Be Yourself or Be Mine

 

The screen glowed softly in the dimly lit room as Ayan leaned back in his chair, staring at the nearly completed collage. Her laughter, her smirks, her thoughtful gazes—every photo he had painstakingly chosen over the past week radiated her essence.

At the bottom of the collage, he had added a caption:

"Be yourself, be mine."

He smiled, imagining how she might react. Ira was like a wildfire—free, unpredictable, and impossible to tame. And Ayan? He was the quiet one, content to sit back and admire the flames. But somewhere deep down, he had always hoped she’d slow down, just a little, and notice the steady warmth he offered.

As he hovered over the send button, her text lit up his phone.

"Hey! Just got back from dinner with the gang. DJ night after college was insane! I’ll call you later, okay? Need to crash. Night!"

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, a simple "Goodnight" ready to send. But he paused.

DJ night? She hadn’t mentioned any plans earlier. They had talked in the morning—well, mostly he had listened as she shared her excitement about a new book she wanted to read. Yet, here she was, out with friends, living in the moment.

He put the phone down and turned back to the screen. The collage stared back at him, her smiling face seeming to mock his quiet longing.

“Be yourself, be mine,” he muttered, his voice hollow.

Memories began to surface, unbidden. The time she had canceled their movie night because her friends had planned a road trip. The way she would zone out when he talked about his art, only to light up when the conversation shifted to the latest party or adventure. The countless evenings he had spent waiting for her to call, only to get a half-hearted apology the next morning.

He sighed, his hands moving almost on their own. The cursor blinked beneath the caption. Slowly, he added a single word:

"Be yourself or be mine."

He stared at the screen, the weight of the words sinking in. It wasn’t an ultimatum, not really. He didn’t want her to change—he loved her fiery spirit, her zest for life. But he couldn’t keep pretending he was okay being the afterthought in her whirlwind.

For the first time, he wondered if their worlds were simply too different.

Taking a deep breath, he saved the collage and closed his laptop. He wouldn’t send it, not yet. Maybe not ever.

He picked up his phone and typed back a simple message:

"Goodnight, Ira. Sweet dreams."

Then, he set the phone down and reached for his sketchbook. Tonight, he would create something for himself.