My first, second love

If first love is a wound,

then second love is healing.

Not the kind that erases scars,

but the kind that teaches you how to live with them.

Have you ever poured water into a juice bottle?

The bottle still smells like oranges.

Your lips expect sweetness.

But what touches your tongue is plain, honest water.

That is second love.

It looks like love.

It feels like love.

But it does not intoxicate the way the first one did.

And this is my story—

of first love,

and then love again.

When my first love ended, it didn’t leave quietly.

It stayed—in habits, in pauses, in empty notifications.

It stayed in the way I still turned back after dropping someone home,

hoping—foolishly—that they would call me back.

So I made rules.

I promised myself I wouldn’t look back again.

Wouldn’t get used to anyone’s presence.

Wouldn’t let someone become a part of my routine.

Because I knew—

I couldn’t afford another ending.

I buried myself in ambition.

Books became my companions.

Dreams replaced desires.

I was preparing for a medical entrance examination.

The date was fixed—6th May.

The city—Chandigarh.

Two days before the exam, I left for Jammu.

From there, late into the night, I boarded a train toward Chandigarh.

The train moved, but my thoughts didn’t.

For several stations, nothing changed.

No passengers.

No voices.

No movement.

The compartment was silent—

like the calm before a storm that doesn’t warn you.

And then, at the next station,

she entered.

Samyra Rajput.

She didn’t announce herself.

She didn’t look around for attention.

Yet the entire compartment noticed.

Five feet five inches of composed chaos.

A white shirt tucked casually into blue denim.

Headphones resting like a boundary.

Large sunglasses hiding eyes that probably knew more than they showed.

Curly hair tied carelessly,

chewing gum like she had nowhere to rush.

She carried ease.

Not arrogance—ease.

She reminded me of the Taj Mahal—

a monument built only to be admired.

People travel miles just to look at it,

never asking if it ever feels lonely standing there.

We are all made the same—

two eyes, two ears, one nose, one mouth.

Yet some people are assembled so dangerously well

they dismantle self-control without trying.

As she entered,

girls reached for lipstick—

a reflex of rivalry.

Men fixed their hair—

a reflex of hope.

I stayed with my books.

Until she stood beside me.

“Is this your lower berth?” she asked softly.

I looked up.

“It’s okay. You can take it.”

This wasn’t a flight.

No one needed clouds here.

She sat by the window, watching the darkness race backward.

After a while, she turned to me abruptly.

“Are you a writer?”

I paused.

“Yes… but how did you know?”

She smiled.

“Instincts.”

“What do you do?” I asked.

She laughed.

“You should ask my name first.”

I did.

“I’m Samyra. Samyra Rajput.”

And then she spoke—

like she had been holding words for a long time.

She told me about her childhood.

Her family.

Her education.

How she loved Shah Rukh Khan irrationally.

How she hated pumpkins passionately.

She liked soft tea but needed black coffee to survive mornings.

She spoke like time was generous.

Then she asked,

“And you?”

I told her about exams.

About writing.

About how I preferred tea—

with extra ginger.

Time slipped away unnoticed.

I ordered tea for both of us.

We talked between sips.

Between silences.

Between unasked questions.

She insisted on paying.

I refused.

It was past midnight when she said good night

and climbed down to the lower berth.

I put on my earphones,

forgot to zip my bag,

and drifted into sleep with her laughter still echoing.

At 5:30 AM, the train woke me rudely.

Passengers flooded in.

My destination had arrived.

Half-conscious, I gathered my belongings scattered on the floor

and rushed out.

Only after stepping onto the platform did I realize—

I hadn’t said goodbye.

But somewhere inside,

I didn’t want to.

Goodbyes lead to memories.

Memories lead to attachment.

And attachment… I had promised myself not to fall again.

I took an auto to the exam center.

An hour later, my world collapsed.

My admit card was missing.

Hands shaking.

Heart pounding.

Breath trapped somewhere between panic and disbelief.

In an unknown city,

a few hours before an exam—

fear feels absolute.

I begged.

Explained.

Almost pleaded.

They refused.

I stood there, empty,

when a voice from behind said,

“Writer sir… are you searching for something?”

I turned.

Samyra.

She held my admit card.

In that moment,

I realized sometimes destiny doesn’t knock—

it walks straight in.

She smiled and stepped closer.

“You look cute when you’re tense,” she said.

“All the best.”

The bell rang.

I ran.

As I entered the exam hall, she called out,

“Can we meet again?”

“Yes,” I replied,

“but how?”

She smiled gently.

“That will be written by destiny.”

After the exam,

I searched for her like one searches for a lost prayer.

I took a hotel room.

Scrolled endlessly.

Facebook. Instagram. Twitter.

Nothing.

That night, sleep didn’t come.

The next morning,

I walked into a café

and ordered black coffee—

her favourite.

I sat there thinking how some people enter your life

just long enough to make you believe again.

When I went to pay,

I noticed a ₹10 note.

Something was written on it.

On one side—

Destiny

On the other—

her number.

That’s when I understood—

love doesn’t always come to stay.

Sometimes it comes to heal.

I texted her:

“Hi… coffee?”

She replied:

“Sector 32 is famous for tea with extra ginger.”

And for the first time,

the water inside the juice bottle

felt warm enough to hold.