They Killed Both My Love and Me

My name is Ayesha, and this is my story—the story of a love that never saw its ending, a love that was killed before it could truly live.

I met Rohan in a coaching center where we were both preparing for our future. He was different from everyone else. While others saw differences in religion, he only saw a person in me. At first, we exchanged stolen glances, then soft smiles, and soon, long conversations. He made me laugh, made me feel safe, and most of all, made me feel loved.

Rohan did everything for me. He helped me with studies, defended me when others judged me, and cared for me more than anyone ever had. He learned Urdu just to read my favorite poems, visited mosques just to understand my world, and never let anything come between us. He would say, “Love has no religion, Ayesha. It only has you and me.”

But deep inside, I was scared. I knew my family would never accept him. My father was strict, my brothers were even stricter. Our love was a secret, hidden from the world, because the world would never let it exist.

One night, under a sky full of stars, Rohan held my hand and promised, “I will talk to our families. Love can overcome anything.” His confidence gave me hope, and for the first time, I dreamed of a future with him.

The next day, he spoke to his parents. They were hesitant but agreed because they saw his happiness. But when I gathered the courage to tell my family, my world collapsed.

The moment I said Rohan’s name, my father’s face darkened with rage. My mother fell to the floor in shock. My elder brother stormed out, fists clenched. That night, my home was filled with shouts, threats, and tears. “You have shamed us! A Hindu boy? NEVER!” my father roared.

I begged them to listen, but they wouldn’t. “You will marry someone we choose, or you will not live under this roof!” my father declared. My mother cried, but she didn’t speak. My brothers glared at me like I was a disgrace.

In desperation, I sent a message to Rohan: “They will never agree. We have to run away.”

But Rohan refused. “I will not steal you away like a thief. I will make them understand.”

That night, he came to my house, fearless. He knocked on our door and stood there, unwavering, as my father and brothers stepped outside. “I love Ayesha. I want to marry her. I will take care of her, I swear.” His voice was steady, but I knew the storm was about to begin.

Before he could say another word, my brothers dragged him inside. He didn’t fight back, thinking they would listen. But they didn’t. The next moments were filled with the sound of fists hitting flesh, the crack of bones, and the metallic smell of blood.

“Please! Don’t do this!” I screamed from my room, where they had locked me. I banged on the door, begging them to stop. But my cries meant nothing.

Rohan tried to speak, to plead, but another blow silenced him. “You think you can take our daughter and shame us?” my father spat.

I will never forget the sound of Rohan’s voice breaking as he whispered, “I love her.”

And then, silence.

That night, they took him away, out to the fields, where the world would never find him. And they ended his story. They buried him like he never existed, like his love for me never mattered.

The next morning, his parents searched for him, crying, begging for answers. But no one spoke. Fear kept the town silent. My mother turned away, my father acted like nothing had happened, and my brothers pretended they had done something honorable.

I was forced into marriage. They dressed me up, painted my hands with henna, and sent me away to a man I didn’t love. But they couldn’t bury my heart with Rohan.

Every night, I sit by the window, staring at the stars, remembering him. Remembering his laughter, his promises, his love. I hear his voice in the wind, feel his touch in the cold breeze, and see his face every time I close my eyes.

Rohan gave me everything, even his life. And I could do nothing to save him.

Love didn’t lose. It was stolen. Killed. Buried.

But in the silent cries of my heart, in the whispers of the wind, our love still lives—unfulfilled, incomplete, yet eternal.