The Last Letter

The coffee shop smelled of flowers and old books. Meera sat by the window, her fingers tracing the rim of her untouched cappuccino. Rain streaked down the glass, blurring the world outside into watercolor smudges of grey and amber.

She'd been coming here every Thursday for 5 months now. Always the same table. Always ordering the same drink. Always waiting.

"Ma'am, your coffee's getting cold," the young barista said gently, not for the first time.

Meera looked up and smiled, a practiced expression that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I know. Thank you."

The bell above the door chimed, and her heart lurched. But it was just an elderly couple, shaking off their umbrellas and laughing about something. Meera's shoulders sagged.

He wasn't coming. He was never coming.

She pulled out the letter from her purse, creased and worn from being read a hundred times. The paper had begun to soften at the folds, threatening to tear. Aarav's handwriting sprawled across the page in messy loops, the way he'd always written, as if his thoughts moved faster than his pen could follow.

My Meera,

I don't know how to write this. I've started this letter seventeen times, and each time I've thrown it away because nothing feels right. How do you put a lifetime of love into words?

Do you remember our first fight? We were at Marine Drive, and I'd forgotten our six-month anniversary. You were so angry you threw my shoes into the sea. ONE shoe, actually. The left one. I had to hop all the way to the car while you laughed. I pretended to be furious, but I fell in love with you even more that day.

I've been thinking about all our moments. The good ones, the terrible ones, the perfectly ordinary ones. Like when we'd fight over who got the last samosa. Or when you'd steal my hoodies and claim you'd "accidentally" taken them. Or those Sunday mornings when we'd do nothing but exist together—you reading your books, me pretending to understand the cricket match on TV.

The doctors say I have six months. Maybe less. I want to be angry, Meera. I want to rage against this. But mostly, I'm just sad that I won't get to grow old with you. I won't see the grey in your hair or the lines around your eyes. I won't get to hold your hand when you're seventy and tell you that you're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I know you'll want to spend every second with me at the hospital. I know you'll stop living your life to watch me stop living mine. That's why I'm asking you—begging you—don't. Don't make my hospital room your world. Don't let my dying be your whole life.

Live, Meera. Go to that coffee shop we loved. Read your books. Take that painting class you always talked about. Laugh with your friends. Eat too much chocolate. Dance in the rain.

And when the time comes, don't be there. I don't want your last memory of me to be in a hospital bed, all tubes and machines and shallow breaths. I want you to remember me as I am right now—loving you with everything I have.

I'll be thinking of you until my very last moment. And if there's anything after this, I'll find you there too.

Yours, always and forever, Aarav

Meera's vision blurred. She'd read this letter the day before Aarav's surgery, the surgery he never woke up from. That was 5 months ago.

She'd been so angry with him. Angry that he'd made this decision without her. Angry that he'd denied her the chance to say goodbye. Angry that he'd been right, she would have spent every second at that hospital, watching him slip away.

But mostly, she was angry that she loved him too much to disobey even this final request.

The bell chimed again. This time, a man in his thirties walked in, shaking rain from his jacket. He looked around, his eyes settling on Meera. Recognition flickered across his face.

"Meera?" he asked softly.

She nodded, her throat tight.

"I'm Rohit. Aarav's friend from college. I'm so sorry I'm late. I've been coming every Thursday, but I always just missed you, or..." he trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

"It's okay," Meera whispered.

Rohit sat down across from her, pulling out a worn envelope from his jacket. "Aarav gave me this before his surgery. He made me promise to give it to you, but only if... only after."

Meera's hands trembled as she took the envelope. Inside was a key and a small note.

"Our coffee shop, not this one. The one where we had our first date. Second floor. I bought it last year. I was going to surprise you on our tenth anniversary, but I ran out of time. It's yours now. Fill it with everything you love. Fill it with life. And sometimes, when you're there, remember me."

Tears spilled down Meera's cheeks. "He bought our coffee shop?"

Rohit nodded, his own eyes glistening. "He worked extra shifts for a year. He wanted to give you a place where you could start over. Where you could create new memories without erasing the old ones."

Meera clutched the key to her chest, feeling its cool metal against her palm. In that moment, she understood. Aarav hadn't left her. He'd just loved her enough to make sure she could find her way back to living.

"Thank you," she whispered to Rohit. Then, to the rain-streaked window, to the grey sky, to wherever Aarav was now, she whispered again, "Thank you."

She stood up, leaving her cold cappuccino behind. For the first time in three months, she felt the weight on her chest lighten, just a little.

Outside, the rain had softened to a drizzle. Meera walked toward the old coffee shop across town, their coffee shop, where they'd sat awkwardly on their first date, where he'd nervously spilled coffee on her dress, where she'd laughed and told him it was the best date she'd ever had.

She would go there. She would open the door with his key. She would fill it with books and paintings and laughter and life.

She would live. For both of them.

Because that's what love was, not holding on, but learning to let go while keeping every precious moment tucked safely in your heart.

The rain kissed her face as she walked, and for the first time since that terrible day, Meera smiled. A real smile.

"I love you too, Aarav," she said to the sky. "Always and forever."