Author's Note
Dear readers,
Before you begin, I want to make one thing clear: this story is not meant to compare human beings with God. The love, sacrifice, and divine nature of Shri Krishna, Lord Shiva, and Lord Rama are beyond any comparison.
I am only trying to share a thought—that love has never been something to be ashamed of, and tears have never been a sign of weakness.
Through the stories associated with these beloved deities, we can see how deeply love, separation, sacrifice, and devotion are portrayed. I want you to read this story not merely as words on a page, but with your heart.
Read it slowly.
Feel the silence between the sentences.
And when you reach the parts about separation, remember someone you have loved, missed, or had to let go of.
Because sometimes, understanding another person's pain begins with allowing ourselves to feel.
----------------------------------------
There was once a boy who believed that crying was something he should be ashamed of.
He had grown up hearing the same things everyone hears:
“Be strong.”
“Don't let anyone see you broken.”
“If someone leaves, forget them.”
So when the person he loved walked out of his life, he did exactly what everyone expected.
He smiled.
He said he was fine.
He stopped talking about her.
And whenever someone asked, “Do you still miss her?”
He simply shook his head.
“No.”
But there was one problem.
The heart doesn't always obey the mouth.
Every night, when the lights went out and the world became quiet, he remembered her.
He remembered the smallest things.
Her laugh.
Her voice.
The way she used to tell him about her entire day, even the things that didn't matter.
The little arguments that seemed annoying at the time but now felt precious.
He remembered how she once held his hand and said,
“Promise you won't leave me.”
And he had promised.
He never imagined that one day, she would be the one leaving him.
Their ending wasn't dramatic.
There was no great fight.
No villain.
No final explanation that could make everything easier.
Sometimes relationships don't end because love disappears.
Sometimes life simply becomes bigger than two people.
And when she finally walked away, he stood there watching her go.
He wanted to call her back.
He wanted to say, “Please stay.”
But something stopped him.
Maybe pride.
Maybe fear.
Or maybe he knew that sometimes asking someone to stay doesn't make them stay.
So he let her go.
And the moment she disappeared from his sight, the smile disappeared from his face too.
That night, he cried.
Not the kind of crying people notice.
There were no loud sounds.
Just tears falling silently onto his pillow while he stared at the ceiling and wondered:
“How can someone who was once my whole world become a memory?”
Days passed.
But the pain didn't.
He began to wonder whether something was wrong with him.
Why couldn't he forget?
Why did one person's absence make everything feel empty?
Why did everyone expect him to move on as if love had an expiry date?
One evening, unable to bear the weight of his thoughts, he went to a temple.
He sat quietly before the idols.
First, his eyes fell upon Shri Krishna.
He had heard the stories of Krishna and the love associated with Radha and Vrindavan.
Krishna left Vrindavan.
But leaving does not mean forgetting.
The places, the people, the memories of those days remained woven into the story of his life.
There is something heartbreaking about that kind of love.
A love where the heart remembers even when life moves forward.
The boy lowered his eyes.
He wondered how painful it must be to leave behind a place where every corner carries a memory.
To continue walking while a part of your heart remains somewhere you can no longer return to in the same way.
Then his eyes moved toward Lord Shiva.
He remembered the story of Sati.
Shiva, who is often understood as detached from worldly attachments, experienced the profound pain of losing Sati.
The story portrays grief so powerful that even Mahadev, the great ascetic, was shaken by it.
The boy stared at Shiva for a long time.
And for the first time, he understood something:
Grief does not ask how strong you are.
It simply arrives.
Sometimes the person who looks strongest from the outside carries the deepest silence within.
Then he thought of Lord Rama.
When Sita was separated from him, Rama did not pretend that her absence meant nothing.
He searched for her.
He called for her.
He carried the pain of separation while continuing to walk the difficult path placed before him.
He was still Rama.
Still responsible.
Still courageous.
But that did not mean he was incapable of feeling pain.
The boy's eyes slowly filled with tears.
He whispered,
“Then why am I ashamed of crying?”
His voice broke.
“I loved someone.”
He looked down.
“I lost her.”
A tear fell onto his hand.
“And I still miss her.”
Another tear.
“I don't want to hate her.”
His voice became softer.
“I just wish things had been different.”
And then he finally stopped fighting himself.
He cried.
He cried for every message he wished he could send.
For every memory he couldn't erase.
For every place that reminded him of her.
For the future they had once imagined.
For the promises that were never fulfilled.
For the version of himself that existed when she was still beside him.
And most of all—
he cried because he had finally understood that sometimes you can accept that someone is gone and still miss them terribly.
Acceptance doesn't erase love.
It simply teaches you how to carry it.
That night, he didn't ask God to bring her back.
Instead, he folded his hands and whispered:
“Krishna ji…”
He took a shaky breath.
“Wherever she is, please keep her happy.”
He closed his eyes.
“Even if her happiness no longer includes me.”
That was when his tears fell harder.
Because that is perhaps one of the hardest forms of love—
loving someone enough to wish them happiness even when you are no longer part of it.
He stayed there for a long time.
And when he finally stood up, his heart wasn't completely healed.
But it was lighter.
He had learned something.
Crying doesn't mean you want to remain broken.
Sometimes crying is simply the heart's way of saying,
“This mattered to me.”
And perhaps that is why the stories of our Gods touch us so deeply.
Not because we are equal to them.
We are not.
But because through their stories of love, devotion, separation, sacrifice, and grief, we are reminded of the depth of human emotions too.
Krishna's stories teach us that love can survive separation.
Shiva's story reminds us that even profound strength can coexist with grief.
Rama's journey reminds us that pain does not mean the end of duty, courage, or life.
And the boy finally understood:
He didn't need to be ashamed of his tears.
He simply needed to make sure that one day, after crying for the person he lost, he would also learn to smile for the life still waiting for him.
Years later, he would still remember her.
But the memory no longer felt like a wound.
It felt like a chapter.
A beautiful one.
A painful one.
A chapter he would never rewrite—but would no longer beg to relive.
And perhaps that is what healing really is.
Not forgetting.
Not pretending you never loved.
Not turning your heart cold.
But remembering someone without losing yourself in their absence.
So if you're reading this with tears in your eyes because you once loved someone who is no longer yours—
don't be ashamed.
Cry.
Let your heart speak.
Let the memories come.
And when the tears finally stop, wipe your face and stand again.
Because love may break your heart, but it should never convince you that your life is over.
And whenever you feel ashamed of crying for someone you loved, remember:
«“When even the stories of the Divine hold the pain of love and separation, why should a human heart be ashamed of its tears?
We are not comparing ourselves to God.
We are simply remembering that love is so beautiful, so powerful, and so deeply human…
that sometimes, even tears become a language of love.”»
