My name is Rajiv and I am 61 years old. My first wife passed away eight years ago after a long illness. Since then, I have lived alone and in silence. My children are already married and settled. Once a month, they come to leave me money and medicine, and then they leave quickly.

I don’t blame them. They have their own lives, and I understand that. But on rainy nights, lying listening to the drops hit the tin roof, I feel unbearably small and alone.

Last year, I was browsing Facebook when I bumped into Meena, my first high school love. I adored her at the time. He had long, flowing hair, deep black eyes, and a smile so radiant that it lit up the entire class. But just as I was preparing for college entrance exams, her family arranged her marriage to a South Indian man ten years her senior.

After that, we lost contact. Forty years later, we meet again. She was already a widow; Her husband had died five years earlier. She lived with her youngest son, but he worked in another city and rarely visited her.

At first, we just greeted each other. Then we started calling each other. Then came the coffee meetups. And without realizing it, I found myself riding my motorcycle to his house every few days, with a basket of fruit, some candy, and some supplements for joint pain.

One day, half jokingly, I said:

“What if…” Were we getting married, two old souls? Wouldn’t that alleviate loneliness?

To my surprise, his eyes turned red. I awkwardly tried to explain to her that it was a joke, but she smiled softly and nodded.

And so, at 61, I remarried… with my first love.

On our wedding day, I was wearing a dark maroon Sherwani. She wore a simple cream-colored silk sari. Her hair was carefully tied up, adorned with a small pearl brooch. Friends and neighbors came to celebrate. They all said, “They look in love again.”

And honestly, I felt young. That night, after picking up the feast, it was almost 10 o’clock at night. I made him a glass of hot milk and prepared to close the front door and turn off the porch lights.

Our wedding night, something I never imagined would happen again in my old age, had finally arrived.

As I gently removed her blouse, I froze.

His back, shoulders, and arms were covered in deep discolorations: old scars crisscrossed like a tragic map. I stood still, my heart aching.

He hurriedly covered himself with a blanket, his eyes wide with fear. Trembling, I asked:

– “Meena… what happened to you?”

She turned around and her voice broke:

– “Back then… He had a terrible character. Screamed… he beat me… I never told anyone…”

I sat heavily beside him, tears welling in my eyes. My heart ached for her. For all those decades, I had lived in silence, in fear and shame, not telling anyone. I took his hand and gently placed it over my heart.

“That’s enough. From today on, no one will hurt you again. No one has the right to make you suffer more… except me, but only for loving you too much.

She burst into tears, silent, trembling sobs echoing through the room. I hugged her. Her back was fragile, her bones protruding slightly: this little woman, who had endured a lifetime of silence and suffering.

Our wedding night was not like that of young couples. We just lay side by side, listening to the chirping of crickets in the courtyard and the wind rustling through the trees. I stroked her hair and kissed her on the forehead. She touched my cheek and whispered:

– “Thank you. Thank you for showing me that someone in this world still cares about me.”

Smiled. At 61, I finally understood: happiness is not money or the unbridled passions of youth. It’s having a hand to hold you, a shoulder to lean on, and someone to sit by your side all night, just to feel your heart.

Tomorrow will arrive. Who knows how many days I have left? But one thing I am sure of: for the rest of his life, I will make up for what he lost. I will take care of her. I will protect her, so that she will never have to fear anything again.

Because for me, this wedding night – after half a century of longing, of missed opportunities, of waiting – is the greatest gift that life has given me.

Since that wedding night, my little house seemed to glow with a warmth that hadn’t been there in years. I could no longer hear the sound of the wind blowing through the tin roof, freezing my heart, or the long sleepless nights with the old radio playing the news. Instead, Meena’s light footsteps could be heard in the kitchen each morning, the clinking of the kettle and her call in a voice as warm as the early winter sun:

– “Rajiv, wake up and have some tea.”

We lived very simply. In the afternoons, I continued to tutor the children of the neighborhood in mathematics to earn some money. Meena grew flowers on the balcony, cleaned the house, and occasionally went to the kitchen to make sweets from the traditional recipes she learned from her mother. On rainy days, I would take her to the post office and then stop by the usual coffee shop. We would sit for hours without saying anything, just looking at the street and holding hands under the table.

Meena gradually put aside her reserve and fear. He smiled more. He started reading the newspaper aloud, started suggesting that I dress more neatly, and one day even teased me:

“Mr. Rajiv, you were a good student before, but why are you so picky when choosing a wife?”

I laughed, feigning anger, and then pulled her back into my arms. Life is old, but not old. The scars on his back are still there, but now they are not traces of pain, but evidence of strength. Every time she changes her clothes, I give her a soft kiss on those scars, like a silent promise: I love everything about her, even her most painful past.

One day, she sat thoughtfully, looked at me and said:

– “If I hadn’t been married that day… we’d probably have three or four kids by now, wouldn’t we?”

I didn’t answer. I just took his hand in silence.

Time passed, I was 64 and Meena was 67. We were getting older every day. She was still healthy, but one day, when the weather changed, she was tired, with a headache and cold hands and feet. I took care of her with all my might: I made her soup, applied hot compresses and stayed up all night to watch her sleep.

One morning in early spring, I woke up earlier than usual and went to the kitchen to make tea. When I returned to the room, I saw her still lying there. I approached. I called her, but I didn’t get an answer.

He was gone, gently, painlessly. Her hand was still clinging to the edge of the blanket, her face serene, as if she were fast asleep.

I didn’t cry right away. I just sat down, took his hand and put it on my chest like that first night. The room was silent. No sound. No tears. Just a deep emptiness that flooded my veins.

His funeral was simple and welcoming. Many friends from the neighborhood attended. They all bowed their heads in silence and said, “He passed away happily. She will always be the most beloved woman.”

I returned to that house, alone.

The flowers he planted on the balcony are still blooming, the aroma of morning tea still wafting in the wind. Every morning I make two cups of tea. One I place in front of his picture frame, the other I drink. I keep chatting with her, I keep telling her stories about the city, about her mischievous students.

People ask me if I feel lonely.

Smiled. No.

Because true love is not about how many years we live together. It’s about how we appreciate ourselves every day: in our gaze, in our handshakes, in our seemingly insignificant whispers.

I’m not alone

I’m living the rest of my life to love her, as she deserves to be loved… even if it’s just me. And I think that, somewhere, she’s still sitting by the window, smiling at me with the same sweetness as before: the look of my first love, who has returned and will never leave again.