The theatre was empty, save for five people.
Melissa sat two rows behind. Samar, arms crossed but visibly nervous, next to her. Arjun and Aanya, the onscreen Aarav and Meera, sat with their hands folded in their laps. And then there was Meera, front row, dead center.
The lights dimmed. The title appeared: "Two Days After You" – A Film by Meera Vaidyanathan
The air went still.
The first scene opened on a dimly lit kitchen. Aarav (Arjun) leaned against the counter, joking about death the way only he could—like it was an old classmate he'd run into at a coffee shop.
Meera (Aanya) rolled her eyes, but smiled—tight and tired. The love already a bruise on her soul.
Every line brought memories flooding back. Every cut reopened an old wound, but with cleaner edges.
As the film progressed, Meera found herself gripping the seat arm.
The arguments. The laughter. The hospital visits. The cedar tree.
There were moments she had forgotten she lived.
Scenes shot in agonizing detail: Aarav vomiting after chemo, hiding his pain when she wasn't looking. The silence when she walked into a room and caught him writing letters he never let her read.
But the hardest part came in the second half.
The final months.
In the film, Aarav sat on the hospital bed, hooked to machines, smiling at Meera as if everything was okay.
The camera lingered—soft, slow.
Then came a scene Meera remembered vividly.
She sat beside him, head on his shoulder, humming.
"What are you singing?" he asked.
"Something my mother used to sing to me when I was sick."
"You were ever sick?" he teased.
"Flu. Chickenpox. Heartache."
She smiled in the film. But Meera had cried that night in real life.
Then came the final goodbye.
The film did not dramatize it.
There were no soaring violins. No monologue.
Just Meera sitting in silence beside him as he closed his eyes for the last time.
She whispered:
"It's okay. I'll carry both our hearts now."
The scene faded to black.
The screen stayed dark for longer than expected.
Meera frowned slightly. She turned to the projectionist's booth. No signal error. No malfunction.
Then—slowly—an unfamiliar scene appeared.
Meera sat up straighter.
This scene wasn't in the script. She hadn't written it. She hadn't shot it.
But it was them.
Aarav stood in a white room.
Not a hospital. Not their flat. Just light.
And Meera walked into frame. Or rather—a version of Meera, played again by Aanya, but wearing a white dress that Meera owned and hadn't seen in years.
They stood face to face.
Aarav: "You look different."
Meera: "You look the same."
Aarav: "I didn't think I'd get to see you here."
Meera: "You didn't. I'm dreaming."
Aarav laughed gently.
"Of course you are. You always did have vivid dreams."
Meera's throat tightened.
She hadn't written this.
But she had dreamt it. Months after Aarav died.
It had been so vivid, she had woken up crying, convinced she had actually spoken to him one last time.
She never told anyone about that dream.
Not Samar. Not Melissa. Not even her diary.
She remembered every word.
And now—it was on screen.
In the film, Meera asked:
"Are you in pain?"
Aarav: "No. Not here. But I miss the pain. It reminded me I was still with you."
Meera: "I miss everything."
Aarav: "You haven't lost me."
Meera: "But I'm alone."
Aarav: "No, you're not. You're surrounded by versions of me. The tree. The books. The air. Every time you remember something I said—I'm there again."
Then came the final line.
Meera: "What do I do without you?"
Aarav: "Live. And when you're done… come find me."
The screen faded.
The lights stayed off for another full minute.
When they came back on, Meera didn't move.
She sat frozen, eyes wide, tears on her cheeks.
Melissa walked up slowly, concerned. "Meera?"
She turned. "That last scene."
"Yes?" Melissa asked.
"I didn't write that. That wasn't in any version of the script."
Melissa blinked. "You mean the dream sequence?"
"There was no dream sequence."
They called the editor. Checked the raw footage. The final cut.
There was no explanation.
The scene existed. It had been filmed. Same crew. Same set. Same actors.
But no one remembered shooting it.
Later that night, Meera sat on her balcony, wrapped in a sweater Aarav had once spilled coffee on.
The wind was quiet.
She dialed Samar.
"Is it possible," she asked, "for something real to exist without being created?"
He didn't speak for a moment.
Then: "You're asking if a ghost left behind a memory?"
She laughed through her tears. "I'm asking if love can write its own scenes, even after death."
Samar sighed. "With you two? I'd believe it."
In the silence that followed, Meera closed her eyes.
And there it was again—
A voice.
Not in her ears.
But in her chest.
"When you tell our story, don't end it with goodbye."
She opened her laptop.
And began typing:
Scene 1, Post-Credits. A woman stands beneath a cedar tree. The wind whispers something no one else hears. And she smiles. Because love, real love, never leaves. It just waits… for the last page to turn.
To be continued…