Some stories don’t fade. They ferment. They deepen. They become architecture. This is mine.
She was warmth in a world that rewarded calculation. She was kindness when I chose posture. She was family before I understood what that meant. And I missed her—not just in the moment, but in the design of my life.
I chose silence for family. I chose absence when I should’ve chosen her. And now, in the quiet hours of my night, I realise she was the life I could’ve built. She was the clarity I ignored. She was the love I feared to name.
I remember our first kiss—inside a cinema, Kavan lingering on screen with my beloved VJS, but the real story unfolding between us. We left midway, not because the film failed us, but because her hostel gates would close. That urgency, that tenderness, that unfinished night—it lives in me still. And it always will.
I remember the day she took leave from work, turned up at my place unannounced, and cooked sambar rice and potato fry. She asked me to come home for lunch after the first half. I did. And when I entered, she played Vaseegara. Not just a song—but a declaration. She didn’t need words. She had music. She had presence. She had love.
Later, I learnt she had spoken to my mother. She had declared her love with grace, offered a future with quiet dignity. But I wasn’t there. I didn’t know. And my mother, caught in her own limitations, couldn’t understand what was being offered. That moment passed. And with it, the life we might have built.
Then came her wedding. I didn’t attend. But I felt it. Like a 96-style ache—quiet, precise, devastating. She stepped into a new life, and I was left holding the fragments of ours. Not because she failed me. But because I failed to arrive in time.
And still, five years later, she called. She told me not to be devastated. She said life would find its way. She gave me hope—not to rekindle, but to release me from my guilt. That call was her final kindness. And I carry it with me, always.
I’m glad she has a beautiful family. I’m not writing to reclaim her. I’m writing to witness her. To say that I loved her. And I still do—in the way that honours her peace, not disrupts it.
This is not a plea.
It’s a timestamp.
A monument.
To the love that could’ve been.
To the man I almost became.
To the ache I will carry—not as burden, but as truth—all the way to my grave.
Like Indhu waiting for Mukund, love stood at my doorstep—gentle, patient, and clear. But this Mukund was blind. Not cruel. Just late. And now, I write not to rewrite the ending, but to honour the woman who once waited, and the silence that became my legacy.
My legacy is a vacuum without her.
I hope you fill all your vacuums before they become permanent. Don’t let that hand go when it’s asking to be yours.
Love exists. Love persists. Love extends. Love lives.
Let all the love cheer forever in the hearts of those who own it.
Cheers.
