My blank love - My blank love Part-9

Absolutely, Afsana. Here's your beautifully written story translated into English, keeping the same emotional depth, poetic rhythm, and quiet intensity:

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"Abu Zar — Who Smiled for the First Time Without a Name"

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That night, he held his phone in his hand, staring at the screen for a long time.

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No message came. None was sent.

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But something was shifting — deep within his heart.

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> The voice of a stranger no longer brought fear.

It had begun to bring comfort.

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He began meeting that nameless voice every night — RuheSukoon.

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And every morning, as he sat on the same park bench, he stopped writing words inside the book.

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He left the first page blank.

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> As if waiting for someone else to write now.

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"Zoboria — Who Was Close to Revealing Herself, But Then Stepped Back"

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That night, Zoboria tried hard.

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She opened her phone, opened Abu Zar’s chat window — and began typing: "I’m Zoboria..."

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But the next second…

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She deleted the message.

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> “What if he pulls away after knowing?” “What if he hasn’t really forgiven me?” “What if the love that feels safe without names… loses its magic once it has one?”

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She put the phone on silent — and sat by the window.

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It was raining outside.

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And inside… the old habit awakened again.

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She opened Abu Zar’s last post.

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> “If only you were ever in front of me…”

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Her eyes welled up.

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"One Morning — When the Bench Held a Rose Instead of a Book"

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Like always, Abu Zar arrived.

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But this time, instead of a quote in a book, there was a soft pink rose — fresh, not wilted.

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Beneath it, a tiny note:

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> “Today I bring no words, only a flower —

where something unsaid is still breathing.”

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Abu Zar picked it up, closed his eyes for a moment.

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And for the first time — his hands trembled.

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> “Was it her?” “Is someone finally drawing close?”

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He placed the rose inside the book, and on that page, wrote:

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> “If this is you... then I’m ready now,

to give your silence a name.”

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"That Evening — When Both Were at the Same Café, Pretending to Be Strangers"

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Dusk was falling.

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Zoboria chose her spot carefully — the window seat at the café where Abu Zar's books used to be left.

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She sat alone, her hand on the notebook — logged in to the RuheSukoon_11 account.

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At the same time, outside the café… Abu Zar arrived.

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But he paused before entering.

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Through the glass, he saw a girl — in a soft pink scarf, turning pages of a journal.

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> “Who is she?”

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He watched for a few more seconds.

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Then turned away.

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Why?

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> Because now even he was afraid —

“What if it’s really her… and I lose her again?”

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"A Letter — Written Without a Name, But Full of Recognition"

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Three days later, Abu Zar received a letter.

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No name. No sender.

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Inside, just three lines:

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> “If someone returns, don’t call them by their old name.

Some bring not names, but silences with them.”

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His hands trembled.

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He pressed the letter to his chest and wrote in his journal on the bench:

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> “I’m not seeking names anymore.

I just want to hold on to the feeling

that has kept me alive — even without identity.”

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"A Final Test — Given to Abu Zar by Fate"

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The doctor called again.

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> “Mr. Zarar, the MRI shows concerning activity.

Your condition is more critical now.”

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Abu Zar smiled.

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> “Life is fragile, Doctor…

But love makes it a little stronger.”

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That night, he posted:

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> “I don’t need medicine anymore —

just one meeting to survive.

Don’t tell me your name.

Just sit beside me.

I’ll recognize you.”

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"Zoboria — Who Finally Promised to Meet, Alongside Her Fears"

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She deleted everything.

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She erased @RuheSukoon_11.

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And logged in with her real name.

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> “@Zoboria” — the old one, the almost forgotten one.

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And her first message:

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> “If you still sit on the bench… then tomorrow I’m coming.

The responsibility of recognizing me is yours.

The duty to forgive — mine.”

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"The Morning When the Bench Held Its Breath"

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7:00 a.m.

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Abu Zar sat on the bench.

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His breaths were heavy. Heart racing — as if an old poem had come back to life.

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He saw a girl walking from a distance.

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Pink scarf, slow steps, a notebook in hand.

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Abu Zar stood up.

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She came closer.

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Their eyes met.

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They said nothing.

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Just placed their books on the bench — and softly echoed the old line:

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> “Some loves don’t break —

they just start living under new names: denial, anger… or silence.”

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And then —

One book opened together.

One silence broke.

One story began again.

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"Safvan — Who Read Zoboria in Her Silences"

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It was an ordinary afternoon in New Delhi — not scorching, just lightly sun-drenched and dusty.

