Meera stared at the casting call document on her screen. Every line felt like betrayal.
Casting Role: Aarav Kumar – 28 years old Witty, soulful, sharp-eyed. A man carrying death quietly and love loudly.
She had written that description herself, tears clinging to her lashes with every keystroke.
But now that it was real—now that hundreds of strangers would audition to "be" Aarav—her chest tightened like a vice.
How do you ask someone to play a ghost?
How do you explain to a casting director that his silence was different? That his laugh always sounded like it belonged in the middle of a sentence? That no actor could ever get his eyes right—because Aarav's eyes didn't just look… they remembered?
Melissa called that afternoon. "I know this part is going to be hard," she said gently.
"It feels like choosing a replica," Meera admitted.
"You're not choosing someone to be him," Melissa said. "You're choosing someone to honor him."
The auditions were held over a week in Mumbai.
Each day, a dozen men stepped into the small soundstage wearing versions of Aarav—his haircut, his mannerisms, his smile. Some had studied the documentary. Others came in blind, letting only the script guide them.
Meera watched from the shadows behind the camera, her hands cold in her lap.
None of them were him.
Some were too polished. Some too emotional. Some too hollow.
And some… were too close.
A young actor named Arjun walked in on the third day. He wasn't wearing the same clothes. Didn't speak in the same voice. But his body language—the way he looked at the camera like it was Meera—stopped her breath mid-inhale.
In his screen test, he whispered:
"If I die before you, I want you to promise me something. Don't build a monument for me. Just… just plant a tree. Something that'll keep growing after I'm gone."
He delivered the line softly. No tears. No drama.
Just grief, quiet and surrendered.
It was uncannily Aarav.
After the audition, Arjun stepped off stage and met Meera's eyes. He didn't say anything.
He just nodded.
Like he knew.
Like he'd seen Aarav once too, in another life.
That night, Meera couldn't sleep.
She lay on the couch wrapped in the shawl Aarav had bought her during their first winter together. The moonlight spilled across the floor in pale silver, brushing against the coffee table cluttered with casting notes and memories.
Samar texted:
Heard about Arjun. You okay?
She replied:
He reminds me of Aarav in ways that hurt.
Samar:
Maybe that's how you'll know it's right. When it hurts the right way.
The next morning, she called Melissa.
"I want Arjun," Meera said.
"Are you sure?" Melissa asked. "There are still more sessions left."
"I know," Meera replied. "But I don't need someone who looks like Aarav. I need someone who feels like him. Arjun didn't act him. He remembered him."
Production began four weeks later.
Meera spent most of her time in the writer's room and on set. Watching scenes she had lived unfold again in front of her was like stepping into a dream someone else was having about her life.
The first time Arjun walked on set in costume—wearing Aarav's exact blue flannel and glasses—she nearly collapsed.
He approached her between takes, cautious.
"If this is too much," he said gently, "I can take a step back."
She shook her head, swallowing hard. "No. It's just… he wore that shirt the day he told me he was dying."
Arjun lowered his gaze. "I'm not trying to be him. I'm trying to make people see what you lost."
Meera looked at him closely. "You're not just showing what I lost. You're showing what I loved."
During the hospital scene—where Aarav and Meera fight over his refusal to continue chemo—Arjun's performance was devastatingly raw.
He shouted, cracked, collapsed into tears.
When the director yelled "Cut!" the entire crew stood in stunned silence.
Meera couldn't speak.
She walked out onto the balcony behind the soundstage and let the tears fall.
Not because it hurt too much.
But because it had finally stopped hurting in the wrong places.
A week later, she invited Arjun to the cedar tree.
It was quiet. Gentle wind stirred the leaves. Two small wildflowers had grown beside the roots where Aarav's ashes were buried.
"This is where I said goodbye," she told him. "And hello. And everything in between."
Arjun sat down across from her on the grass.
"I feel guilty sometimes," he admitted. "Wearing his skin. Speaking his words. Like I'm trespassing on something sacred."
"You're not trespassing," Meera said softly. "You're translating."
She paused.
"And you're the only person I trust to do it."
After he left that evening, she stood alone beside the cedar tree, the wind kissing her cheeks.
She whispered into the branches:
"I hope you don't mind me lending your voice to someone else."
"He's not you, Aarav. But he carries your echo."
And for a moment, the wind stilled— As if the tree itself had exhaled in peace.
The next morning, Meera returned to the set.
Ready.
Not to let go. But to keep building something that could carry him further.
Because maybe love didn't end.
Maybe it just found new shapes.
And sometimes— New faces.
To be continued…