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This page was not made by a company, and it was not copied from anywhere. It was typed, word by word, by the boy who spent two and a half years asking God for one girl — and got given exactly her. That girl is you, Ganishaa. Every single word below comes from our actual story: the snap you sent from nowhere, the boards that took you away, the Sri Lanka night, the confession, the fair chance, the first call, the theatre, the scrunchie, the scare, and now — this brand new month we are walking into together. If any of it makes your eyes wet, let it. Those are the happy tears, and this whole page exists just to earn them. Read slow. There is no hurry. I have been standing at the end of this page, waiting for you, since before it ever began — and I would wait for you again. Every time.

So yes, distance hurts. But I'd do it all over again.

If I could go back to 14 February 2026 and decide whether to start this again — I would choose you, a thousand times over. I would choose the late nights and the early mornings. The goodbyes and the "I miss you"s. Every single moment of this long distance love, because loving you even from far away is the most beautiful thing I have ever known.

And I will wait. Through every sunset, through every season, through every mile. Because some love stories are written across oceans. And ours is one of them. I love you. Today. Tomorrow. Always.

My whole day, in your name

I have turned my whole day into yours, Ganishaa — and nothing feels better than that. First thing in the morning, your good morning; then with my chai, looking at your photo. In the middle of everything, every twenty minutes, one new thought: “how long has it been since her last message?” At lunch, those old screenshots hidden away in a separate folder — just for us. In the evening, a normal call where sometimes we say nothing at all — but even the silence feels peaceful, because it is silence with you. And at night, the most special part — even after goodnight, I keep thinking about how good tomorrow will be if you are still here with me. No matter how much I try to convince myself I am busy, the truth is that every single day has one title: Ganishaa. And for me, that title alone is more than enough.

Two cities, one home

People say we live in different cities — I say we live in the same one: each other’s hearts. Whenever your city comes up in any conversation, I listen more carefully, because that is where you live — and that makes it the most important pin on my map of the world. The reason I stay happy is your voice, your laugh, your words. Distance exists only on maps; on the map of the heart, we are neighbours — no walls at all. And as long as that stays true, no city and no distance can ever separate us. It is my greatest comfort that without you I am only half — and with you, I am everything.

The new scale of my happiness

I have made a brand new scale for my happiness — money scores nothing on it, and nothing from before even comes close. The love scale: your one message = 10 out of 10. A voice note = 100 out of 100. A video call = 1000 out of 1000. A soft little “I miss you” from you = a score so high the calculator itself gets confused. And when you tell me the tiny details of your day — what you ate, which series you were watching, what made you laugh — the meter for that day simply breaks. People hunt for happiness in big things: jobs, money, trips. My entire happiness system is wired to you, and I never, ever want an upgrade. If you are here, happiness is here.

When I close my eyes

When I close my eyes, I have already been everywhere in the world with you — no ticket, no bags. One moment you are grabbing kulfi from a street cart, your fingers slipping into mine. The next, we are sitting on a beach watching the sunset — and you say, “this sunset is not for the photos, it is for us two.” Those dreams feel so real that when I open my eyes and all I see in front of me is a blank wall, for one second I feel like everything is lost. Then I see my phone — full of your messages — and I understand: dreams do not end there; they are only beginning right here. They are my dreams, and in the end they will come true — with you, without fail.

What I learned from you

I do not know what you learned from me, but I have learned everything from you. I learned that fear can be swapped for trust. I learned that when the right person is around, silence becomes a language of its own. I learned that love has only two rules — trust and a little patience — and everything else works itself out. Before you, I used to pretend I had everything handled; you showed me what it truly means to live with your own feelings. And the most important thing of all — you gave me the feeling that wherever someone always steps forward for you, even if they are far away, that place is home. That home is mine, and I am never leaving it.

One dream, two names

My dreams at night do not go anywhere else — they go to one place only: you. No matter what it is — talk of a wedding, talk of a home, any plan for the future — my first step is always towards you. I cannot be everything for you today, but with time I can become everything and stand before you — someone who builds a home, someone who builds a whole world. My dream is simple: to hold your hand, to look into your eyes, and to say, “see, even the galaxy is ours now.” The names may never change, but the dream is one — you. Always.

