Посты канала 𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖🥀

When you realize the only reason you still believe in love is because of the way you love. 💔

- @koi_go_tumi

"The wrong partner will teach you that you can handle everything on your own."

The right partner knows you can but won't let you.
They'll stand by your side, share the load, and help you thrive together.
In a true partnership, strength is found in unity, not isolation. ❤️🌼

_ @koi_go_tumi

"Some people are not loyal to you. They are loyal to their need of you. Once their need changes so does their loyalty."

One day you will realize that the same person is not found twice in life. Not everyone is replaceable. Be careful who you hurt.💔

_ @koi_go_tumi

you cry and cry and cry and suddenly you stop crying. you start smiling. It turns into laughter.

and then you enter the era of your ultimate joy, where everything becomes a joke to you. There is nothing serious. Everything worth laughter...! 😞

𝙇𝙤𝙮𝙖𝙡 𝙁𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨

The sound of that voice mingles with the chirping of sparrows perched on the electric wires. For a moment, Kabir's mind drifts back to his childhood. He again remembers that ice cream kaku. He was a thin, wiry man with a permanent tan from hours under the sun. He always wore a faded white vest and a checkered lungi, its edges frayed from years of use. His face was lined with wrinkles, but his eyes sparkled with kindness. In one hand, he carried a small brass bell, its sound crisp and clear, and in the other, a wooden cart with a glass lid. Inside the cart were those ice creams, perfectly shaped and glistening under the sun. Kabir remembers how ice cream kaku would smile, his teeth slightly crooked, as he handed over the ice creams, always adding a little extra scoop for the regulars. "Eat it quick, before it melts!" he would say, his voice warm and gravelly. The memory feels vivid, as if it happened just yesterday. He smiles to himself, the sound of the bell echoing in his mind.

"Do you ever think about how things used to be?" Kabir asks, turning to Nazifa.
She looks up from the stove, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Like when we were kids. The small things that made life so simple. The ice cream sellers, the street vendors, the way everything felt slower, you know?"
Nazifa shrugs, stirring the curry. "I guess. But life’s different now. We’ve got our own version of simplicity, don’t we?"
Kabir nods, walking back to the kitchen table. "Yeah, we do. But sometimes I miss that old simplicity. Like the ice cream kaku with his cart. You wouldn’t know him-- he was from my childhood. He used to ring this little bell, and all the kids would come running."
Nazifa smiles, placing a plate of rotis and curry on the table. "Sounds like a nice memory. But you know, even if things have changed, we’ve still got each other. That’s our version of simplicity."
Kabir sits down, picking up a roti. "You’re right. And honestly, I wouldn’t trade this for anything."
Nazifa sits across from him, her smile softening. "Good. Now eat before it gets cold." They share the meal in comfortable silence, the morning sunlight filling the room. Outside, the world continues to move forward, but inside their little home, time seems to stand still, if only for a little while.

©®Max Rab

Ever since then, something has been ringing incessantly, like the chimes of a clock. The sound is coming from outside, faint but persistent. It stirs a memory in Kabir, a memory from his childhood-- a memory of a ice cream seller. That kaku would come around with his cart, selling ice creams. He carried a small bell, and its rhythmic jingle would echo through the neighborhood. During the sweltering summer afternoons, as soon as the bell’s sound reached the ears of the children, they would rush out, clutching coins of two or five taka. Buying an ice cream for ten taka was a luxury, a bold move that required some negotiation with parents. Kabir’s father would often give in, but his mother never did. One day, when Kabir asked her for ten taka, she scolded him, "Don’t you dare eat those things! They make those ice creams with drain water." That comment left Kabir puzzled. He thought, "Our tap at home has so much water--it never runs out. Maybe ice cream kaku doesn’t have a water tank at his place." The next day, Kabir approached ice cream kaku and said, "Kaku, from now on, when you make ice cream, take water from our house. Don’t use drain water." Remembering this, a faint smile tugs at Kabir's lips. Those ice cream sellers are gone now. That era has passed. Back then, vendors would visit every home--the newspaperman at dawn, the milkman with his cans, and the vegetable seller with his cart. They were part of daily life, like clockwork. Now, no one comes. Kabir lies sprawled on the sofa, his legs stretched out. He gets up and walks to the kitchen. Nazifa is there, rolling out rotis with practiced ease. Last night, they had a fight. Since morning, not a word has passed between them. Food, Kabir thinks, is like relationships. Too much sweetness leads to problems -- diabetes, sugar spikes. A balanced meal needs variety-- spicy, sour, dry, veg, non-veg. Relationships, too, need balance. Some relationships are destined to have a mix of emotions. If there’s only sweetness, it becomes cloying, like diabetes. Arguments, fights, and sulking are inevitable. They strengthen the bond. Kabir understands this. So does Nazifa. That’s why, even when they’re angry, they’re not really angry. It’s become a part of their routine. This sulking, this *abhiman*, is uniquely Bengali. You won’t find this in any culture. Kabir stands behind Nazifa, his breath warm against her neck.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
"You can see for yourself," she replies, not looking up.
"Still angry? Do you like staying angry like this?"
Nazifa stays silent.

"Okay, I’m sorry," Kabir says, his voice sincere. He steps closer, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind. "I said it. You won’t say it, so I will. I’m sorry." Nazifa stiffens for a moment but doesn’t pull away.
"Why are you breathing so heavily? Do you have a cold or something?"

"No! I just feel like kissing you," he murmurs, his lips brushing against her neck.
"Every time I see your neck, I feel like it."
"Stop it," she says, but there’s no real anger in her voice now.
"Let me work. Don’t we have to eat? Since morning, I’ve been doing everything. You don’t even help a little." Kabir tightens his grip playfully, resting his chin on her shoulder.
"I’ll help, I promise. But first, say you forgive me." Nazifa sighs, finally turning her head slightly to look at him. "You’re impossible."
"But you love me anyway," he says with a grin.
"Maybe," she replies, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Now let me go. The rotis will burn."
"Only if you say it properly," Kabir insists, refusing to let go. "Fine, fine, I forgive you," Nazifa says, rolling her eyes but smiling now. "Happy?"
"Very," he says, finally releasing her but planting a quick kiss on her cheek before stepping back.

As Nazifa returns to her cooking, Kabir walks over to the window. The morning sunlight streams in, casting a golden glow over the kitchen. He looks out at the quiet street below, where the neighborhood is slowly waking up. A voice was coming from distance what was shouting something that was unclear.

Leave it to me the way you leave the annoyin hair on your face
~farabi raha

Nobody knows how much I suffered this year.
I almost gave up and almost lost myself because I was hurting a lot. Nobody really knows how many times I pulled myself together just to survive this year, I am so proud of myself for being here. I’ve learned that I am a strong person. I also learned to forgive myself for letting myself settle for less than what I truly deserved. This may be the most painful year for me! 💔

✈️ t.me/koi_go_tumi

Distance doesn't separate people, it's all about priorities and efforts.