Part 2 Chapter 8

 Chapter 8: Love That Couldn’t Last

Papers Under The Rain

Tara and Arman’s first meeting was the kind of moment she would play over in her mind for years, even after everything fell apart. It was raining that afternoon, the kind of rain that soaked through your clothes and left you chilled to the bone. Tara, balancing a precarious stack of files, hurried through the courthouse corridors, her wet scarf slipping from her head. She was halfway across the marble floor when her heel caught a puddle, and the inevitable happened.

The papers scattered across the floor, a mix of stamped files and loose forms fanning out like fallen leaves. Mortified, Tara crouched to gather them, muttering apologies to no one in particular as people bustled past, ignoring her.

“Here, let me help,” a calm, steady voice interrupted her frantic scrambles.

She looked up, her rain-damp hair falling into her eyes. Standing before her was Arman, the young magistrate everyone in the office admired. He was well-dressed, his robes immaculate despite the rain, and his expression was kind.

“No, sir, it’s fine, I—” she stammered, her face hot with embarrassment.

“Nonsense,” he interrupted, crouching beside her. “The floor’s slippery—you might hurt yourself.”

He handed her a pile of papers, their hands brushing briefly, and something about his unhurried demeanor made Tara pause. People like him—respected, important—didn’t usually notice people like her.

From that moment, Arman seemed to make a point of noticing her. He’d stop by the records room where she worked, asking for files he probably didn’t need just to linger and chat. At first, Tara thought it was polite curiosity, but soon their conversations grew longer. He asked about her work, her family, even her favorite food. His laugh was warm and rich, and she found herself smiling more in his presence than she had in years.

The First Tea

It was during her lunch break, as she sat on the bench outside the courthouse, that he first surprised her. She was nibbling on a dry sandwich when he approached, holding two cups of steaming tea.

“Busy day?” he asked casually, handing her one of the cups.

Tara blinked in surprise. “Oh, thank you, sir—”

“Arman,” he corrected gently, sitting beside her. “And you’re welcome.”

She hesitated, her fingers curling around the warm cup. “I don’t think I should… I mean, I’m just—”

“Just someone who deserves a break,” he finished, smiling. “I’ve noticed you in the records room, always working through lunch. Do you ever slow down?”

She laughed nervously, shaking her head. “Not really. There’s too much to do.”

“Maybe,” he said, taking a sip of his tea, “but even the hardest workers need to breathe sometimes.”

Tara found herself smiling despite her initial discomfort. He had a way of making her feel at ease, as though her worries mattered, even if only for a moment.

Over time, these shared tea breaks became their quiet ritual. Every few days, Arman would find her on the same bench, always with a cup of tea in hand. They talked about everything and nothing—her favorite childhood games, his early days studying law, the quirks of their coworkers.

One afternoon, he brought her a small packet of biscuits.

“I thought these might go well with your tea,” he said, a playful twinkle in his eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, laughing softly. “You’re spoiling me.”

“Nonsense,” he replied. “Everyone deserves a little sweetness now and then.”

As she dipped the biscuit into her tea, she couldn’t help but feel a warmth that went beyond the drink in her hands.

The Library Walks

Their connection deepened during the evenings when Arman would linger after hours, waiting for Tara to finish her work. One evening, as she was locking up the records room, she found him leaning casually against the wall.

“You’re still here?” she asked, startled.

“Guilty,” he said with a grin. “I thought you might like some company on your way home.”

Tara hesitated, glancing at the clock. “It’s late… Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he said, falling into step beside her.

Their walk took them past the old courthouse library, its tall windows glowing faintly in the moonlight. Tara slowed, glancing at the building wistfully.

“I used to dream about libraries like this when I was a kid,” she said.

Arman raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

She nodded, smiling faintly. “I’ve always loved books. They felt like… an escape.”

Without a word, Arman led her up the stone steps. He pulled a key from his pocket, unlocking the heavy wooden door.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, half-laughing.

“Giving you a tour,” he replied, holding the door open.

The library was quiet, its tall shelves casting long shadows in the dim light. Tara wandered through the aisles, running her fingers over the spines of books she’d never imagined touching.

“This place is incredible,” she said softly.

Arman watched her with a small smile. “You light up when you’re here. It’s nice to see.”

Tara turned to him, her heart skipping a beat. “Thank you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“For what?”

“For… everything,” she said. “For noticing me.”

He stepped closer, his gaze warm but steady. “It’s hard not to notice you, Tara.”

Her breath caught in her throat, but before she could respond, he stepped back, his usual playful demeanor returning. “Now, let me show you my favorite corner. It’s where all the legal dramas are hidden.”

