Love Left Unspoken (eBook)

Mostafizar Rahman (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
531 Seiten
Publishdrive (Verlag)
978-0-00-108437-7 (ISBN)

Infos

Love Left Unspoken is a hauntingly beautiful tale of love, distance, and the quiet language of the unsaid.
When Aroni, a writer who believes in silence as art, meets Rayan, an engineer who measures the world in logic, their worlds briefly collide-and leave an echo that refuses to fade.

Set between Dhaka's humid tenderness and London's restrained skies, this novel traces a love story that grows not through grand declarations but through the delicate weight of absence.
Letters never sent. Conversations interrupted.
Moments remembered long after they're gone.

Through the spaces between words, Mostafizar Rahman paints a love that is both deeply intimate and profoundly universal - where every silence holds the memory of what could have been.
The prose reads like poetry; the emotions unfold like a slow dusk after rain.

'Because silence remembers what words forget.'

If you have ever loved quietly, waited without reason, or found beauty in heartbreak - Love Left Unspoken will speak to you in the language of stillness.

Textauszug

Chapter One—The Scent of Yesterday

 

Morning unfolded the way paper unfolds after a careful letter has been read too many times—creases softened, edges remembering where they once were sharp. Light did not break so much as negotiate, testing the gauze at Aroni’s window, slipping beneath it with diplomatic patience. It traveled the plain of her desk and rested on the silver lip of the laptop as if blessing a tool that had behaved itself.

The ceiling fan—unambitious, faithful—turned like a thought that never insists on conclusions. From the lane below rose the small repertory of the day: the metallic breath of shutters going up, a bicycle bell doing its quick arithmetic, the fruit seller brightening vowels as though fruit depended on declension, a bus rehearsing impatience. Somewhere in an unseen kitchen, water took on the moral character of tea; elsewhere, a radio tested an old song to see if it wished to belong to this morning as well.

Aroni watched the cursor blink. It was a small metronome for hope, a creature that lived on the air of what might be said. She lifted her hands, hovered them above the keys, and withdrew again as if the letters were warmer than she remembered. On the screen, a document titled Editorial Notes—Winter Anthology (London) waited with the practiced self-respect of a task that knew it would be done. Above it, an email from Elena Meyer floated in the neat blue of received kindness:

Could you finish the notes before Friday? You always hear what the poems aren’t saying.

Elena’s sentences moved like someone who has learned staircases by heart. Even the request for speed carried an aftertaste of grace.

“Soon,” Aroni said aloud, to the room and to the cursor, and to the part of herself that wore reluctance like a shawl on hot days.

She stood, crossed to the stove, and set the kettle to its work. The blue mug—Maya’s gift from a year that now preferred to be called “before”—had earned the right to be called the mug. A hairline crack traced one side like a thought the cup had decided to keep. On its underside, faint with the labor of many washings, clung a sentence in Maya’s hand: write what won’t let you forget.

“Bossy,” Aroni told the mug, and smiled without giving the smile permission to spread. The kettle raised its voice at the exact moment the phone decided to tremble across the desk. She poured, the tea shrugged into color, and she picked up before the name finished lighting.

“Mornings should be illegal,” Maya announced. She possessed the distinct gift of sounding awake on behalf of both parties.

“They are illegal until someone makes tea,” Aroni replied. “I am now compliant.”

“Good. Compliance comes with tasks. One: eat something that cannot be poured. Two: at six, be at the café. Nadia will arrive with laughter, Farhan with schemes, I with judgment.”

“Farhan’s schemes violate my cultural heritage.”

“Your cultural heritage includes rebelliousness, which is why you love me,” Maya said. “Also, wear lipstick. Shade: living.”

“I am living.”

“Prove it,” Maya said cheerfully. “Oh—and your building guard asked if your book is going to be a film. I told him yes, and that he could be the soul of the city. He said he’s available most evenings except for prayer time.”

“The guard understands scheduling better than some producers,” Aroni said. “Fine. Six.”

“Think of it as public therapy,” Maya said. “Now eat. If you claim coffee is edible, I’ll report you to nutrition.”

The call ended with the confidence of someone who knows she is already forgiven. Aroni set the phone down on the stack of manuscripts where a corner of something blue peered out. The notebook. It had migrated again, as loyal objects do, toward the center of things. She ignored it for now, out of courtesy to the present.

The first email of the day arrived with European punctuality. Thank you for taking this on, Elena wrote. Your line about text editing us back—I felt it. Poems rearrange the furniture and leave the room larger. I’m sending a theme brief: “Unspoken Love.” A paragraph from you on why we read what we can’t say would be a gift.

