My name is  Rajiv , and I’m 61 years old. My first wife passed away eight years ago after a long illness. Since then, I’ve lived alone and quietly. My children are now married and settled. Once a month, they come to drop off money and medicine, and then they quickly leave.

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

Last year, I was browsing Facebook when I stumbled upon   Meena   , my first high school crush. I adored her back then. She had long, flowing hair, deep-set black eyes, and a smile so radiant it lit up the entire classroom. But just as I was preparing for my college entrance exams, her family arranged for her to marry a man from South India, ten years her senior.

After that, we lost touch. Forty years later, we met 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 said hello. Then we started calling each other. Then came the coffee dates. And before I knew it, I was riding my motorcycle to his house every few days, with a basket of fruit, some sweets, and some supplements for his joint pain.

One day, half jokingly, I said:

—What if… we got married, two old souls? Wouldn’t that ease the loneliness?

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

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

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

And honestly, I felt young. That night, after clearing away the feast, it was almost 10 p.m. I made her a glass of warm milk and got ready to lock 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 discoloration: old scars crisscrossed like a tragic map. I stood still, my heart aching.

She hurriedly covered herself with a blanket, her 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 temper. He screamed… he hit me… I never told anyone…”

I sat heavily beside her, tears welling in my eyes. My heart ached for her. For all those decades, she had lived in silence, in fear and shame, telling no one. I took her hand and placed it gently over my heart.

—That’s enough. From now on, no one will hurt you again. No one has the right to make you suffer anymore… except me, but only because I love you too much.

She burst into tears, quiet, shaky sobs that echoed around the room. I hugged her. Her back was fragile, her bones protruding slightly: this tiny woman, who had endured a lifetime of silence and suffering.

Our wedding night wasn’t like that of young couples. We just lay side by side, listening to the crickets chirping in the yard and the wind whispering through the trees. I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. She touched my cheek and whispered:

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

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

Tomorrow will come. Who knows how many days I have left? But I’m sure of one thing: for the rest of her life, I’ll make up for what she lost. I’ll take care of her. I’ll protect her, so she’ll 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 life has ever given me.

Since that wedding night, my little house seemed to glow with a warmth that hadn’t been there in years. Gone was the sound of the wind blowing through the tin roof, chilling my heart, nor the long sleepless nights with the old radio blaring the news. Instead, there were Meena’s light footsteps in the kitchen each morning, the tinkling 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 neighborhood children in math to earn some money. Meena grew flowers on the balcony, cleaned the house, and occasionally went into the kitchen to make sweets using the traditional recipes she learned from her mother. On rainy days, I took her to the post office and then stopped by our usual café. We would sit for hours without saying anything, just staring at the street and holding hands under the table.

Meena gradually put aside her reserve and fear. She smiled more. She began reading the newspaper aloud, suggested I dress more neatly, and one day she 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 ancient. The scars on her back are still there, but now they aren’t traces of pain, but evidence of strength. Every time she changes clothes, I place a soft kiss on those scars, like a silent promise: I love everything about her, even her most painful past.

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

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

I didn’t respond. I just held her hand in silence.

Time passed; I was 64 and Meena was 67. We grew older every day. She remained healthy, but one day, when the weather changed, she was tired, had a headache, and her hands and feet were cold. I cared for her with all my might: I made her soup, applied warm compresses, and stayed up all night to watch her sleep.

One morning in early spring, I got up earlier than usual and went to the kitchen to make some tea. When I returned to the bedroom, I saw her still lying there. I approached her. I called out to her, but got no answer.

She had gone, gently, painlessly. Her hand was still clutching 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 her hand, and placed it on my chest like that first night. The room was silent. No sound. No tears. Just a deep emptiness that flooded my veins.

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

I returned to that house, alone.

The flowers she planted on the balcony are still blooming, and the scent of morning tea still floats in the wind. Every morning, I make two cups of tea. I place one in front of her picture frame, and I drink the other. I continue chatting with her, telling her stories about the city and her mischievous students.

People ask me if I feel lonely.

I smiled. No.

Because true love isn’t about how many years we’ve lived together. It’s about how we appreciate each other 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, somewhere, she’s still sitting by the window, smiling at me with the same sweetness as before: the look of my first love, back and never to leave.