There was a time when I loved a woman so deeply that I thought destiny itself had written our story. She wasn’t just someone I admired; she was the kind of person whose presence quietly changed your world. Her laughter had a rhythm, her dreams carried fire, and her soul… it was the kind you don’t meet twice.
But she loved someone else.
I never resented that. I never tried to win her over, never stepped beyond the boundary of her happiness. I wanted her to be happy, even if it wasn’t with me. That’s what real love does. It gives, even when it doesn’t receive.
But life, cruel in its own ways, brought her pain. The man she trusted, the one she chose, broke her heart. Betrayal is a quiet kind of death, and I saw her slowly disappear into her own shadows.
By then, I was married. Not out of compromise, but out of genuine love. My wife is everything a man could ask for—understanding, strong, and kind. She knows about my past, about her. And yet, she never once questioned my loyalty. Because she knows I love her fully, with everything I have. My heart never left my marriage—not for a moment. But that other part of me, the one that once loved truly and selflessly, still remembers.
When she—the first girl—was struggling to rebuild her life, I stood by her again. Not as a lover, not as a hopeful man, but as a friend who cared. I helped her heal, supported her family’s wish to see her settled again, even helped her find a good man who saw her worth. I guided her when she needed a hand with her career, gave her the confidence to rise again.
And no—never once did I ask for anything in return. I did it not because I expected love back. I did it because I had loved her. Deeply. And real love never demands.
Sometimes, when we talk—rare as it is—she asks me,
“Why did you love me so much? What did you gain out of it?”
And my answer is always the same:
“Even today, I love you. Not at the cost of anyone else. Not against my wife. Not in conflict. But in spirit. Quietly.”
She doesn’t understand it fully. Maybe she never will. But that’s okay. Not all truths need to be understood—some are just meant to be felt.
Our conversations now aren’t frequent, but when they happen, they’re honest, warm, and full of respect. We don’t talk like exes. We talk like two people who once touched the essence of something pure—and chose not to ruin it by expectation or ego.
Others may cut off from their past, afraid of stirring memories. I didn’t. Because my past never became a burden. It became a quiet prayer I carry—one of love, kindness, and strength.
This love—this act of kindness—I never used it as a tool. Never as leverage. Never as a secret. I gave it freely, and it freed me.
Because sometimes, loving someone isn’t about having them.
Sometimes, it’s about standing beside them when the world falls apart, and walking away once they’re strong enough to stand on their own again.
And when I look back, I gain peace in knowing—
I loved.
I helped.
I never harmed.
And maybe that’s what real love is:
A kind act that asks for nothing
And leaves behind everything good.
Unmukt 