She never understood why the snake cuddled her every night.
The truth would shock her when she finally learned it.
In a quiet village that rested on the edge of a dense forest, lived a little girl named Meera. The forest was old, whispering secrets through its trees, but Meera had never been afraid of it. She was afraid of loneliness instead.
Her parents left early every morning and returned late at night. The house felt empty, especially after sunset, when shadows grew long and silence pressed against the walls. Meera often sat by her window, watching the forest, wishing for a friend who would stay.
One evening, after heavy rain, she heard a faint rustling near the back of the house. Curious, she followed the sound and found a snake lying near the mud wall, injured and weak. Its scales were dull, its body thin, and its breathing slow.
Meera should have screamed. She should have run.
Instead, she knelt down.
“You’re hurt,” she whispered.
The snake did not move. It did not strike. Something in its stillness made Meera feel safe. Carefully, she brought it inside and hid it in a wooden box under her bed. Each day, she fed it milk and kept it warm. Slowly, the snake recovered.
Days turned into weeks.
The snake grew stronger—and closer.
It never showed aggression. It followed Meera quietly, rested near her feet, and watched her with unblinking eyes. At night, when
Meera slept, the snake would slither onto the bed and curl around her gently.
Warm. Calm. Silent.
Meera smiled in her sleep.
She believed the snake loved her.
“He protects me,” she thought. “He doesn’t let me feel alone.”
The snake grew longer. Thicker. Heavier.
Still, every night, it wrapped itself around her body like a living blanket. Meera never felt fear—only comfort. She told no one. Some friendships, she believed, were too special to share.
Then one night, something changed.
Instead of curling around her, the snake lay straight beside her. Perfectly straight. From her feet to her head. Its body pressed flat against the bed, unmoving.
Meera opened her eyes and felt a strange chill.
The snake was not hugging her.
It was aligning itself with her.
The next morning, Meera mentioned it casually to her grandmother.
“Dadi,” she said, “my snake doesn’t cuddle me anymore. Now it sleeps straight next to me.”
Her grandmother froze.
“How long has it been sleeping with you?” she asked slowly.
“Every night,” Meera replied. “For many days.”
“And now it lies straight?” her grandmother asked again.
Meera nodded.
Her grandmother’s face lost all color. She grabbed Meera’s shoulders tightly.
“My child,” she whispered, “the snake was never showing love.”
Meera frowned. “Then why did it stay with me?”
Her grandmother swallowed hard.
“It was measuring you,” she said. “Checking if your body was long enough… wide enough… to swallow whole.”
Meera’s heart pounded.
“That’s not true,” she said weakly. “He loves me.”
Her grandmother shook her head.
“Snakes do not hug. They prepare.”
That night, Meera lay awake in bed, trembling. The snake returned silently and lay beside her again—straight, still, patient. Its cold body pressed against hers.
Meera did not move.
She did not breathe.
Before dawn, her grandmother entered the room with the villagers.
By morning, the snake was gone.
Some say it was killed.
Some say it escaped into the forest.
Meera never slept the same again.
Years later, she would remember the warmth she once mistook for love.
And she would remember the lesson that saved her life:
Not every presence is protection.
Not every cuddle is care.
Some closeness is only calculation.
