Confession of Love

(Fiction)

                                

I’ve always confessed:
I cannot hate anyone.
All I know is how to love—
Humans, animals, birds, trees, the sea, the sky, the desert...
I love everything,
because love is stitched into my very being.

Whenever I fall in love—
or get hurt—
My mother knows.
She knows because I am a part of her.
Today, when I visited her and touched her feet,
She gathered me in her arms,
kissed my forehead,
And I rested my head in her lap.
I always do this.
Whether in joy or sorrow,
my mother always embraces me this way.

While running her fingers gently through my hair, she said,
“Love never treats you well, then why do you keep loving?”

“I know, Amaan.
Those born of the soil of separation are never destined for union.
They may meet death, but not love.”

Hearing this, Amaan grew sad.
Her eyes welled up.

“Then why do you love? Why do you choose pain?”
She asked, wiping her tears with her scarf.

“Because, dearest Amaan,
you never taught me how to hate.
How could I?
I don’t even know what hate feels like.”



Amaan listened silently and said,
“You’re crazy.”

“Yes, Amaan.
Those who think deeply are always called mad.
Isn’t that what people say?”

She wiped her tears and smiled.
Then she brought food and fed me with her hands.

As I ate, I asked,
“Amaan, have I only brought you sorrow?
Have I never given you joy?”

She placed her hand on my lips and said,
“Hush. You are my beloved son. I know—
You cannot bring pain to anyone,
so how could you hurt me?”

I fell silent.
Even when parents grow old,
they remain a cool shade in harsh sunlight.
Their presence is a source of comfort—
In the worst of times,
they give peace and strength.

After dinner, I lay down on a cot.
Amaan sat by my side, praying for me as always.
Her prayers may not always be answered—
But she never stops offering them.

I must’ve fallen asleep.
It was a dream, perhaps—
a dream where you were there, Sindhu.
Though you are gone,
you came and sat quietly beside me.
You held my hand.
You were silent.
You searched for something in my vacant eyes.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“There’s nothing in my eyes but broken dreams.
You won’t find any ray of hope here.
Only your reflection,
which is whole.
Everything else—unfinished.”

You said nothing,
just pressed a finger gently to my lips to quiet me.
You were sad.
Silent.
Still holding my hand, still watching me.

I removed your hand and said,
“Sindhu, I’ve always loved you.
Even when you weren’t there—
I loved you.
I still do.
And always will.”

“Then why did you go away?” you asked.

“When was I ever far from you?
Emotionally, I’m with you—
and always will be.” I said.

“Then why did you tell me to stop messaging,
to stop talking?” you asked.

“Because I had nothing to give you.
You once said you’d leave someday.
I thought, if you must leave,
Better leave me with a small wound now
than a deep one later.”

Once again, you placed your hand on my lips and silenced me.

After a while, I spoke again:

“Sindhu, I had wished to live inside those vast lake-like, ocean-deep eyes of yours…
to entangle my fingers in your long, flowing hair…
and on your lips…”

But I couldn’t finish.

Your trembling lips, like a flame, met mine.
I jolted awake.

Startled, I sat up.
Amaan stirred beside me.

She kissed my forehead again,
and I buried my face once more in the comfort of her lap.

 

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