It started with an email.
Subject: Major Studio Interested in "Two Days After You" Rights
Dear Ms. Sharma,
We've read your memoir and seen the documentary. Both left us breathless.
We believe your story deserves a broader cinematic audience.
We'd like to offer you a development deal to adapt "Two Days After You" into a feature-length film.
Let's talk.
—Melissa Chang, Head of Development, Horizon Studios
Meera stared at the screen for a long time.
This wasn't the first interest she'd received—but it was the biggest.
Horizon Studios had produced Oscar-winning films. If they took it on, this would no longer be just her story.
It would become everyone's.
She sat back, heart hammering.
Aarav used to say the world was made of stories—but not all stories survived the people who lived them.
Would she be betraying him by letting someone else retell what they lived?
She met with Melissa on a video call two days later.
The woman was warm, sharp-eyed, and spoke with the kind of enthusiasm that wrapped around you like a well-fitted coat.
"Meera," she said, "your memoir is the most honest piece of grief and love I've ever read. We don't want to water it down. We want to elevate it."
Meera nodded slowly. "You'd keep the truth intact?"
"As much as the format allows," Melissa replied. "We do, of course, take creative liberties."
"Like what?" Meera asked.
Melissa hesitated. "We'd suggest adjusting some plot points for emotional pacing. Maybe... condense the medical journey. Possibly explore an alternative ending. Perhaps one where Aarav survives—"
"No," Meera cut in. "He didn't survive."
"I understand," Melissa said gently. "But happy endings sell. Or at least—hopeful ones."
After the call, Meera sat on her balcony and stared out at the stars.
Aarav used to say that stories were seeds. Once planted, you had to let them grow however they chose.
But this wasn't a garden.
This was a factory.
A machine that would strip and polish their love until it fit into a ninety-minute runtime.
Later that night, she reread his letters. His voice still echoed in her bones.
One letter stood out—written during his second round of chemo.
"If they ever tell our story, let them tell it honestly. Let them show the nights I cried in your lap and said I didn't want to die. Let them show you screaming at God. Let them show the fights, the fear, the fury. Because it wasn't perfect. It was ours. That makes it perfect enough."
The next day, she met Samar for lunch.
She told him about the deal. The studio. The idea of rewriting the ending.
He leaned back in his chair. "You always said Aarav hated inauthenticity. He once stormed out of a movie because the main character survived cancer through 'positive thinking.'"
Meera chuckled. "He called it emotional fraud."
"Exactly," Samar said. "So what do you want?"
She stirred her tea. "I want people to remember him. To feel him. But I don't want his story turned into fiction just because pain is uncomfortable."
Samar gave her a long look. "Then maybe the question isn't 'what do you want?' Maybe it's: 'what are you willing to protect?'"
Two weeks passed.
The contract from Horizon Studios sat unopened on her desk.
Every time she reached for it, her fingers trembled.
Was she walking away from something bigger than herself?
Or was she standing for something?
On the fifteenth day, she wrote a letter.
Not an email.
A real, hand-signed letter.
Dear Melissa,
Thank you for believing in my story.
But it's not a story.
It's a life. A death. A love.
Aarav Kumar was not a character. He was a man with a crooked smile, a gentle laugh, and a mind that lit the sky.
He suffered. He lied. He loved.
And he died.
That's not a spoiler. That's the point.
If your studio ever wishes to tell the truth—unpolished, uncomfortable, and complete—call me.
Until then, I choose memory over market.
Yours sincerely, Meera Sharma
She mailed the letter the same afternoon.
And for the first time in weeks, she breathed deeply.
Later that evening, while lighting candles by Aarav's photo, a strange peace settled over her.
Not because she had done something brave.
But because she had chosen to keep him whole.
Not filtered through scripts. Not molded by box office appeal.
Just as he was.
The next morning, she woke to a surprising email.
Subject: We Read Your Letter
Ms. Sharma,
Your words moved our entire team. We've decided to revisit our approach.
Let's make your story your way.
Honest. Uncomfortable. Unforgettable.
You'll have full creative control.
Call me when you're ready.
—Melissa
Meera smiled.
Maybe the world didn't need another fantasy.
Maybe what it needed was truth.
And maybe, just maybe, love stories didn't have to end in weddings or miracles.
Maybe they ended in ashes and memories— And still mattered.
That night, she added a new note to her desk:
"We didn't get a happy ending. But we got a real one. And sometimes, that's braver."
To be continued…