Last at night, first in the morning

Every night I feel a little strange — because saying goodnight is a small goodbye, and I have never liked goodbyes. But I have also learned that every meeting has an ending, and after every ending there is a new beginning. The next morning will begin softly — with your message, with your “good morning.” This loop has become my favourite part of everything. It gives me a fresh chance every single day to talk to you — and I never miss that chance. And one day, there will be an end to this loop — when goodnight will simply mean: “sleep now, I am right here with you.” From that day on, there will be no more goodbyes. Just us — forever.

Life before you — and after you

Sometimes I sit back and try to remember what my life felt like before 14 February, and you know what is the strangest thing? I remember everything and nothing at the same time. I remember the routines, the classes, the work, the same roads, the same screens, the same boring same-ness that filled my days. But I do not remember the silence in that life feeling so heavy. I never realised how hollow a phone can feel when no one special is waiting on the other side of it. My phone used to be just a phone — a machine for calls, for messages that were mostly routine, for notifications I genuinely did not care about. It beeped, it buzzed, and I did not feel a single thing. There were no special folders in my gallery, no screenshot I kept just to look at later, no voice note I would replay five times in a row. My days had hours, and the hours just passed. Nobody asked about the little things, and I did not have anyone to tell them to either. Nobody would message me about a random thought I had at midnight, and honestly, I did not believe that kind of connection existed for someone like me.

Then February happened. And I cannot even point to one big dramatic moment where something clicked, because there was no such moment. It was slow, it was soft, it was a string of tiny little things that kept piling up until I realised I was completely, hopelessly, wonderfully hooked. It started with a hello that I almost did not send. It became a conversation that I did not want to end. Then it became a habit of waiting for your message after class, then a tradition of talking late into the night even though I had an early morning, then a quiet little joy in my chest every time my phone lit up with your name. Somewhere in all of that, without me even noticing, my phone stopped being just a phone. It became the bridge between me and the person I did not yet know I could not live without. The gallery started filling with screenshots that nobody would understand. The voice notes became my small secret treasury. And the silence, that heavy noise-free silence from before, became something I loved — because it meant it was just us, talking, laughing, sharing, existing together across all those kilometres.

What changed the most is how I see myself in that world. Before you, I think I was fine with being ordinary. I went through my days, did my things, kept my feelings somewhere safe where nobody could poke at them. I did not really believe I was someone worth choosing, if I am being honest. But then you looked at me — through that screen, through those messages, through those late-night talks — and somehow you decided I was worth it. You chose me on days when I was a mess. You waited for me when I was late. You listened when I spoke nonsense. You remembered the tiny things I said in passing and brought them up later like they mattered. And slowly, your belief in me started becoming my belief in myself. You did not ask me to be different; you just loved me as I was, and that simple, powerful thing has made me want to be a little better every single day. That is a gift no one had ever given me before, and I do not think I even knew I was carrying that hunger for it until you filled it.

I also see the world differently now. Before you, sunsets were just sunsets. Songs were just songs. A good morning was just a phrase, and an I love you was just something people said in movies. Now a sunset makes me think of you because you are my favourite kind of light. Every love song that plays has a line that sounds like it was copied from the diary of our story. A good morning from you is a small sunrise of its own, and an I love you from you is the only proof of magic I will ever need. Ordinary streets make me imagine walking them with you. Empty houses make me think of decorating one with you. Even my dreams, which used to be vague and blurry, now have a single clear face in them — and it is always you. You have not just entered my life; you have rearranged it. You coloured the grey parts, you turned the noise into music, you made every ordinary thing feel like it had been waiting for you to walk in and give it meaning.

And then 21 June happened, and the screen finally turned into skin. That theatre, that lifafa thrown at me, that scrunchie on your hand that turned my whole face red, that hand reaching for mine in the dark — I have replayed it so many times that it feels like a film I own. Then came the nights after it: you sneaking out at 3AM, asleep on my chest while I counted your breath; us roaming roads with no plan; the rain soaking both of us while we laughed and you called it your best date; and our hardest lesson, the night I thought you were gone and could not eat for a whole day, the night I learned what no really means. We survived every single one. And now, in the quietest, hardest phase of all when meetings are gone, I am still here, typing to you, dreaming of one long drive and a forehead kiss. That is the thing — I did not just fall in love with the idea of you. I fell in love with the actual, stubborn, real us. Through every distance and every phase, you remain my favourite fact.

