Loving Megha was easy.
Planning a life with her was not.
People think love begins with excitement.
With butterflies.
With nervous smiles.
Ours didn't.
It began quietly.
With routines.
She started sitting beside me every day.
Not because she had to.
Just because she wanted to.
We walked together after classes.
Sometimes we talked.
Sometimes we didn't.
And somehow, silence never felt empty with her.
She liked simple things.
Street food.
Old songs.
Watching people from a distance and making up stories about them.
One evening, we were sitting near a roadside tea stall.
The air smelled like dust and sugar.
I ordered one cup of tea.
She didn't say anything.
She just took it, held it with both hands, and sipped slowly.
After a while, she smiled and said,
"This tastes better when it's shared."
I laughed.
But inside, something tightened.
Because sharing was something I could do.
Providing was not.
We never spoke about money.
Not directly.
But money was always there.
Invisible.
Silent.
Watching.
When friends talked about restaurants, I stayed quiet.
When plans were made, I calculated costs.
Megha noticed.
She always did.
One day she asked, gently,
"Why do you always check prices first?"
I shrugged.
"Habit."
She didn't push.
That scared me more than questions.
She never demanded anything.
Never said, "Buy this."
Never said, "Take me there."
Sometimes she looked at things a little longer.
A dress in a shop window.
A book in a stall.
Then she would look away.
I noticed every time.
And every time, it felt like a small failure.
One afternoon, while walking back from college, she suddenly stopped.
"Do you ever feel scared?" she asked.
"Of what?" I said.
She thought for a moment.
"Of being left behind."
I didn't answer immediately.
Because I was scared of the opposite.
Of holding her back.
She talked about the future sometimes.
Not in big words.
Not in grand plans.
"I want a job I don't hate," she said once.
"A small house. Peace."
I nodded.
I always nodded.
Because saying anything else would require honesty.
And honesty would reveal how unprepared I was.
At night, when we talked on the phone, she liked listening to my voice.
"Talk," she would say.
"About anything."
So I talked.
About random thoughts.
About memories.
About things that didn't matter.
I never talked about fear.
Because fear doesn't sound good out loud.
The truth was simple.
I loved her.
But love without direction slowly turns into anxiety.
Every day, I asked myself the same questions.
What if she gets tired of waiting?
What if she wants more?
What if love isn't enough?
I never asked her these questions.
Because I was afraid of the answers.
One evening, we sat together on a bench inside campus.
The sun was low.
Everything felt golden and temporary.
She rested her head lightly on my shoulder.
My body went stiff.
Not because I didn't like it.
But because I felt undeserving.
She said softly,
"You're very quiet today."
I smiled.
"Just thinking."
She asked,
"About what?"
I wanted to say—
About how I don't know if I can protect this moment.
Instead, I said,
"Nothing important."
She didn't believe me.
But she let it go.
A few days later, she said something that stayed with me.
"You know," she said casually,
"I don't need a lot from life."
I looked at her.
She continued,
"As long as I'm with someone who understands me, I'll be okay."
I smiled.
She smiled back.
But inside, fear settled deeper.
Because understanding is emotional.
Life demands more.
I started noticing small changes.
She got busier.
More serious.
Not distant.
Just… focused.
She talked about interviews.
About opportunities.
I listened carefully.
And felt myself shrinking.
One night, while lying on my bed, I stared at the ceiling.
I thought about the future again.
This time, I didn't see emptiness.
I saw Megha walking ahead.
And me standing still.
Watching.
That image hurt more than anything.
She once asked me,
"You'll stay with me, right?"
I answered immediately.
"Yes."
That answer came from my heart.
But my heart didn't control reality.
Love, I realized, wasn't the problem.
Uncertainty was.
Because love wants to grow.
And I didn't know if I could grow fast enough.
That night, before sleeping, I checked my wallet.
Counted money.
Checked messages.
No interview calls.
I closed my eyes.
And for the first time, love didn't comfort me.
It scared me.