“Unspoken,” Aroni repeated to the window. The word cast a small shade. She typed yes—a useful reply in almost any language—and did not send it yet. Agreement felt truer after tea.

Outside, light performed the most honest thing it knew how to do: fall. The city put on its day and walked into it with the courage of habit. Across the lane, an elderly man watered plants on a narrow balcony with a plastic can that had known more summers than governments. A parrot, invisible but dedicated, asked for the news as if the question itself were sufficient occupation: Ki khabar? Ki khabar? News, as usual, was a little shy.

She opened the file labeled Theme—Unspoken Love and skimmed the prompt: a call for four pages of opening notes and one “anchor paragraph” in her voice. She let the document idle while she opened another: a poem from a Silesian woman who had taught her husband to sleep without dreams after the war stole their patience for the kind with endings.

Aroni read the poem once and then again. She marked where breath had been refused, where a metaphor was selling tickets to a performance not scheduled for today, where an image waited for its light. She placed a comma not as an ornament but as a doorstop, keeping the sentence from shutting on someone’s hand. She deleted an adjective that wished too much to be thanked.

Her fingers found a line to write back to Elena: The river is truer when it doesn’t apologize. She deleted is, added it again, finally let it be. Some words shoulder their own weight just fine.

By late morning the lane had concluded its morning and moved on to noon, which in this neighborhood smelled faintly of old rain and turmeric. A bell rang downstairs. Maya didn’t knock; she had never admired ceremonies she didn’t invent. She entered with two paper bags and a breezy competence.

“I’ve brought biryani and moral superiority,” she declared. “Also, the guard says if the film needs a tea-stall cameo, he knows a kettle with range.”

“A kettle with range is more than what I can say for certain actors,” Aroni said, taking the bags to the table. “Will you eat or supervise?”

“I will supervise you eating,” Maya said, opening boxes with the reverence of a pilgrim undoing a knot. “Tell me you slept.”

“I attempted it. Sleep acknowledged my effort.”

“Good. Now chew,” Maya said, watching the first bite enter Aroni’s mouth with the satisfied cruelty of someone who enjoys being right.

They ate, which is to say the room permitted itself to be improved. Steam ascended in small, forgettable miracles. Outside, a child made the sound that balloons make when turning into philosophy. Maya narrated her newsroom—new editor, new metrics, a shoulder dislocated from the weight of too many headlines.

“Are we pronouncing his name today,” she asked, as if asking the weather if it planned to rain, “or are we pretending silence is a costume you wear to parties?”

Aroni applied herself to rice. “Silence is a discipline,” she said. “Like not pressing send.”

“Silence is also a habit,” Maya replied, and then let her mouth do its second favorite thing after talking: it left the topic alone. “Six o’clock?”

“Six,” Aroni said. “I will wear living.”

“Good,” Maya said, and reached for the plastic spoon like a queen claiming a scepter. “Also—your mother called me.”

“Why does she call you?”

“Because I pick up. She wants you to eat. She also wants to know if London is a real place or a story we invented for your career.”

“Both can be true,” Aroni said.

“Say that on a panel,” Maya advised. “People like paradox if it arrives with earrings.”

When Maya left, the apartment exhaled back into its quieter size. Aroni washed the mug, set it mouth-down to dry, and went to the window. The jasmine vine along the neighbor’s parapet wore a measured green; buds tight as if concentrating. She didn’t count them. Counting makes a calendar of what should be weather.

The blue notebook had grown more insistent in its small visibility. She freed it from the manuscripts and opened to the first page, where the sentence still sat in Rayan’s hand: Some poems do not wish to end. They pause and wait for a different hand to remember their breathing. The script leaned forward the way people do when casually agreeing to fall in love.

She could hear him as he’d been then—too serious about jokes, too joking about seriousness. You put commas where I put full stops, he’d told her once, annoyed because the poem was better for it. You stop too soon, she’d answered, annoyance in the gentle register. Or you don’t know how to end, he had said, almost tender. Maybe endings don’t know me, she’d replied, and they had laughed the necessary laugh that keeps a conversation from admitting to its own heart.

She closed the notebook and pressed her thumb to the spine until paper decided to be one thing. Five years since the bus station that exhaled people, the moon that pretended to be neutral, and the vow that sounded like a botanical instruction: before the jasmine blooms. A sentence modest enough to be dangerous. Love trusts modest sentences; the grander ones spend themselves too quickly.

The afternoon faltered, then recovered. The parrot repeated its question with a bureaucrat’s rigor. Aroni returned to the laptop and opened the Unspoken Love brief....

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 22.10.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 0-00-108437-2 / 0001084372
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-108437-7 / 9780001084377