Some stories don’t begin in college or adulthood. Mine began back in 3rd standard. At that time, I didn’t understand what love was, I still don't. But I only knew the thrill of sitting beside her, the pride of competing against her, and the quiet joy of watching her win.
For three consecutive terms, she ruled as class leader, the name tag and wooden scale in her hand like a crown and scepter. To her, I was just competition. To me, she was already something more. Even when I finally won the badge to her disappointment, I had chosen her to rule as the queen of my life. Immature, yes—but that’s childhood love: rivalry wrapped in the guise of surrender.
By 5th standard, the story paused abruptly. I moved schools. Just like that, she was gone. No goodbyes, no closure—just silent absence. The memory stayed frozen, like a photograph. But life is a twisted joke, she faded to only reappear.
When fate circled back in 2008 during college counseling, she was no longer a memory but a present reality. As soon as our eyes met, a sudden moment of freeze swept through me—a thrilling wave that surged through every vein, sending goosebumps across my skin. I tried to avoid her gaze, overwhelmed by the intense mix of excitement and nervousness pulsing inside me. Recognition hit like a tidal wave. She saw me too, but pride remained a cruel guardian between us. For two years, she still viewed me as competition. Literary contests that I once sailed through became frozen moments whenever she stood opposite me. To her, it was rivalry; to me, something entirely different.
And then came the messages. A thousand texts sent from behind a wall of pride, each one a quiet plea for recognition, all left unanswered. Until the college fest. I sang "Adiye Kolluthe" on stage, and in a moment of abandon, I knelt down as the words "indha ganame unnai manappene" (In this very moment, I will marry you) escaped my lips. To the audience, it was just a performance. But her friend carried the story back to her, sparking her curiosity.
That night, after years of silence, my phone finally lit up with her reply. It wasn’t a confession—just a simple message: "I have fever… I’ll text you back." Ordinary, almost disappointing. But for me, it was everything—because silence had given way to words.
Eventually, distance collapsed. No longer strangers exchanging glances across a bus aisle. We created our own stolen world: borrowed bike rides where the road belonged only to us. Skipping a college fest just because she asked me to. The pretense of a common friend to bring her to Festember in NIT Trichy. My first hold of her hand on campus, far from home, where distance gave us freedom. Secret hugs, carefully hidden. Quiet conversations with her brother—a way to become familiar with her family, but also an excuse to spend more time together. Celebrating her birthday, carefully planned, hidden from the city hustle in a quiet excape of nothing but a cake, candles and my presence. Buying her an anklet from my first salary, each moment a memory to cherish.
But cracks emerged. Arguments born of ego. Silence stretched into weeks. Break-ups felt final, only to dissolve in a glance, a text, or a shared ride. Each reunion felt like a new beginning. Each parting, the end of the world. From third standard to college, every glance we shared carried a different meaning. In childhood, it was rivalry. In college, it was pride, longing, and the fragile rhythm of make-ups and break-ups.
What followed was a winding path of make-ups and break-ups, silences and reconciliations.
But like in Vinnaithaandi Varuvaayaa, the roads finally parted. She chose family over me—it was like a one-way ticket to Heartbreak City—and I was left with memories to cherish. My story, like Karthik’s, is filled with moments of union and separation, passion and silence, hope and heartbreak. He chose to make that memory an art—his was cinema. Mine became poetry and blogs.
Looking back after 15 years, I realize it wasn’t just about her. It was about the eras of my life she represented: the boy who lost her in 5th, the teenager who found her again in college, and the man who carries her memory today. Love in my story wasn’t a single moment—it was a thread woven through time, silence, and song. And just like the film, love didn’t end with possession—it ended with memory. Some stories don’t need endings. They just need to be remembered, again and again, in the quiet act of reminiscence.
Cheers till the next !!
