Snowflakes kissed her coat collar as Meera stepped onto the white-dusted sidewalk of Park City, Utah. It was her first time seeing snow that wasn't romanticized through a lens or written in someone else's script.
This was real. Cold. Heavy. Beautiful.
She tucked her hands into her pockets and looked up at the banner stretched across Main Street.
SUNDANCE FILM FESTIVAL 2026 Celebrating Stories That Move the World
She exhaled a soft laugh.
Aarav would have mocked the tagline. Then he would've held her mittened hand and whispered,
"But your story really did move the world."
The documentary—"Two Days After You"—had screened in small theaters, university panels, and online platforms over the past four months. But this… this was global. This was sacred ground for storytellers.
Meera wasn't there to win. She was there to witness.
To let her pain walk among strangers and see what it would become in their eyes.
Inside the Egyptian Theatre, a crowd began to fill in. Critics. Students. Survivors. People who had lost things they couldn't name anymore.
She clutched the program card, her name printed below the title:
Director: Meera Sharma
A hush fell over the room as lights dimmed and the screen flickered to life.
Aarav's voice opened the film.
"When you're dying, people ask you about regrets." "But I never regretted loving Meera." "Even when I thought it might destroy us."
Gasps. Sniffles. Silence.
Meera didn't watch the screen. She'd seen the film too many times to count.
She watched the people instead.
Watched them lean forward when Aarav sang softly in the hospital. Watched a woman wipe tears when Meera screamed into a bathtub in scene seventeen. Watched a man clutch his chest when Aarav's last letter played in full.
When the credits rolled, the room was still for a long, heavy breath.
Then—
Applause.
Then louder.
Then a standing ovation.
Meera didn't stand.
She folded in on herself, tears streaming silently down her cheeks.
This wasn't for her.
This was for them.
For all the people who had ever lost and loved and lived anyway.
After the screening, she stood under the marquee lights, surrounded by strangers turned believers.
An older man approached her.
"I'm a war widow," he said. "I thought I'd buried my grief in medals. Your story reminded me I'm still carrying it. And that's okay."
A young filmmaker added, "You didn't just tell a love story. You told a resurrection."
Even a critic—one known for harsh reviews—held her hand longer than necessary and whispered, "I came to analyze your work. I left feeling like I lived it."
Later that night, she returned to her hotel and stared at herself in the mirror.
She looked older. Not in a bad way.
More like someone who had survived something that tried to end her.
She untied the silver chain from around her neck and kissed the pendant that held the USB.
Aarav was everywhere now.
Not just in pixels or words.
He was in the air around her. In the stories others now shared with her.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Samar:
Saw the livestream. Aarav would've been so damn proud.
Also—there's something I need to show you. I've been holding onto it for months.
When you're back. Let's talk.
Back in India a week later, she met Samar at a quiet rooftop café in Hauz Khas.
He placed a box on the table. Small. Unmarked.
"I found this in Aarav's storage locker after the funeral. It was labeled 'Future Meera.' I wasn't sure when or if I should give it to you. But after everything… I think you're ready."
Her hands shook slightly as she lifted the lid.
Inside was:
* A sketchbook filled with drawings of her—laughing, crying, sleeping.
* A single polaroid of them kissing beneath the cedar tree, captioned: "Proof that the world stopped for one second."
* A final sealed envelope with two words:
Open Now.
She opened it.
Inside was a marriage certificate application—half-filled.
With a sticky note attached in Aarav's handwriting:
I knew I wouldn't make it to the wedding, Meera.
But I wanted you to know— I would've chosen you every lifetime. Even if it ended the same way.
Even if it killed me.
You were my home.
Meera didn't cry.
She smiled.
A sad, full, beautiful smile.
Because for the first time in a long time, the ending didn't feel like a fall.
It felt like a landing.
That night, back at the cottage, she opened her laptop.
Started a new document.
The cursor blinked again.
This time, it wasn't lonely.
She typed the title:
After You, I Still Choose Me.
To be continued…