The Devotion of the Heart

I drove through empty streets, my hands gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles turned white. The city had long since gone to sleep, but I couldn’t. The silence inside my car was unbearable, so I turned on the radio. Static. I turned it off.

The words still rang in my ears.

"You need to stop waiting for me."

Her voice had been soft. Kind, even. But final. Like a verdict.

I parked near a closed tea stall, resting my forehead against the steering wheel. My chest felt too tight, like I couldn’t breathe right. Maybe if I sat here long enough, time would fold in on itself, and I could step back into yesterday, before she said it.

But that wasn’t how things worked.

I stepped out of the car and walked without direction. The night air clung to my skin, cool and indifferent. I found myself standing outside a dimly lit temple. It was empty, save for Krishna’s statue in the courtyard. His flute rested lightly against his lips, his gaze calm, unreadable.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, exhaling sharply. “You found no Radha. Why should I?”

The stone figure said nothing, but the silence between us felt like an answer. I let out a bitter chuckle.

“I bet you didn’t beg her to stay.” I leaned against a pillar, staring at the statue. “Didn’t tell her you’d wait. Didn’t make a fool of yourself.”

The wind shifted. The faint rustling of leaves. The hum of the night.

“She told me to move on,” I said, quieter this time. “Like it’s that easy.” I glanced at Krishna. “What did you do?”

I could almost hear the answer, not in words, but in the weight of his stillness.

You love.

“And then?” My voice broke.

You keep loving.

I clenched my jaw, looking away. “That’s not fair.”

Krishna remained silent. I imagined him watching me, the way he must have watched thousands before me, all asking the same things. I took a shaky breath.

“If Radha had come back… if she had stood before you and said—” I swallowed hard. “Said that she cared, but not in the way you wanted. That she loved you, but not like that. Would you have still loved her?”

The answer settled into my chest before I could deny it.

Of course.

I let out a broken laugh. “Yeah. Me too.”

The wind stirred again. Krishna’s flute, forever frozen at his lips, seemed almost mocking now.

“I told her I’d wait till 2037.” I smiled, but it didn’t reach my eyes. “She said not to.”

She is kind.

I looked up at the sky. “Then why does kindness hurt so much?”

Because it is real.

I ran a hand over my face. My phone buzzed against my thigh. I pulled it out, already knowing who it was.

"Are you okay?"

I stared at the message, fingers hovering over the screen.

I wanted to tell her I wasn’t. That I never would be. That I had driven through the night looking for something—anything—that would make this hurt less.

Instead, I typed: "What’s wrong with loving you?"

She read it immediately. I saw the typing indicator, then nothing. And then—

"I don’t love you back. That’s what’s wrong."

I exhaled. Krishna watched. The night stretched long and silent.

"You think you’ve accepted this, but accepting means moving on. And you haven’t."

I closed my eyes.

"I wish you never understand this pain."

She didn’t reply.

I looked back at Krishna. His face remained the same—serene, unwavering.

“You never moved on, did you?” I whispered.

The silence answered for him.

I sat on the temple steps, the cold stone pressing into my back. Heartbreak wasn’t loud. It didn’t come with screaming or slammed doors. It was quiet. A slow unraveling.

But even in that moment, even in the mess of it all—I didn’t regret her.

Not then. Not ever.