I know four months is not a very long time in the grand calendar of a lifetime. But I also know that some people spend years together and never feel what we feel in a single night of talking. It is not about counting the days; it is about what the days become when someone fills them. And mine, my days, my tiny little ordinary days, have become something I actually look forward to. I wake up wanting to tell you good morning. I go through my day collecting small stories for you. And at night, I close my eyes replaying the moments where you laughed, where you said something soft, where you made me feel like I was the luckiest guy walking this earth. That is what you did to my life, Ganishaa. You did not just enter it. You rebuilt it, room by room, with the softest noise and the warmest hands, and now — I would not trade that changed life for anything in this entire universe, because it is a life that finally has a single recurring theme: you. It is a life that finally makes sense. It is a life with a heartbeat named Ganishaa, and it is going to stay that way, for as long as you let it.

From morning to night — your name, your words

If someone ever asked me to write down what a single day of my life looks like now, I would not write about classes or work or the places I sit. I would write about you — because in a very real way, you are the thread that holds every hour of my day together. The day begins in the morning, and it never really begins until your good morning arrives. It does not matter what time I wake up; the day only becomes my day when I see your name, when I read those two simple words that somehow carry enough warmth to power me through the first few hours. I have my chai, I open your message, and for a moment, the world just feels right. Before you I used to greet the day grumpy and rushed. Now I wake up and my first thought is already checking if you are awake, if you slept well, if I should wait a little longer before disturbing you. And when your message finally comes, the morning turns golden, even if the sky outside is grey.

The middle of the day is quieter, and that is when my mind decides to make a whole movie out of you. I will be sitting in class or at some desk, and suddenly I will think about something you said last night, and I will smile for absolutely no reason. Someone will ask me what is funny, and I will just shake my head because there is no way to explain that someone far away made my day just by existing. If I get a voice note from you in between, the whole afternoon becomes sacred. I save it, I listen to it once on speaker, then once with earphones, then maybe once more just to catch the little laugh that squeezed in unnecessarily. Your voice notes have become my small comfort blanket. A bad score in an exam, a boring lecture, a long day of nothing — one voice note from you and all of it becomes bearable. I do not think you realise how much power you hold in your voice. It is impossible to stay unhappy after hearing it. It is like listening to a little piece of home in audio form, and I have never been more grateful for a notification in my life.

Afternoons are for the tiny things. A meme I save to send you later. A photo I click just because I want to show you where I was. A thought that pops into my head that I know only you will understand, so I type it out and wait eagerly for your reaction. These are the moments nobody sees, but they are the ones that make up ninety percent of what I love about us. The small rituals. The running jokes. The way we have our own little language that only the two of us speak. Sometimes I realise that I have been carrying your presence with me into every room I walk into, and it makes me smile in a way that confuses everyone around me. They think I am smiling at my phone. And I am — but not really. I am smiling at the fact that in a world full of billions of people, I somehow found the one person my heart did not even know it was searching for, and she talks to me every single day like it is the easiest thing in the world.

Evenings are when everything truly comes alive, because that is when our best conversations happen. After your day is done, after we have both survived the chaos, that is when we really talk. We share what went wrong, what went well, what made us angry, what made us laugh. We talk about people, about places, about random facts nobody else cares about, about the future we are too shy to fully plan out loud but cannot stop dreaming about anyway. These arenas of conversation are my favourite place in the whole universe. The call could be ten minutes or two hours, and it will still feel too short. People complain about spending hours on the phone; I have never once complained about a single second with you. The evening calls are when I remember why I love this so much. It is not about the phone. It is about the way you say my name, the way you pause before you laugh, the way you get excited about something small and I get excited right along with you because your excitement is contagious. These are the moments I collect like treasure.

And then comes the night, which is the most honest time of the day. The world goes quiet, the noise fades, and it is just us. These are the talks where the real stuff comes out — the fears, the hopes, the feelings we keep tucked away during the day because we are too busy being strong. This is when you tell me something that touches my heart and I sit there smiling at the ceiling of my room like a complete fool. This is when the distance feels painful, and yet, in the strangest way, also beautiful, because look at us — two people in two different places, still choosing each other, still talking, still present, still in love. And then finally, there is the goodnight. I always take a moment longer to say it than I need to. I want the last thing you hear from me to be something soft. I want you to fall asleep feeling loved, feeling chosen, feeling like the most special person in the world, because that is exactly what you are. And after the goodnight, when the screen goes dark, I do not feel empty anymore. I feel full. Because I spent my entire day with you, in every hour, in every thought, and I get to do it all over again tomorrow. That is my day now, Ganishaa — a day that begins with your good morning and ends with your good night, with you written all over every single hour in between. And honey, that is the most beautiful schedule anyone could ever have.

