The letter came in a thick envelope, sealed in wax.
Harper & Bailey, London. One of the biggest international publishing houses in the world.
Inside was a typed letter, carefully folded.
Dear Ms. Meera Vaidyanathan,
We are honored to extend an offer to publish "Two Days After You" as an international edition under our "True Love Stories" imprint. Your film has touched hearts globally—across languages, ages, and borders.
We request one final chapter: an epilogue. Something the world hasn't seen. Something only you can write.
We propose: "The Last Conversation."
Yours with reverence, Harriet Blake Senior Editor, Harper & Bailey
Meera stared at the letter for a long time.
The room was still.
It was almost poetic—how everything had come down to that one moment.
That final conversation.
The one memory she hadn't written about. Hadn't spoken about. Had barely allowed herself to remember.
Because it hurt differently.
She made tea. Black, no sugar. Aarav's kind.
Then she took out the box.
The one she hadn't opened in over a year.
It still smelled like him.
Inside: old polaroids, receipts, scribbled poetry, train tickets, and—
A tiny recorder.
She had almost forgotten about it.
Aarav's voice filled the room.
"Just press play when you need to feel like I'm still here, okay?"
She clicked play.
A pause.
Then his voice.
"Hey, Meera. If you're listening to this, I'm probably sleeping again. Or maybe worse. But don't freak out. I made this because I didn't want our last words to be about death. I wanted them to be about us."
Her hands trembled. But she didn't stop the recording.
"I don't know how long I've got, but I do know this: loving you has been the only thing I've ever been certain of. Even when the scans blurred, even when the nausea hit, even when my own body turned against me—you were the one thing that stayed."
"I'm not scared of dying, Meera. I'm scared of leaving you alive in a world where I'm just a ghost. But maybe ghosts are okay. Maybe I'll haunt your playlists. Your coffee. Your rainstorms. Maybe that's enough."
She smiled through her tears.
That was so him. Always joking his way through goodbye.
"Promise me something? Promise me you'll live a little louder after me. Laugh harder. Kiss someone new. Plant ridiculous things that never bloom. And write. My God, write until your bones ache."
"Don't write for healing. Write for remembering. Because I want to exist in every comma you put on a page."
A small laugh escaped Meera's lips.
She had done just that. And now, she was being asked to do it one more time.
To put it all on paper.
The next morning, she opened her laptop.
Titled the document: "The Last Conversation"
She stared at the blinking cursor.
And began to type.
The room smelled of hospital detergent and orange peels. He always asked for oranges near the end. I think it reminded him of summer.
I sat beside him, holding his hand like it was glass. He was tired, more bones than boy, but his eyes still had that quiet fire.
"Tell me something real," I said. "Something you haven't told me yet."
He smiled. Closed his eyes. "Alright," he whispered. "I never believed in soulmates."
I blinked. "That's rude."
"Let me finish."
He turned his face toward me.
"I never believed in soulmates. Until you. And even then—I didn't believe we had to last forever to be real. I just knew that the time we had… it was enough."
"Enough for what?" I asked.
"To change the shape of my life. To give death something to envy."
I cried then. Silently.
"I don't want to be a memory," I told him.
He squeezed my hand.
"Then don't be. Be the fire I lit. Be the pages I never got to write."
"What if I can't?"
He smiled.
"Then let me do it through you."
She paused her typing.
Her hands shook. Her chest was heavy, as if her ribs were learning how to breathe again.
But she wasn't done.
There was one final thing.
One last truth.
He looked me straight in the eyes.
"Meera."
"Yes?"
"When you die, don't be sad."
I laughed through tears. "Easy for you to say."
"I'm serious. Because when you do, I'll be there."
"Where?"
"Right where we left off. Waiting. Under the cedar tree."
Meera hit save.
Her vision blurred.
But for the first time, the ache in her chest felt full instead of empty.
She attached the document to her reply email.
Subject: RE: Epilogue Submission Attachment: The_Last_Conversation.docx
Dear Harriet,
Please find attached the requested final chapter.
This was not easy to write. But love rarely is.
With warmth, Meera Vaidyanathan
She closed the laptop. Stood by the window.
Outside, the world kept spinning. But inside, a chapter had truly closed.
Or maybe, it had just turned its final page—
So another story could begin.
To be continued…