It was a usual day, and I was scrolling through Instagram. While casually browsing, I stumbled upon a breathtaking picture of the Kashmir mountains. My heart whispered, Wow, beautiful! The image was so mesmerizing that I felt compelled to appreciate the photographer’s work. As I scrolled down to the comments, one caught my eye simple yet powerful.
"My home ❤️"
Without even checking the username, I instinctively liked the comment.
The blank heart turned red.
A couple of minutes later, a follow request popped up. I checked the name it was a Muslim name. My account was private, almost ghost-like, with barely any posts or followers. I rarely followed anyone and frequently disabled my account to avoid distractions. Infact my username was pseudonymous, so I knew this wasn’t some planned move.

Curious, I threw a question instead of accepting the request: "Aap Kashmir se ho?" A reply came almost instantly. "Yes." That was it. A simple confirmation. No unnecessary words. "He shared some pictures without me even asking for it " A notification popped up. I opened my DMs and saw a series of pictures—snowfall draping rooftops, frozen lakes reflecting the sky, and a serene valley that looked like it had been plucked straight from a dream. One photo stood out. He was sitting on a hill, camera in hand, capturing the world below. Another video came in—a shikara ride. His shoes peeking from the frame, gently tapping against the wooden boat.
[ socho ke jheelo ka shehar hai song playing on radio ]
I was captivated, but my mind reminded me: He’s a Muslim.

[Words That Built a World]

At first, our chats were casual talks about the weather, food, and the mesmerizing beauty of Kashmir. He spoke about his home with such love and longing that I found myself hanging onto every word. It was strange, yet comforting, talking to someone I had never met. Days turned into weeks. Our conversations deepened. We talked about life, struggles, and dreams. He told me about the heavy snowfall, the streets of kashmir, the silence that lingered in the air after curfews. I told him about my world a stark contrast to his, yet somehow, he understood. We laughed at silly things, debated over trivial ones. But there was always an unspoken tension something fragile yet powerful building between us. Then came the question I had avoided for weeks. "Tum Hindu ho ya Muslim?" I hesitated. I knew the weight of my answer. "Hindu." A pause. A long one. My heart pounded. "Oh." One word. Just one. And yet, it held the weight of centuries of history, of battles fought in the name of faith, of invisible walls built between people who had never even met.I wanted to ask if it mattered. If my name, my faith, changed what we had built through words alone. But I didn’t. Because deep down, I already knew the answer. Then, he asked for my name. "Prakriti." "What do you do?" "I’m a UPSC aspirant." "Oh, okay." The next day, he messaged again. "Just came back from college. Final year of MBBS." I kept my responses minimal. He seemed eager to share his daily routines, his gym sessions, even the street cat he fed every evening. "She never forgets to visit me once in her day," he wrote, sending a video. I didn’t share much. My bias still held me back.

[The First Call]

On the fifth day of our conversations, he asked, "Can we talk on call? Just once?" "I don’t share my number with people online," I replied. "Please, just once. I just want to hear your voice." That Sunday afternoon, while my father was home, my phone rang. Hesitation gripped me, but I answered. "Hello?" A slight pause. Then, his voice, trembling with excitement. "Hellooooooo! Can you hear me?" "Yes, I can hear you." "Oh, okay! I’m out for lunch!" My heart raced. This was my first-ever conversation with a Muslim man. And my father was just a few feet away. "I’m a little scared," I admitted. "I’ve never talked to a Muslim before. My dad is home too." There was a brief silence before he said, "You don’t have to fear anything now. You’re safe here with me." The moment I mentioned my father, he quickly said, "Okay, you can go. Be safe, okay?"

And the call ended. I stared at my screen. My heart pounded like a bullet train. My entire life, I had been conditioned to believe that Muslims were dangerous. Yet, here was this man, treating my fears with nothing but gentleness.

[Breaking Barriers]

As days passed, we talked more. I learned about his dreams, his struggles, and his unwavering love for his family. He never forced me into anything never demanded pictures, never crossed a line.

