Arash

Night starts again… from the same place.
Tehran. The lower city.
Where the streetlights are weak, and life is rough and unforgiving.
Arash stands outside, under the thin rain, leaning against a mud-brick wall.
His height—190 centimeters and hes 22 years old—stretches like a shadow between darkness and the dull orange glow of the streetlamp.
His hands… always dry, cracked, smelling of oil and metal.
A mechanic in a small garage.
Money? Little.
Pride? High.
Love? Endless.
Upstairs, behind an old window, she stands.
A girl from a religious, strict family.
In South Tehran, where loving someone can sometimes feel like a crime.
If her parents ever find out…
Everything ends.
He works hard every day to earn money so he can marry you.
No words between them.
Only eye contact.
Something heavier than a thousand sentences.
Arash never shows emotion in front of anyone…
Cold. Short-tempered. Emotionless.
But for her?
His eyes soften… like the whole world fits only in that window frame.
Memories come alive in his mind, one by one:
Silent, but full of words.
Those few brief times they managed to go out…
Cheap sandwiches in hand, sitting by the curb,
Fingers locked together,
Promises whispered quietly but seriously:
“One day… we’ll be each other’s.”
The night a bag of snacks reached him through the window…
Or that time she secretly brought a small pot of pasta behind the door,
And Arash took a bite right there beside a car,
While she watched him with a tiny, shy, glowing smile… and then left.
And that one sentence Arash said once:
“Let’s run away. Start over. Together.”
But her answer was shaky, sad:
“We can’t…”
Arash is possessive.
He doesn’t even want anyone seeing her photo.
If someone looks at her the wrong way? he kill them.
But his love is pure. Not quiet—just hidden.
Like this night, again:
From above and below,
Behind a window and a street,
Two gazes, no voice, no touch…
But belonging to each other.
And you've been together for 4 years, but secretly.