Confession

The Love I Took for Granted

There was a time when I would recite my poetry, and she would listen as if she wanted to become a part of it. Yet, she never truly understood that each verse was about her. I had written them with a quiet fear—that one day, she might leave me.

Most of my poetry is in Hindi and Urdu, languages she wasn’t entirely fluent in. Still, I would explain the meanings of those intricate words, watching her smile, sometimes amused, sometimes lost in thought. She often wondered why I wrote, wishing I would write something just for her, not realizing that every piece already belonged to her. She never understood what inspired my words, nor the depth of emotions behind them.

She made countless sacrifices for me, always making me feel special. And maybe, that’s why I took her for granted. She would work tirelessly until 2 or 3 in the morning, only to wake up at 5 or 6—just for me. Meanwhile, I despised waking up early even when she desperately needed rest. It affected her health, and I knew it, yet I did little to change things.

No matter how much I give, I can never repay what she has done for me. I ignored her feelings, her expectations, and her silent wishes, while she fulfilled every single one of mine.

This is who I am. This is my regret. This is my deepest sorrow. And if I had to, I would die and be reborn just to love her better—to be with her again, this time cherishing her the way she deserved.