Old Mango Tree short love story
Genre: Love | Drama | Sarcasm | Heartwarming
Some promises are made with ink.
Others… with mango stains and innocent hearts.
It had been twenty years.
And yet, the old mango tree still stood there—half-bent, scarred from too many childhood swings, but somehow… still holding on.
Just like Ayaan, who now stood in front of it, hands deep in his pockets, pretending the tightness in his chest was from the humidity.
“Uff… kitna badal gaya yeh sab,” he muttered under his breath, glancing around the now-abandoned school courtyard.
Cracked walls. Faded paint. A rusted seesaw creaking in the wind. The kind of place that smelled of dust, chalk, and old memories.
Only the tree looked familiar.
Like an old friend who still remembered your nickname.
Back then, Ayaan and Riya had been inseparable.
The class mischief-makers. Mango thieves. Late-comers. Chalk-throwers.
And on the last day of Class 10, when the final bell rang and everyone threw papers into the air like a Bollywood climax, they had sneaked out back—behind the school, beneath the mango tree.
They wrote letters to each other. Folded them. Put them in a small tin box.
Then they buried it together under the tree’s roots.
Riya, grinning like a cartoon villain, had said,
“We’ll read them together after 20 years. Pinky promise.”
And she’d extended her pinky finger dramatically, dust-covered and full of sugar.
Ayaan had laughed, his voice cracking like his awkward teen confidence.
“Done, yaara. But if you forget, I’ll send a pigeon with your letter. And if the pigeon dies—don’t blame me.”
And now?
Ayaan was back.
Older. Beard thicker. Confidence is better groomed. But heart? Still a little… teenage.
He knelt beside the tree, brushing leaves away, unsure if he was being stupid or just stubborn. His fingers dug into the soft earth.
“She probably forgot,” he murmured. “Or got married. Or turned into one of those yoga moms…”
And then—thud.
Metal.
He paused. Heart loud. Fingers still.
He pulled out the tin box. Rusted. Familiar.
Just as he was about to open it—
“Careful. If there’s a spider in there, I’m not saving your sorry a—”
Ayaan froze.
Turned.
And there she was.
Riya.
Hair shorter. Eyes wiser. Smile? Still that same sarcastic curve.
She stood there, arms folded, face unimpressed, like she’d just walked out of a stand-up show and wasn’t convinced by the punchline.
“Tu… tu aayi?” Ayaan asked, almost breathless.
She shrugged, brushing mud off her kurta like she did this every Sunday.
“Of course. I made the promise, na? Plus, I needed a break from adulting. My boss is basically a lizard in a tie.”
Ayaan burst out laughing. That laugh—loud, shameless, unfiltered.
“God, I missed this mouth of yours. Sharp like belan.”
Riya smirked.
“Flirting won’t save you when I read what cringe things you wrote in that letter.”
They sat under the tree, legs crossed, knees almost touching. Just like the old days—except with more back pain.
The tin box creaked open.
Two letters. Yellowed. Folded. Still intact.
No fancy paper. Just teenage hearts on lined sheets.
They read in silence.
Riya’s Letter:
“Dear future Ayaan, if you’re bald now, I hope you have a cool beard. Also, please don’t marry a boring girl. I’ll haunt you.”
Ayaan snorted.
His Letter:
“Riya, if we ever read this together… and I’m still single… I’ll take it as a sign. And if you’re single too… maybe, you know, coffee?”
He looked up.
She was already staring at him. Arms folded. Lips twitching into that old smirk.
“You still like filter coffee?” she asked, voice too casual to be casual.
Ayaan grinned.
“Only if it’s with extra sugar and your endless commentary.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Bhai sahab… tum toh still full filmy ho.”
He leaned back, hands behind his head.
“And you still love it.”
The sun dipped behind the school wall, casting long shadows across the playground. The breeze rustled the mango leaves above them, like it remembered their promise too.
No violins. No slow motion.
Just two faded letters.
One old tree.
And a love that remembered where it had been buried.
Because some love stories aren’t written in books.
They’re hidden under mango trees, waiting… patiently… for you to come back.