Pranav_Kumar_Sappa

Surya is just a regular middle-class guy with small dreams and a soft heart. In school, he falls for Chandu a rowdy, bold girl who saves him once and steals his heart forever. But just when he gathers the courage to confess, she disappears. Later, he learns she died. His world falls apart. Years pass. In college, just when he begins to heal, he meets a girl who reminds him exactly of Chandu the way she walks, talks, even the attitude. For a moment, he thinks fate has given him a second chance. He falls again. But things don’t go as planned. That girl isn’t Chandu. And she’s hiding fears of her own. Caught between the memories of his past and the mess of his present, Surya decides to stop chasing love — and chase meaning instead. He takes the pain, the people, and the pieces of his life… and turns them into stories. Stories that one day make him the director he always dreamed of becoming.
This is a journey of first love, loss, and rediscovery — where not every goodbye is final, and not every love ends in heartbreak.

I Loved. I Lost. I Directed.

I wasn't crying. I wasn't smiling either. I wasn't even thinking properly.

I was just… existing. Confused. Numb.

My mom yelled at me from the kitchen, "What are you doing?! Look at yourself!"

Only then I realized I was walking around the house in just my underwear.

I rushed into my room and pulled on a shirt and track pants like someone got caught in a crime scene. My brain? Completely out of service.

At dinner, I sat down with my phone in one hand and rice in the other. I didn't even mix curry into it. Just started eating plain rice like a robot.

My mom gave me a proper slap on the head, snatched the phone, and said, "Eat first. Then phone."

I finished my dinner in two minutes. Snatched the phone back like it was my lifeline. But I still didn't message her.

I lay down on my bed, staring at the screen, mind going a hundred directions. My brain kept replaying her expression again and again. That small, quiet face. No smile. No reaction. Just silence.

Then it hit me—what did that small tap on my head even mean?

So, like any confused idiot, I Googled it:

"What does it mean when a girl hits you gently on the head?"

Google had no answers. Only stupid blogs.

So I went into "movie analysis mode." Started recalling every film I'd ever watched.

Maybe it's like how elders tap kids on the head when they do something bad or something cute. Wait… does she think I'm a kid? No way. That's horrible. I can't be the "little brother" type.

Maybe… she didn't react because she felt the same? Maybe that hit wasn't anger… maybe it was her way of saying she's confused too? Or shy?

My eyes lit up. My heart started beating faster. Was this… a silent yes?

I sat up. My brain started planning imaginary weddings already.

But then another thought hit me like a slap.

Why didn't I look at her when I said it? Why did I close my eyes like some nervous cartoon?

"Idiot. Stupid coward," I mumbled.

I wanted to message her. Just one text.

But what if her parents saw it? What if it created a problem for her?

I dropped the phone. Turned to the wall. Pulled my blanket over.

That night felt longer than my entire life.

So many questions. So few answers.

And not even a single message to make it better.

The Night That Wouldn’t End