His Beloved

His Beloved Teacher Full Fill His Thisrt 

 

Rafiq had always looked up to Mr. Sharma. As a senior in high school, Rafiq admired him not just because he made literature come alive, but because of his calm strength and quiet kindness. Mr. Sharma taught with passion, quoting poetry like it was part of his heartbeat. And though Rafiq never dared say it out loud, he knew deep down that it wasn’t just admiration he felt.

He was smart enough to keep it to himself. Mr. Sharma was his teacher, and Rafiq knew that some lines were not meant to be crossed — not in that time, not in that place.

Five years passed.

Rafiq, now 23, had returned to his hometown after earning his literature degree. He was back at the same school, this time as a part-time instructor while preparing for his PhD. On his first day in the staff room, he saw him again — Mr. Sharma, older now, a little grayer, but still carrying the same thoughtful warmth in his eyes.

Their eyes met. Mr. Sharma smiled.
“I see the student has become the colleague.”
Rafiq grinned. “Only trying to live up to your legacy, sir.”
“Drop the ‘sir,’ Rafiq. We’re on the same side of the desk now.”

Their interactions at first were cautious but filled with mutual respect. They shared coffee during breaks and talked about literature, politics, and poetry. Slowly, something began to shift — no longer a bond of teacher and student, but of equals finding comfort in one another’s presence.

One rainy afternoon, after a seminar, they found themselves alone in the school library. The windows were fogged with mist, the scent of old books lingering in the air. Rafiq turned to him.

“Did you ever know?” he asked softly. “Back then?”

Mr. Sharma looked at him — a quiet, thoughtful pause. “I suspected. But I would never have let anything happen. You were my student.”

“I know,” Rafiq said. “I respected that. I still do.”

A silence hung between them — then Mr. Sharma reached out, gently, and touched his hand.

“And now?” he asked.

“Now I’m not your student.”

Mr. Sharma smiled, a softness in his expression that Rafiq had never seen before. “No, you’re not.”

What began as quiet moments over coffee soon turned into long walks through bookstores and unhurried dinners where their hands lingered a little too long across the table. Their love didn't explode like fire — it unfolded like paper, slowly, carefully, beautifully.

They built something real — not from longing or fantasy, but from timing, honesty, and deep mutual care. Not everyone around them understood, but neither of them needed the world’s permission to be happy. They had each other. That was enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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