Not Love,Yet Stringer Then Love

Not Love, Yet Stronger Than Love
by Kayathri Mariappan

Meera stepped into college carrying more fear than dreams. The campus was large, unfamiliar, loud with new voices and strange faces. Though she walked with friends she had known since school, her heart trembled with the thought of change. She had grown up sheltered—safe within the walls of her family, her parents’ strict rules, and a small circle of trusted friends. The world beyond that had always been kept at a distance, especially the world of boys.

Growing up, Meera had never spoken freely to boys. Even casual conversations felt forbidden. Her parents’ fear became her fear. Silence became her safety. Friendship was limited, controlled, protected.

Then Instagram happened.

It started as a harmless way to share photos, to laugh with friends, to grow a small followers’ page together. Meera and her girls treated it like a game—accepting some requests, rejecting many, teasing one another about messages, sharing screenshots with laughter. Everything was open. Nothing was secret.

Until one request arrived on a March night.

A simple notification. A stranger’s name. A face she had never seen before.

She almost ignored it.

But that night, for reasons she still couldn’t fully explain, Meera accepted.

That was how Arjun entered her life—not through destiny or drama, but through a quiet tap on a screen.

Their first conversations were simple. Names. Studies. Family. Slowly, layers unfolded. Arjun was not a student at her college. He lived nearby, studying elsewhere. He was the elder son of his family, carrying responsibilities much heavier than his age. His father had passed away due to alcoholism. Since then, Arjun had become the pillar—supporting his mother, protecting his younger brother, standing strong even when life bent him low.

Meera listened. For the first time in her life, she was listening to a boy—not with fear, not with guilt, but with curiosity and quiet respect.

They spoke for days.

Then, suddenly, silence.

Seven days passed without a message.

Meera waited without admitting it. She told herself it didn’t matter. She had exams. Friends. Life. Yet every time her phone vibrated, her heart jumped. When his message finally came, something inside her smiled in relief.

Their bond grew slowly—not through romance, not through promises—but through everyday honesty. They talked about studies, struggles, frustration, pressure. Arjun listened. Meera shared. It was new. It was strange. It was comforting.

But fear never left completely.

Exams approached. Pressure mounted. Marks began to fall. Friends warned her. “This is distracting you.” “This will ruin your future.” “Block him.”

One evening, overwhelmed with guilt and confusion, Meera blocked Arjun—on Instagram, on calls, everywhere.

But some connections don’t disappear that easily.

She had memorized his number without realizing it. Days passed. Weeks. Then one night, trembling with emotion, she unblocked him.

Her friends scolded her again. She created new accounts. They caught her again. Anger filled their voices. Confusion filled her heart. Still, the connection survived.

They never met in person. They never crossed physical boundaries. Their world existed in phone screens and midnight calls—but it was real.

Arjun forgot her birthday once. Work had exhausted him. She cried. He apologized. They fought. They blocked each other again. Then they returned again. This became their rhythm—distance and return, silence and conversation, anger and laughter.

Love was never spoken between them. Yet the attachment felt deep.

Meera’s friends suspected romance. She denied it—not out of fear, but truth. What they shared was not love in the way the world defines it. It was something gentler. Stronger.

Three years passed.

Degrees changed. Cities shifted. Life moved forward. Meera entered her Master’s program. Still, her mornings began with his messages. When she felt lost, she called him. When she cried, he stayed on the line until her breathing softened.

Arjun became her mental support in ways no one else had ever been.

Sometimes they fought badly. Words became sharp. Silence stretched long. Once, believing he had chosen someone else, Meera blocked him for four months. She told herself it was over.

But fate—and friendship—had other plans.

They met again online. Shock flooded her. Fear shook her. Tears fell. But they spoke again.

And they stayed.

Arjun was not loud with emotions. He was tall, calm, and quietly handsome. His face rarely showed what his heart felt. His kindness existed in actions, not words. He did not promise big dreams—he simply stayed. To the world, he appeared reserved. To Meera, he was warmth wrapped in silence.

He called her “paithiyam” when she overthought.
She teased him as “dei pakki” when he became stubborn.
He laughed when she acted like a “vayadi.”
She smiled when he pretended not to care.

In a world where online connections often turn shallow or harmful, theirs remained pure.

Meera never told her family about him. Fear chained her truth. She was afraid of judgment, of misunderstanding, of shame for something that was never wrong. Yet in her heart, she knew—this friendship was not a mistake.

It was a blessing.

Even now, she doesn’t know what life will bring. Marriage. Distance. Time. Responsibilities. But one wish remains steady in her soul—that Arjun will remain her friend for life.

Not as a lover.
Not as a secret.
But as the first boy who showed her that friendship between two souls needs no label.

This is not a love story.

This is something stronger.

This is the story of a girl who found courage through kindness.
This is the story of a boy who healed without trying.
This is the story of a bond born from an Instagram notification—and grown into a lifelong promise.

Not love.
Yet stronger than love.