Bandi_scripts

Two distant souls. One casual wave. A thousand almosts.

In a world where glances linger longer than words, and silence speaks louder than promises, two people begin to drift closer—never quite colliding, never quite letting go. What starts as a gesture becomes a rhythm, and what was never supposed to mean anything slowly begins to mean everything.
This is a story of slow-burning closeness, unspoken feelings, fractured friendships, and the dangerous beauty of being seen too deeply.
Some love stories are loud.
This one hums in the spaces between.

Almost Touching

She said something that night, soft, offhanded, but it lingered.

"Sometimes I think about us… years from now."

And just like that, I couldn't breathe.

Not because I didn't want it, but because I did — too much, maybe. Because in the quiet corners of my mind, I'd already imagined it. I'd been acquainted with other girls before her but they never went far, always didn't feel right, but then her? beside me?, Not just on late-night calls or in dreamy conversations, but in the mornings that didn't begin with a ringtone. In a life where the distance was finally gone, and the future was us, not just something we tiptoed around.

But loving someone from a distance comes with this strange sensation, like holding your breath too long, hoping the air you've saved will last until the moment you can finally exhale in their arms. That's what she became for me: the breath I'd been holding. And every plan we whispered, every "someday" we tucked between playful jokes and slow confessions, made that breath tighter.

I was forced to question it, I couldn't imagine saying all this and then just going back to strangers someday "Do you think we'll still talk like this then?"

"Even worse," she laughed, "you'll beg me to shut up."

Not because it was funny, but because it sounded like home.

We couldn't see it coming. But we built anyway. A little house. A favorite meal. A playlist for a road trip we hadn't taken yet. The little pieces of a forever that didn't seem so impossible when it came from her voice, Fragile but filled with important dreams.

And yet, behind all of it — beneath the joy — I could feel her breath hitch too. Like loving this much scared her. Like planning meant risking the ache of it not coming true.

Because what we had wasn't just a present moment stitched together by phone calls and text bubbles. It was something breathless. Future-bound. Heavy with hope, yet light enough to carry us through each day.

I knew there were still things she hadn't said. Fears she hadn't voiced. And I wasn't going to pull them out, not yet. I just wanted her to know:

Breathless Futures