They spent hours there, flipping through books and sharing stories. By the time they left, the night had deepened, and Tara’s cheeks ached from laughing so much.

Laughter by the River

It was Arman who suggested the walks by the river.

“I’ve heard you like it there,” he said one evening after work, his tone casual. “Care to show me?”

Tara hesitated, her heart fluttering. “It’s nothing special, really. Just a quiet spot.”

“Sometimes quiet is exactly what we need,” he replied with a small smile.

The first time they walked the riverbank, Tara kept a careful distance, her hands clasped in front of her. But Arman’s easy conversation soon had her laughing. He had a way of drawing her out, teasing her gently about her work habits or how she always carried more papers than she could handle.

“Do you ever stop working, Tara?” he joked one evening, watching as she automatically smoothed out a crease in her scarf.

“I stop,” she replied, smiling. “Sometimes.”

“Hmm,” he said, pretending to consider. “I’m not sure I believe that. You seem like the kind of person who doesn’t know how to sit still.”

“And you seem like the kind of person who talks too much,” she shot back, her grin widening.

He laughed, a deep, carefree sound, and she couldn’t help but laugh with him.

They spent those evenings sharing pieces of themselves—Arman talked about his dreams of becoming a judge, of making a difference in the system. Tara spoke about her childhood, her mother’s strictness, and her own quiet dream of singing on a stage.

“Why don’t you?” Arman asked one evening, stopping mid-step to look at her.

“Why don’t I what?”

“Sing. You talk about it like it’s something you love.”

Tara hesitated, looking down at the river. “It’s… silly. Life gets in the way. Besides, I probably don’t sound good anymore.”

“I don’t believe that,” he said simply.

That night, under the moonlight, she finally sang for him. Her voice trembled at first, but as she closed her eyes and let the melody take over, it grew steady and rich, carrying years of emotion. When she finished, she opened her eyes to find him staring at her, his expression soft and full of admiration.

“You’re incredible,” he said. “Don’t ever doubt that.”

For the first time in years, Tara felt like her voice mattered.

Love that doesn’t Meant to Last

Their love grew in stolen moments—shared laughter, secret smiles, and quiet dreams whispered by the river. But the world had other plans.

When Arman’s family discovered their growing relationship, the backlash was immediate.

“She’s beneath you,” his mother had said coldly. “No education, no status. What would people say?”

Tara’s mother, too, was relentless. “You think a man like that will marry you? His family will never allow it. Don’t be foolish.”

The weight of their families’ disapproval began to take its toll. Arman grew quieter during their walks, his once-bright smile fading under the pressure. Tara noticed, but she said nothing, afraid to ask the question she already knew the answer to.

One evening, as they stood by the river, the inevitable finally came.

“I’ve tried everything,” Arman said, his voice heavy with sorrow. “But they won’t accept us. No matter what I say, they won’t change their minds.”

Tara looked away, her hands trembling. “Then what do we do?”

He hesitated, the pain evident in his eyes. “I don’t know if I can go against them, Tara. They’re my family.”

She nodded slowly, her heart breaking. “I understand.”

Arman reached for her hand, his grip firm but gentle. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said, his voice cracking.

“But you will,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Because you already have.”

The silence between them was deafening, broken only by the sound of the river. Finally, Arman pulled her into a tight embrace, holding her as though he could keep her forever.

“Maybe in another life,” he murmured, his voice filled with anguish.

Tara clung to him, her tears soaking his shoulder. “Maybe in another life,” she echoed.

When they finally let go, it felt like the end of something sacred. Tara watched as Arman walked away, his figure disappearing into the twilight. She stayed by the river long after he was gone, the quiet flow of water the only witness to her grief.

Though they parted that night, the memory of their love lingered, etched into the riverbank, carried in the songs she would sing alone, and woven into the quiet ache that would stay with her for years to come.

A Marriage of Necessity

Tara’s marriage to Hamid, arranged by her family, was practical but loveless. Hamid was a decent man—a factory worker with a steady income—but he lacked the warmth and understanding Tara had found in Arman. He provided for her and their four children, but their relationship was one of duty, not affection.

Tara poured herself into raising her children, determined to give them the opportunities she never had. She wanted them to dream freely, to chase the futures they wanted, even if it meant enduring her own unfulfilled dreams.

But there were nights, after the children were asleep and the house was quiet, when Tara’s thoughts drifted back to Arman. She wondered what might have been if their families had not stood in their way. She wondered if she might have been happy, truly happy, with him.