This is not a love story. It’s a story about love.
Love lost, love gained. Love felt, love expressed.
Sometimes the way we had expected it to be. Sometimes the other way around.
But love is love. For all the tears and all the pain, for all the smiles and all the joy, one word is enough to express it all.
She had experienced love in all phases yet never understood the beauty of being loved. It was sad that her love was insufficient every time. There was always something missing in her love. Perhaps she loved too much and the other person loved too little. Perhaps she was at the giving end all the time and never at the receiving end. Perhaps her love was too thick for them.
And then on one fine day she met a guy, just an acquaintance, who made her feel what being loved feels like. He made her feel how it feels to be on the receiving end. She was enchanted. Maybe because she never felt this happy ever before. Or perhaps because this feeling was new to her. She realized love was much more than waiting for a train to arrive. It was more about waiting on the right platform. One can’t expect to receive love from someone who is alien to the meaning of love. It is not just about holding hands and embracing each other, it’s much more than that. It is about caring, it is about the soul connect. It is about the sweet little gestures and small tokens of love. It is not about publicizing love, neither is it about commercializing love. Instead, love is more like love when the people who are in love are unaware about it. Because then it is in its purest state.
They were opposites of each other in all sense, yet there was something between them that united them. It was their craving for freedom, their sense of individuality. They didn’t want to turn into each others replica. They loved being who they were. Being yourself doesn’t mean that you have to be perfect. It rather means to be comfortable with your imperfections. And that they were, definitely in most true sense. The ability to accept our imperfections and to accept that the other person is imperfect too is a rare virtue, but they were blessed with it. Such was their world, fierce, strong, independent, and such was their love, unknown yet real.
The most beautiful part amongst it was that they needed each other unaware of the need at all.
Pressed between the pages of the spiral will lie their love, guided by the cupids.
And perchance on some other night, kissed by the winter breeze, their story will again be engraved on the walls of love by some quixotic dreamer.