Delhi University, Girls’ Hostel Rule No. 1: No boys allowed after 8:00 PM.
It wasn’t just a rule. It was the rule. The one they printed on your admission slip. The one the warden reminded you of every single week in the WhatsApp group. The one that wasn’t meant to be broken — unless you wanted a suspension letter signed in scarlet ink.
But that night — the night it rained like the gods themselves were crying — I broke it.
And I broke it for love.
It started with a message.
Vedant: “I don’t think I can do this anymore. My dad’s forcing me to drop out. I leave tonight.”
I was on my bed, half-asleep, a psychology book on my stomach and rain tapping against the window like nervous fingers. I read the message again. And again.
Vedant had been everything the past one year — the class topper who didn’t act like one, the guy who bought me books instead of roses, who remembered my therapy appointments and always called after.
And now he was leaving?
I called. Switched off.
I called again. Still off.
⸻
9:03 PM
Rain pounded harder. My roommate Shruti looked up.
“You okay?” she asked.
I didn’t reply. I just stood up, grabbed my hoodie, and left.
Because when someone is about to disappear forever, you don’t wait for morning. You run.
The guard at the hostel gate tried to stop me. I ran past her anyway.
Fifteen minutes later, soaked, panting, and desperate, I reached his PG.
No one answered the door.
So I did the most logical thing a crazy girl in love could do.
I brought him back to my hostel.
The rain had turned the corridors into rivers. Shruti opened the door and stared — first at me, then at Vedant — then widened her eyes like I’d brought home a ticking bomb.
“He can’t be here,” she hissed.
“I know.”
“What if—”
“Just five minutes,” I begged.
He stood quietly, shivering, hands in pockets, eyes hollow.
We sat on the floor, towels around our shoulders, facing each other like we were already miles apart.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” I whispered.
“My dad doesn’t believe in psychology,” he said bitterly. “He thinks I’m weak. That I need to learn business, not mental health.”
“But you’re brilliant at it.”
“That doesn’t matter when your father controls the bank account.”
⸻
We sat there in silence.
And then I did something even dumber.
I kissed him.
The door burst open.
Not Shruti. Not a friend.
The Warden.
Rain behind her. Thunder. And eyes colder than the Himalayas.
Next morning.
Vedant was escorted out by security.
I was summoned to the Disciplinary Committee.
Suspension loomed. Parents were called. Reputation shredded. WhatsApp groups buzzed like bees after a grenade.
Shruti cried. My mother fainted on call.
I stayed silent.
Because what was there to say?
That love sometimes comes at the wrong hour, in the wrong place, and under the wrong roof?
A week passed.
My father came to Delhi. I expected a slap. Instead, he sat quietly across from me in the hostel guest room.
“Why him?” he finally asked.
“Because he listened,” I replied.
My father looked away.
The university didn’t suspend me. Just a formal warning, a character report, and a mandatory counselling program. Vedant left for Bangalore. I didn’t hear from him for weeks.
It was over.
But strangely, something else had begun.
The counsellor — a woman in her late 30s, with kind eyes and brutally honest questions — didn’t ask me why I broke the rule.
She asked me why I had to break it.
“Why not wait till morning?” she asked.
“Because I was afraid it would be too late,” I said.
“And what was more important to you — love or reputation?”
I paused.
“Love,” I whispered. “But not just his. Mine.”
That one hour of therapy turned into a semester-long project.
I started speaking up in class more. I started reading about mental health policies in universities. I wrote a paper: “Love, Safety & Sanctions: The Gendered Fear of Emotional Expression in Indian Hostels.”
It got published.
And a month before graduation, I got an email.
⸻
From: Vedant
Subject: Guess who got a scholarship to study mental health education in Amsterdam?
P.S. I read your paper. You were always more courageous than I ever deserved.
We didn’t get back together.
But we met.
And when we did, we sat under the same university tree where we once hid during Holi, his hand near mine, but not touching.
“I don’t blame you,” he said. “For breaking the rule.”
“I don’t blame me either,” I replied.
He smiled. “You look different.”
“I feel different.”
I wasn’t the same girl who had once trembled under a warden’s glare.
I was the girl who had learned that sometimes, a rule isn’t sacred — it’s stagnant. And breaking it doesn’t destroy you. It frees you.
Because what I did wasn’t about Vedant.
It was about choosing love over fear.
And that was the day I stopped apologizing for being too much.
Final Line:
The rule I broke wasn’t just about curfews. It was about staying in line. And the moment I stepped out of that line — drenched in rain, heart trembling, voice silent — I wasn’t breaking down.
I was beginning.
Sometimes, the end begins with a decision you were never supposed to make.
React
