In the middle of mustard fields,
where yellow flowers stretch farther than the eye can hold,
she stands—
a lonely girl,
as if she has always belonged to this quiet.
The wind brushes past her,
lingers a little,
moves on.
The flowers lean,
almost like they know her story,
almost like they’ve heard it before—
this strange mix of nature and solitude
that clings to her skin.
People have looked her way.
They always do.
But she has learned not to follow those glances.
She stands the way some trees do—
not stubborn, not proud,
just certain.
Time passes around her.
Afternoons fade into evenings,
and still
Not loudly.
Not desperately.
Just… waiting.
There is something in her eyes—
a faraway thought,
like she’s listening to a voice no one else can hear.
Something about hope and patience,
about waiting for love
without asking when it will arrive.
Like Shakuntala,
she carries both forgetting and remembering
in the same breath.
Birds come,
peck at the stillness,
flutter away.
They don’t stay long enough
to understand.
Somewhere in all this quiet,
unrequited love has made a home too—
not sharp, not loud,
just there…
like an old ache you stop naming.
And so she remains—
not searching anymore,
not running either.
Just standing
in the middle of it all,
as if the world will find her
when it finally learns how.