Then, one evening, he asked, "Would you ever consider dating me?" "I’m not interested in relationships. I was in love once. He’s married now. And… I lost my mother too. My focus is my UPSC dream." "Alright," he said, respectfully backing off. But the next day, he messaged again. "Please think about it once?" I hesitated. "You’re Muslim. I’m Hindu. We can’t date. You’ve heard the news love jihad, religious conflicts. It’s not possible." "You’re judging me because of a taboo. Not for the person I am." My heart knew he was different. Time played its role, and before I knew it, we were in love.
[Jugrafia song playing on the radio ]

My rules: "You’ll never force me to do things I don’t want to do." "Never." he promised. I refused video calls. He never insisted. He wanted to meet. I said, "Once I clear my UPSC exam." Deep down, I wanted that future to build a life together, but reality loomed over us like a dark cloud.

[Conflicting Loyalties]

As our bond grew, so did our arguments. "Your government oppresses Kashmiris." he said one evening. "My government is giving Kashmiris better opportunities than ever before." I shot back. "Do you even know about Kashmir beyond the news? Have you lived our reality?" "I don’t need to. I know terrorists like Maqbool Bhat exist." "To you, he’s a terrorist. To us, he’s a martyr like Bhagat Singh is for India." That night, he didn’t text. The next day, I searched about Maqbool Bhat. I read. I understood. "One’s martyr is another’s terrorist," they say. And suddenly, I saw Kashmir not as a headline, but as a land of stories of suffering, of loss, of love. The Real Conflict ther's much more what meets the eyes!

During Ramzan, I surprised him. I searched Islamic verses and recorded myself reading them. My pronunciation was terrible, but I tried. His reply came instantly. "This isn’t easy even for me to pronounce correctly, but you tried. May Allah bless you, dear." And I smiled. Yet, reality was unforgiving. "What if our families never accept this?" "What if we have no future?" "What if love isn’t enough?"

[Letters That Never Reached Their Destination]

We never met. But we wrote to each other. Letters. Not emails. Not texts. Handwritten letters. I never posted mine. He never sent his either. But we both had them. Pages filled with words we’d never say out loud. One of my letters read: "Zubair, do you know what I fear? I fear you’ll disappear one day. That you’ll stop writing. That one morning, I’ll wake up and find out you’ve moved on, and I’ll be left wondering was any of this even real?" I don’t know if he ever wrote something like that. But once he shared doodling me on a slate bald with three hair on my skalp , but i jever looked this beautiful ever ofc love is blind ! Once when he was in chandigarh he net this lady who happens to be one of the patient in the same hospital he respected her as his own mother and cherished every moment with her she cared him like her own son as well once on her birthday he spent whole day long to just write a verse for mother which was in Quran but in calligraphy to gift her And he gifted him her she got so happy and in return she handed him an envelope he thought it might contain letter from her but no the envelope had few money he got furious about it and a little upset saying I just wanted to me Her happy but she showed her wealth like this she didn't understood my heart for her , I was thinking it might had letter from her I being his gf can't see him upset and came eith this idea i wrote a letter for him on her behalf and sent him he repled this is the best gift I've ever revcived i love you damn u wrote every single thing I've shared about her and infact kept her responses in this letter too it really looked as of she wrote it ! Infact he showed it to her so sje thought he wrote it for himself he laughing shared her response with me he said she was saying whom would know the things we talk about the dream of you visiting Japan And stuff and she explained she gave him money in way of blessing !


One night, he sighed, "Mai bhi kisko samjha raha hoon… Hazaron mile door jo mujhse hai, jisme meri zindagi ka ek din bhi nahi jiya." "Whom am I even trying to explain? Miles away, they haven’t lived a single day of my life."
Tears welled up.
This wasn’t just love. It was a battle of biases, of faith, of societal chains. Would love win? Or would fear?

[A Future to Dream Of]

Despite our differences, one thing remained constant his unwavering support for my dreams. "You should focus on your UPSC exam. If you crack it, we can at least give this a try in front of our families." His words weren’t just encouragement; they were a promise. He wasn’t asking me to choose between love and ambition he was rooting for both. "It sounds much more practical, doesn’t it?" he added. And for the first time, I felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, if I worked hard enough if I turned my dreams into reality our love wouldn’t have to remain just a dream.

[Ending]

"Is it truly a war between love and society? Or is the real battle fought within between insecurities and courage?" "Not every love story is about breaking norms or proudly standing against the tide. Sometimes, it’s about the quiet fears that whisper What if my family’s respect is at stake? What if they never accept me? What if love alone isn’t enough to hold a life together?" "Maybe it’s not just society that decides the fate of love. Maybe, sometimes, love loses not because the world says ‘no,’ but because the heart itself hesitates. "