans open, the blue pen in my fingers. Outside, fresh students laughed in the rain. I opened my old textbook, saw the hidden letters, and felt a sudden heaviness. Love, I realized, is not meant to live forever behind closed lips. It should breathe, even if the answer is no. Keeping it inside had not protected her; it had only caged me.

So I took a blank sheet and wrote a new letter in plain words: “I cared for you as more than a brother. I was afraid to tell you, but silence helped no one. If you wish to talk about this, I’ll be here. If not, I will still cheer for your dreams.” I sealed the envelope and wrote her name. This time I placed it in my bag, not between pages. Maybe she would read it, maybe not. But I felt lighter, as if the rain clouds had lifted. Because love is not only a feeling; it is also a voice. And even a gentle truth, once spoken, can set a heart free.