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The office meeting had just ended.

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Safvan returned to his cabin, loosened his collar, and took the last sip of his coffee.

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He had one last report to check — and a final email to send.

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The file opened.

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But right then, a small notification blinked on his screen:

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> "Zoboria just posted a new story."

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His fingers froze.

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He saved the file and opened the notification.

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It was a story — a blurry photograph.

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A bench.

Just a bench, with a book placed on it.

Below it, a line:

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> “Some loves don’t return.

But we keep walking behind them anyway.”

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His hand lingered on the screen.

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Zoboria…

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He remembered — the way she laughed in meetings,

but in the evenings, she'd grow quiet — like she was sinking into some invisible depth.

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For the last few weeks, she’d been unusually active on social media.

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And every post… every line…

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> “Like it was meant for someone special — but she never said their name.”

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Safvan had shut his laptop now.

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He had started understanding Zoboria through her stories.

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> “Who is he, Zobo?”

“The one you leave breadcrumbs for?”

“Is he still around… or just living in your fingertips now?”

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He leaned back in his chair, eyes closed.

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Zoboria — the girl who spoke boldly in conference rooms,

but would quietly sprinkle almonds into her coffee, smiling only to herself.

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There was something unfinished within her —

and Safvan had read that incompleteness like a poem.

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"One Evening — When Safvan Tried to Find a Name in Her Eyes"

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The next day, they sat across from each other in the cafeteria.

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Zoboria with her coffee. Safvan with nothing — just his gaze.

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He watched her — not staring, not interrogating.

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> “Your posts have grown deeper lately, Zobo,” he said gently.

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She didn’t flinch.

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Just smiled softly.

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> “Maybe I’ve grown deeper too.”

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Safvan watched her for a while.

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Then asked:

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> “Do your words… belong to someone?”

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Zoboria blinked.

She didn’t respond.

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But Safvan had already read the answer.

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That night, when he reached home — he opened his journal for the first time.

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The one he never wrote in.

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He wrote:

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> “I like her —

like someone who recognizes the melody

of a broken music box.

But maybe she’s still dancing to someone else’s tune.”

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Safvan had understood now —

Zoboria still walked to that bench every day…

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But now, his world had begun walking behind her.

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"Safvan — Who Became Z and Left a Silent Confession for Her"

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That night, Safvan couldn’t sleep.

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He opened Zoboria’s story again — the same bench, the same book, the same aching quiet.

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His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

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But his heart — it was resting inside her silences.

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> “Maybe she writes for someone else…

But don’t silences also have their own directions?”

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He realized — the diary wasn’t enough anymore.

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His words wanted to live on a screen now —

without a name, without a voice.

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"He Created a New Account — @inkbyZ"

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No profile picture.

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Just one line in the bio:

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> “Some people aren’t your love stories —

they’re the quiet company in your loneliness.”

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His first post:

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📖

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> “She passes by the bench every day —

like a question that walks by,

but never becomes an answer.”

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#ToHer

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"It Wasn’t a Post — It Was a Silent Confession"

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Zoboria came across the post that evening — unknowingly.

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A friend had tagged her.

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The account was new.

Not many followers.

No real name.

Just a feeling that felt… painfully familiar.

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Her fingers hovered on the screen.

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> “Z… who is this?”

“Could it be Abu Zar…?”

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But the voice felt different.

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Abu Zar's love carried broken truth.

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Z’s words held quiet understanding.

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"A Message from Z — That Asked for Nothing but Presence"

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DM:

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> “Your posts are for someone.

I know I’m not that person.

But some of us quietly stay near —

So when love gets tired…

there’s still some peace left around.”

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— Z

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Zoboria read the message for a long time.

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She didn’t block him.

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Didn’t reply either.

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Just… saved the profile.

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> “Who is he?”

“A new shadow… or an old stranger?”

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"Safvan — Who Turned His Name into Z"

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Now, every few days, a new post would appear:

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🖤

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> “She won’t ask —

because she knows

the quiet ones

feel the most.”

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#InkbyZ

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At the office, Zoboria had started glancing at Safvan more often —

sometimes directly, sometimes out of the corner of her eye.

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She wanted to say something…

But the words stayed stuck.

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> “Could he be… Z?”

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Safvan watched her every day —

But as Z, he was saying everything

that his real name never dared to.

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**Now the question wasn’t who Z was.

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The question was —

Can Zoboria find love again

inside someone else’s silence?**

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Let me know if you want this translated version continued or styled differently!

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