The Nights I Belonged to You
1180 Words
The bottle still rested on the table, catching the faint glow of the lamp. Rohini’s fingers lingered on its surface, tracing the old scratches like they were veins carrying someone else’s blood.
She whispered again— “Veer…” —and then opened the diary.
At the top of the next page was written:
“My First Nights at the Hostel.”
Her breath slowed. She began to read.
---
“Rohini,
When I left your house that morning, I carried your smile inside me. It was not luggage, not a gift, not an object—it was breath. That night, when I lay on the hostel bed, I could not close my eyes without seeing you. The others snored, laughed, dreamed of ships and seas. I dreamed of your face leaning from the window, the way you looked as I walked away. I dreamed of your hands—the way they gave me water, as though giving me life itself.
I wanted to cry, but I remembered what my mother once said: ‘Men don’t cry.’ So I wrote your name on the wall of my heart instead. Over and over, until sleep finally took pity on me.”
---
Rohini pressed her lips together. She could almost feel him, a lonely boy on a narrow hostel bed, whispering her name into the dark. Her throat ached with tears she refused to let fall yet.
She turned the page.
---
“Rohini,
*The hostel had a rule: one call every week. Just one. Imagine a boy waiting seven days, watching the clock crawl, only so he can hear your voice for a few minutes. That boy was me.
The first time I held the phone, my hands trembled more than they had on my exam day. When you answered—‘Hello?’—I nearly dropped it. My tongue forgot language. All I wanted to say was ‘I love you.’ All I managed was ‘How are you?’*
You laughed softly, and said, ‘I’m fine… how are you?’
I wanted to scream into the receiver: No, Rohini, I am not fine, I am burning for you. But instead, I said, ‘I’m good.’
We talked about nothing, about everything—your classes, my training, your sister’s jokes, your brother’s cricket match. To anyone else, these words would have sounded ordinary. To me, they were holy. Every syllable from your lips was like water on a thirsty man’s tongue.
When the warden tapped my shoulder—‘Time is up’—my heart broke like a clock running out of hours. I whispered, ‘Take care,’ and you said, ‘You too.’ It was not a proposal. It was not a confession. But it was enough to keep me alive until the next week.”
---
Rohini pressed her palm to her lips, holding back a sob. She remembered those calls. Her heart had beaten just as fast, her voice had softened just the same. She had waited for his calls more than anything else that week.
She closed her eyes, and for a moment, she could hear his young voice again. Nervous. Respectful. Overflowing with unsaid love.
---
“Rohini,
*I wrote every detail of our calls in this diary. Every word you said, every laugh, every pause. You never knew what it did to me—the way your voice could make me forget the rough walls of this hostel.
Sometimes, at night, the other boys teased about girlfriends, about kisses, about touching skin. I stayed silent. Because my love for you was not just about skin. It was about soul. Yes, I imagined holding your hand, brushing your hair from your cheek, kissing your forehead. But above all, I imagined building a life where you would never feel unloved, never feel small, never feel unsafe.
I promised myself one thing that first week away: If life gives me only one chance, I will use it to make Rohini feel respected, always.”
---
Rohini’s tears fell freely now. She pressed the page to her chest. Respect. How long had it been since she had felt that word in her marriage?
The sound of the lock snapped her back.
Raj entered.
His tie was loose, his shirt half-open, the faint smell of alcohol on his breath. His eyes were bloodshot, but not from work.
“You cooked?” he asked flatly.
“Yes,” she whispered, pointing to the pots on the stove.
“Later,” he muttered, sitting on the sofa. “Water.”
Her heart stuttered. She fetched a glass, set it before him. His fingers brushed hers, not with tenderness but with carelessness. The clink of glass against table was louder than his thankless silence.
She watched him switch on the TV. A sitcom laugh track filled the room, empty and cruel.
---
Later that night, the cruelty came again.
Raj pulled her into bed, his grip harsh, his eyes empty of love.
“Raj, please… slowly,” she begged.
But he wasn’t listening. He never did. His hands clamped her wrists. His weight crushed her chest. His touch claimed, never cared. Her tears slid across her face, but to him they were invisible.
When it ended, he turned away, already asleep. To him, it was nothing. To her, it was another wound layered over a hundred older ones.
---
Rohini curled into herself, naked and trembling, but then she reached under the pillow and pulled out the diary. She pressed it against her breasts, against the ache in her heart.
She whispered into the night:
“Veer… you would have never hurt me. You would have loved me like a prayer.”
---
The morning came, pale and cruel. Raj left without a word, his phone already in his hand as he shut the door.
The apartment fell quiet again.
Rohini moved to the table. The blue bottle waited like an old friend. She took a sip of water and opened the diary again.
---
“Rohini,
*Another week passed. Another call. Another handful of minutes that became my whole world.
You asked me once—‘Do you get homesick?’ I wanted to answer: ‘Yes. Because my home is you.’ But instead I said, ‘A little.’
You laughed. That laugh still echoes in me. It has become my pillow, my blanket, my song.
I do not know how to tell you this, Rohini. I was too young, too afraid. But I will say it now on these pages: You were my first prayer. And even now, you are my last.”*
---
Rohini closed her eyes. Her tears soaked the pages. But this time, there was also a smile trembling on her lips.
Because in every word, in every line, she could feel it—Veer’s endless love, his bottomless respect, his vow that had survived years and oceans.
And in that moment, she knew:
This diary was not just a record of his love.
It was proof of everything she had lost.
Everything she still longed for.
- Writer