If tomorrow we are together

I have a favourite dream, and I replay it so often that it feels like a memory that already happened somewhere in the future. It starts on a normal morning — not a special date, not a big occasion, just a normal day. I wake up first, the way I always imagine I will, and for a few seconds I stay perfectly still and just look at you sleeping beside me. Your hair is a mess, your face is peaceful, and you are curled up under the blanket in that little ball that people always do. And I just lie there and think, with all the science and logic in me, how is it possible that a person this perfect is mine? I do not wake you up right away. I let you sleep a few more minutes because one, you are beautiful like this, and two, I have waited so many nights to have this view that I am not going to rush through it. And then, when I cannot keep it in anymore, I lean over, kiss your forehead, and whisper good morning. You stir, you mumble something, you pull the blanket over your head for a second, and then you peek out and smile at me with those sleepy, beautiful eyes. And in that single moment, I would give up a thousand more nights of waiting just to have this again.

After that, the day is full of the small things I have been saving up in my heart for this exact imaginary day. I make chai — and yes, I know I am going to get it wrong the first few times, because making chai for someone who grew up in a family that takes chai seriously is a high-pressure job. But I will learn, and I will improve, and one day I will finally make a cup that makes you go quiet with happiness, and I will act like it is no big deal while internally celebrating like I won some kind of lottery. We will eat breakfast together, probably not on time, probably too slow, because every two minutes one of us will say something funny and it will derail the entire meal. The kitchen will be a mess, and neither of us will care. We will argue about silly things like who gets the last piece of something, and it will be the most fun argument of my life. These are the moments I dream about, Ganishaa. Not the grand gestures. The messy, slow, ordinary, wonderful moments of just existing together.

In the afternoon, we go out. I have thought so much about this walk — the one where we simply hold hands without worrying about who might see. After that night in the theatre, after that quick, cautious, precious moment I got with your hand in mine, I have wanted this with a fierceness I cannot describe. Walking down a street, hand in hand, with no schedule, no hurry, just the two of us. We stop at a shop because you saw something you liked. I buy an ice cream for you even though you say you will not finish it, and I finish it for you, and we laugh about it. You point at a building and tell me a story about it, and I listen to you more than I look at the building because your voice while you tell stories is something I never want to stop hearing. We might go to a cinema, and this time, nobody will be watching, and I can hold your hand for the entire movie without having to count the seconds. And when I look over at you in the half-dark of the theatre, watching your face reacting to the movie, I will probably forget the movie completely. I will just be sitting there, watching you, thinking holy moly, this is my life now. This is actually my life.

As evening falls, I think about the sunset, because honestly, sunset was always our thing even before we ever had a chance to watch one together. I have written you so many words about sunsets — how every sunset I see now has your name somewhere in its colours, how the orange and pink and gold all remind me of you. But to actually watch one with you, sitting side by side, not needing to say anything because everything is already understood — that, for me, would be the crown jewel. We would sit somewhere, with the sky doing its whole performance above us, and every few seconds I would glance at you instead of at the sky, because the person next to me will always be more beautiful than anything in the sky. You would catch me staring and ask what, and I would say nothing, and we would both smile because we know. That is how I want my evenings, Ganishaa. Slow. Golden. Full of you.

And then night, the final chapter of this imaginary day, the one I replay the most. We cook dinner together — or we attempt to — and the kitchen is chaos, and there are half-cut vegetables and a playlist of songs playing and a terrible amount of laughing, and at some point the dinner takes double the time it should, and we do not care, because the real dinner was the time we spent laughing together. We eat with the lights low and talk about everything and nothing. We talk about that first hello on 14 February, and that night in June when we made it official, and that day in the theatre, and all the nights we talked until 3AM from across the distance. We talk about how silly we were to think we could ever give up on this, and how impossible that seems now. And then, when it gets late, I feel that warmth I have wanted for so long — falling asleep next to you. Not on a call. Not through voice notes. Actually next to you. And I realise that every goodnight from all those months, every I miss you, every ache of the distance, every single painful goodbye — it was all worth it. It was all a down payment for nights like this. And gently, softly, the day ends the way it began — with you in my sight, with you in my arms. That is the dream, Ganishaa. That simple, wonderful, impossible-sounding-yet-so-possible dream. And I am going to chase it, work for it, and wait for it for as long as it takes, because I have already seen the ending of this story in my heart — and it is us. It has always been us. It will always be us.