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A Song Across the River

 

A Song Across the River

Every evening, when the sun sank low and the sky burned orange, Aarav would sit by the river with his old guitar. His fingers were clumsy with the strings, but he played anyway, humming melodies that only the water and the wind seemed to understand. Music had always been his secret language, something he never shared with anyone—until one evening when he noticed a girl standing on the opposite bank.

She wore a white dress that fluttered in the breeze, her long hair loose, her eyes fixed on him. At first, Aarav thought she was just passing by. But the next evening, she appeared again. And the next. Always at the same hour, always listening.

One day, as his shaky chords faded, Aarav called across the water.

“Do you like it?”

Her laugh floated back like a bell. “It’s not perfect, but it’s honest. That’s why I come.”

Her name was Rhea. She lived in the village across the river, where her family owned a small bookstore. Aarav, too shy to cross over, continued to play from his side. Rhea, too curious to stay away, continued to listen. What began as a silent ritual turned into conversations shouted across the river, then whispered when they dared to meet at the old wooden bridge.

Weeks turned into months, and the bridge became their place. They would sit with their legs dangling over the water, trading secrets and dreams. Rhea spoke of stories she wanted to write, of traveling the world with notebooks full of poems. Aarav confessed how music gave him courage, how every song he played was really a letter he was too afraid to write.

One evening, he brought her a folded sheet of paper. “Lyrics,” he mumbled, handing it over.

Rhea read the words carefully. “When the river is wide, I’ll build a song strong enough to carry me to you.”

She looked up, her eyes shimmering. “Sing it to me.”

Aarav hesitated, heart pounding. But when she placed her hand gently over his, the fear melted. He sang, voice trembling but true, and for the first time, he wasn’t just playing for himself—he was playing for her.

Their love grew quietly, away from the noise of the world. But life, like the river, often carried storms. Rhea’s parents discovered their meetings and disapproved. They wanted her to pursue her studies in the city, far away from a boy with nothing but a guitar.

“They don’t understand,” she told Aarav, tears catching in her lashes. “But I can’t stop loving you.”

Aarav clasped her hands. “Then don’t. We’ll find a way.”

The night before she was to leave, they met at the bridge. Neither spoke much, both knowing words would crumble under the weight of goodbye. Instead, Aarav gave her a small wooden pendant he had carved, shaped like a guitar.

“Whenever you feel alone,” he whispered, “hold this. And you’ll hear my song.”

Rhea pressed the pendant to her chest. “And whenever you play, know I’ll be listening—even if I’m miles away.”

She left the next morning. The river felt emptier than ever, the air heavier without her laughter. Aarav kept coming to the bank, kept playing his songs into the night, hoping the wind might carry them to her.

Months passed. Letters trickled in—short notes scribbled between her classes. “I heard someone playing guitar on the street today. I thought of you.” Or “I wrote a poem about rivers. You’re in every line.”

One year later, on a warm summer evening, Aarav sat by the river again. He strummed his guitar softly, lost in memory. Then he heard it—the sound of footsteps on the bridge.

He looked up.

Rhea stood there, holding the pendant he had given her, tears shining in her eyes.

“I came back,” she whispered. “Because every story I tried to write, every poem I tried to finish… always led me back to you.”

Aarav’s hands trembled, but his smile was steady. He set the guitar aside, walked to her, and without hesitation, pulled her into his arms. The river rushed beneath them, carrying away the distance, the doubts, the silence.

From that night on, their love no longer needed the river’s separation or the bridge’s secrecy. It flowed freely, like music in the open air, like words on a page finally finding their ending.

And whenever Aarav played his guitar, it wasn’t just a song across the river anymore. It was a song of two hearts, side by side, beating in perfect time.

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