Ashu-Vol.I: The Beginning

Some stories don't begin with grand moments or perfect timing. Some begin quietly, when the world is asleep, when the lights are dim, when two strangers happen to cross paths without knowing they're about to matter to each other.

Ours began at 2 a.m. on the 27th of December.

It wasn't anything extraordinary at first, just a match on Bumble. But somehow, that night didn't feel like the others. We kept talking and talking, and before I realized it, morning had come.

You told me stories, the kind that makes you laugh halfway through telling them. The way you described everything made it so easy to picture, like I was right there, watching a smaller version of you leaning out of a car window, feeling sick, trying to catch your breath. I could almost see you pushing your hair back in a hurry, trying to fix it right after, pretending you were okay even when you clearly weren't. It was such a small, imperfect moment, but somehow that's what made it feel so real to me.

I remember smiling at that because I do the same, I also get sick while traveling, but I've never said that to anyone, especially not when I barely know them. Everything just felt so real. Not polished, not filtered.

A part of me had already paused when I saw your profile, the photos of sunsets, the quiet kind of beauty they carry, and that one line:

"Together we could watch sunset…"

I reached early, almost half an hour before time. I was nervous, more than I expected to be, sitting there and replaying in my head all the things I thought I would say to you. I even had your song(Dailo) playing on repeat like it was somehow going to prepare me for the moment.

And then I saw you.

You got off the bike, and before I could even begin any of the lines I had carefully prepared, you handed me your phone so casually, saying "Yo phone samatnu ta" — so completely unbothered, as if we'd known each other long enough that handing me your phone was the most natural thing in the world.

Every script I had dissolved on the spot. And honestly? That was better. That was so much better.

There's something disarming about a person who doesn't try to make a good first impression because they're too busy just being themselves. The way you spoke, so expressive, your eyes so full of life, every little reaction so genuine it felt like I wasn't just talking to you, I was watching something I didn't want to look away from. I remember just sitting there, a little quieter than usual, completely in awe, like one of those moments in Om Shanti Om where everything slows down and nothing else matters except the person in front of you.

The play itself was supposed to be a comedy, but honestly, it didn't even matter whether it was good or not. We kept laughing anyway. Sometimes even when no one else was laughing, we were. It felt like we had created our own little world in there, where everything was just a bit more fun because you were there.

Afterwards, we went to have pizza, and I found myself doing something I don't usually do — just listening. You made even the most random conversations feel interesting, whether it was about relationships or the most bizarre debates that somehow still made perfect sense when you said them. I didn't feel the need to impress you anymore. Just being there with you felt like enough.

It was New Year's Eve, the kind of night where everything is supposed to change, where people wait for midnight hoping for something new. But somehow, it didn't feel like I was waiting for anything. It already felt like something had begun.

You wanted twelve grapes before midnight,somehow, we made it happen. It felt like something we did together.

And then, at the end of it all, while we were waiting for your ride home, you looked at me and said, "Hami hug garum na."

That hug… it wasn't just a hug. It was warm in a way that makes you forget everything else for a second. It was soft, steady, and somehow grounding like everything had gone quiet in the best possible way. It felt safe, like I didn't need to be anywhere else, like I didn't need to be anyone else. For a second the whole night condensed into just that. No noise, no midnight crowds, no cold air. Just the feeling of being somewhere safe.

And I think, somewhere between that late night conversation, your stories, your laughter, and that hug, you stopped being just someone I met…

and became someone I couldn't forget.

I still remember the exact moment. The phone rang, and everything quietly shifted. When my dad told me that my grandfather was no more, the first feeling that came wasn't what people expect. It was a strange, heavy sigh of relief. Not because I didn't love him, but because I had seen him suffer. The last time I saw him, he was in so much pain, barely conscious, almost like he was already halfway gone. That image stayed with me, and in some way, I think I had been preparing for that call long before it came.

I was five hours away from Chitwan when I heard the news. The drive back feels like a blur now, chaotic, loud, and yet somehow empty. My friends were trying to help, but everything was messy, one of them too drunk, the car filled with noise, while inside me there was this strange silence. And in that silence, without even thinking twice, you were the first person I reached out to.

It had only been two weeks since I had known you. Two weeks. And yet, something in me trusted you in a way I couldn't fully explain. I hadn't even told you about my grandfather before. You didn't know the history, the emotions, or the weight of that relationship. But still, I felt like you would understand. And you did.

Those 13 days that followed were some of the most intense days I've ever lived through. While everyone else, my parents, the elders, had to stay in quarantine, everything fell on me. The responsibility, the rituals, the decisions, the constant presence I had to maintain, it felt like I had to grow up overnight. There wasn't really space to break down or even process what I was feeling. I had to hold everything together.

But every evening, when things slowed down just a little, I would talk to you. And somehow, in those moments, I could finally breathe. You gave me a space where I didn't have to be strong all the time, where I didn't have to lead or manage or pretend. I could just be me.

You never made me feel alone, not even once. Even when you didn't have the perfect words, your presence was enough. More than enough. It grounded me. It gave me strength in a way I hadn't experienced before. For the first time, I truly understood what support means, not just in words, but in feeling. It's quiet, constant, and deeply reassuring. It's knowing that no matter how heavy things get, there's someone there who stays.

I don't think I've ever properly told you how much that meant to me. If it wasn't for you, I honestly don't know how I would have handled those days. You became my calm in the middle of everything.

And maybe that's why this means so much to me, because it wasn't something expected, or something that came after years of knowing each other. It was something real, something natural, something that just happened. You showed up for me when I needed it the most, without hesitation.

I'll always carry that with me. And I'll always be grateful for you.