Love is a Test — Just a Temptation

Last night, I was woken up by a terrifying dream. I lay there, unable to sleep again, eyes fixed on the ceiling, caught in the blur between sleep and thought. Then I checked the time on my phone.
It was 1:43.

And just like that, a long-lost memory cracked open. I smiled. Because back in my university days, we used to decode 1:43 as “I Love You.”
That number spoke to the question I hadn’t dared ask myself: What should I write next?

Some memories aren’t buried. They’re just waiting to be summoned.

That single moment pulled me into a time capsule. A day from twenty years ago resurfaced — the day I first met her. Even now, the way she looked at me during the admission process remains crystal clear in my heart. I believed — no, I was sure — she had enrolled in the same literature class as mine.

On the first day, I scanned every bench, every row. But she wasn’t there.
The next day, there she was. Sitting in the front row, head slightly tilted, eyes down. I didn’t try too hard to catch her gaze. And yet, it happened. Her eyes met mine — twinkling, alive.

That one look told me everything: She remembers me.

In the following days, as faces turned familiar, so did hers. She became the reason I shifted to the front bench in the boys’ row. We began with innocent smiles. Passing study notes. Sharing materials. A few casual questions about lectures. But behind all that, a quiet dance of hearts began. Unspoken, but loud.

As groups formed within our class, ours had four names — Deepthi, Sunitha, Lucky, and me. Yes, Deepthi. That was her name. It rolled off my mind like a line from a soft song.

She came from an orthodox Brahmin family. She once told us that the first day of class wasn’t “auspicious,” which explained her absence. With time, she shared more — about rituals at home, strict traditions, and the weight of expectations.

Still, there was always something soft in her glances when she looked at me.

We grew closer without naming what we were. Represented our department at external seminars. Took the same stage for paper presentations. Planned events together. One day, just casually, I asked her to wear a half-saree. She did. On a regular weekday. For me.

She stopped dancing once, just because I said the song didn’t sit right with its lyrics. Later, we danced together at a college event. One day, she brought food from home for my other friend because he couldn’t tolerate hostel meals. And once, when she saw other girls laughing near me, she didn’t hide her envy.

By the end of the second semester, something was clear.

I wasn’t just another boy in her group. I was someone.

But the exams arrived. And I knew I couldn’t go home without telling her how I felt. I missed her too much. Sundays were unbearable. I felt her presence like a scent in the wind. But instead of speaking to her, I opened my heart to Sunitha, our mutual friend. She listened, wide-eyed and smiling, and wished me all the luck in the world.

I asked her not to say a word to Deepthi. Not yet. I didn’t want our bond to break under the pressure of labels.

Soon after, something changed.

Deepthi stopped whispering during our group conversations. Her laughter felt distant. Her eyes still met mine, but only for a second. And they no longer twinkled. Three days passed. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to ask.

That evening, I asked her if she knew. She nodded. Sunitha had told her everything.

Then came her words. Words that left my world spinning.
She said, “This missing and love… all these things are tests. Nothing but a temptation. They test your strength of character.”

Even now, after all these years, I carry that line like an unanswered question.

Yes, love tests us. Sometimes, it examines our patience. Sometimes, our sacrifice. But character? How can love test character?

Confused and hollow, I went home for the summer. I carried nothing in my bag except unanswered questions and the warmth of memories that suddenly felt cold.

Eventually, like most stories that begin with fireworks, this one ended in silence.
But no, I don’t regret it.

Because stories like these don’t just break us — they build us. Piece by piece. Word by word. Moment by moment.

If your first love ends well, you rarely learn what your heart is made of.

And if it doesn’t…
You get to hold on to a memory that once made you feel infinite.

If this story touched a memory in you, leave a note in the comments. I’d love to know your version of 1:43.
Let’s talk about the love that never found a name… but still refuses to fade.

—

This post was previously published on medium.com.

***