My name is Rajiv, and I’m 61 years old.
Eight years ago, I buried my first wife after a long, painful illness.
Since then, my house has been silent.
My sons visit once a month — they bring medicine, leave some money on the table, and rush off. I don’t blame them. They have their own families, their own lives.
But on rainy nights, when the drops echo against my tin roof, I lie awake feeling like the loneliest man in the world.
The Message That Changed Everything
Last year, scrolling through Facebook, I saw a familiar name — Meena Sharma.
My first love from high school.
Back then, she was everything: long black hair, bright eyes, a smile so warm it could erase the whole world’s cruelty. I loved her deeply.
But before I could even tell her how I felt, her family arranged her marriage — to an older man from southern India.
Ten years older.
She moved away.
And that was it.
We lost touch for forty years.
Until that day.
I clicked her name. Her profile picture showed a kind but tired face — still the same Meena, only older.
Her bio said one word that made my heart ache: Widow.
The Reunion
We started chatting. Just small talk at first.
Then came phone calls.
Then coffee meetups.
Soon I was visiting her every few days, bringing fruit, sweets, and medicine for her aching joints.
Her smile was softer now, but her eyes… they carried something broken.
One evening, while teasing her about her strict diet, I said half-jokingly:
“What if these two old souls just got married? Wouldn’t it make the loneliness easier?”
I expected her to laugh.
Instead, her eyes filled with tears.
And she nodded.
A Second Chance at Love
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