the one who got away was not a person they were a fading monsoon whisper, the kind that kisses your window once and never returns. they were a half-brewed cup of chai, warm but undrunk, left on the sill of your memory. not a heartbreak, but a ghost in your hostel corridor, humming songs only you remember. they were six missing stars in your NEET sky, enough to darken the whole constellation. the missed train in your best friend’s city, the plate that shattered when no one was watching. the one who got away was a mirror that almost showed you who you were before people expected you to be more. they were the nickname Vanshika- a cloak that fit, but kept slipping off in crowds that called you someone else. they were a poem you never got to finish, a stanza stolen by the wind. not love, not loss just a rain-drenched station where your best friend didn’t arrive, and the train moved anyway. they were home wrapped in silence, a city that never called you back. the one who got away was not a chapter, but the punctuation you couldn’t place- maybe a comma, maybe an ellipsis.
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