"I Was Just a Habit"
Monk Opinion Team
Author
I still think about that night Meera called me. Her voice had that kind of silence that hurts more than screaming.
"Can we go somewhere?" she had said.
I understood.
That First Meeting That Changed Everything
Meera first told me about Aarav when he was twenty-four and she was nineteen.
"There was something in his eyes," Meera had said, "like he already knew me."
They met in the college library. Aarav accidentally touched her book, and that touch woke up something that never went back to sleep.
"He walked me home that night," Meera told me once, her eyes shining with that light you only see in first love. "He looked into my eyes the whole way. Didn't look away even once."
"Did you think it was love?" I had asked.
Meera laughed—that laugh I never heard again. "No. I thought it was fate."
Five Years of Lies That Felt Like Truth
Meera gave the next five years to Aarav.
Every night she met him. Every morning his message came. Every moment she thought of him.
"He told me every night I was special," Meera said one evening on my balcony, cigarette smoke dissolving into the air. "His fingers in my hair, his lips near my ear, whispering—'No one is better than you.'"
I saw how Meera's eyes lit up when Aarav's name came up. How her voice softened. How she completely disappeared into him.
"When's the wedding?" I once asked.
Meera went quiet. Then softly, "He doesn't believe in marriage."
"And you?"
"I believe in him."
That was the lie that ate Meera from the inside.
The Marks That Never Faded
One night Meera came to me, arms hidden under a long shirt.
"What happened?" I asked.
She said nothing. Just took the shirt off.
Blue-purple marks on her arms, shoulders, back.
"Aarav..." she stopped, "in anger..."
I stood up. "You need to report this."
"No," Meera held my hand, "he wasn't angry. We were... both..."
"Meera, this isn't right."
"Sometimes love hurts," she said, eyes carrying wisdom heavier than her age. "He didn't mean to hurt me. Just... lost control."
I went quiet. Because I knew trying to convince Meera was impossible. When someone ties love to pain, saving them becomes nearly impossible.
The Night Everything Broke
On the last night of the fifth year, Meera called me.
"Can we go somewhere?"
I went to her flat. She was on the sofa, eyes swollen, a letter in her hand.
"What happened?" I asked.
Meera pushed the envelope toward me. Inside were old photos, some letters, and a cheque.
"Aarav gave me this," she said, voice so soft I had to lean in.
"Why?"
"Because he's getting married."
I froze. "To who?"
"A girl. His family chose her."
"And you?"
Meera laughed—that laugh like broken glass. "I'm nothing."
"Five years were nothing?"
"He said—'You were a part of my life. Just not anymore.'"
What Meera told me that night, I'll never forget.
"He touched me every night," Meera said, tears mixing with her voice. "Made me his every moment. Said my name in every breath. And today... today he says I was nothing."
"You were something," I said.
"No," Meera shook her head, "I was just a habit. An addiction. And now he's sober."
Those Three Months That Never Ended
For the next three months, Meera barely ate.
She'd come to my flat, sit for hours in silence, sometimes suddenly burst into tears.
"I can't sleep," she said one night, "every time I close my eyes, I see him."
"Who?"
"Aarav. His eyes. His breath. His touch."
"He wasn't right for you, Meera."
"No," Meera shook her head, "I wasn't right for myself. I gave him everything. My identity. My dreams. My life. And what did I get in return? A cheque."
She tried to kill herself.
Took pills.
Cut her wrist.
But something stopped her every time—maybe hope, maybe anger, maybe that last truth she needed to know.
Why?
Just why?
That Phone Call That Changed Everything
A year later, Meera saw Aarav's wedding news in the newspaper.
In the photo he was smiling, with the bride, with family, with a new life.
And Meera?
Still in the same flat where Aarav had left her.
She picked up the phone, dialed Aarav's number.
First time.
Last time.
"Hello?" Aarav's voice came, like nothing had happened.
"Do you remember?" Meera asked, tears in her voice.
"What?"
"Those nights. Those promises. All of it."
Aarav stayed silent.
"Do you remember?" Meera asked again, voice breaking.
"Yes," Aarav said, "I remember."
"Then why?"
"Because..." Aarav breathed, "because you were too much."
"Too much?"
"Yes. So much I couldn't handle it."
Meera laughed—that laugh that comes from pain, from a broken heart.
"You're a coward," she said.
"Maybe."
"You used me."
"Maybe."
"And now?"
"Now I'm happy."
Meera hung up.
And that night, in Mumbai rain, she cried again.
But this time no sound came.
Just tears.
Just pain.
Just that truth that never came out—that Aarav never loved her.
He just used her.
Five years.
Thousands of nights.
One life destroyed.
That Letter I Never Sent
Six months later, Meera left Mumbai.
Before leaving, she wrote Aarav a letter.
"You broke me.
But you know what?
I put myself back together.
Not with you.
With myself.
You thought I'd die without you.
But I'm alive.
And you?
You'll always be stuck in that night you left me.
Because I'm your last truth.
The one you'll never tell anyone.
—Meera"
She gave me the letter. "Will you send it?"
I nodded.
But I never did.
Because some letters aren't meant to be sent.
Just felt.
Even Today
Today Meera is in another city.
New job. New life. New beginning.
But sometimes, when it rains, she calls me.
"Remember?" she asks.
"Yes," I say.
"Sometimes it feels like it was all a dream," Meera's voice goes soft.
"No," I say, "it wasn't a dream. It was real. Just the wrong reality."
Meera goes quiet.
Then softly, "But I'm okay."
"I know," I say, "you were always strong."
"No," Meera laughs, "I just learned you can live even after breaking."
And that night, when the call ends, I cry too.
Because Meera's story isn't just hers.
It's the story of every girl who thought love was everything.
Of every heart that broke.
Of every eye that cried.
Of every night that never ended.
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