The first time Meera saw the apartment, she hated it.
It was small.
The kind of "charming" landlords used to justify chipped tiles and broken cabinet doors. It had a leaking faucet, faded walls, and windows that only opened halfway. The ceiling fan wobbled like it was flirting with death.
But Aarav stood in the middle of it all, arms outstretched like a showman.
"Imagine this: us, dancing here in the middle of the night."
"There's no music," she pointed out.
"Then we'll sing," he grinned. "Badly. Off-key. With wine."
"This place smells like wet socks."
"So we'll light vanilla candles."
She folded her arms. "You're very committed to this fantasy."
He stepped closer and whispered in her ear:
"You're the fantasy."
She groaned. "You're such a Bollywood line waiting to happen."
But she smiled. Because under the mess and mildew, she saw what he saw:
A place they could call theirs.
Moving in was chaotic.
Aarav had exactly three suitcases of belongings: One for clothes, one for books, and one full of random things that made no sense—
A Rubik's cube with only one side solved. A broken wristwatch with no hands. A postcard from Manali that read: "Come here. Be here."
Meera, on the other hand, came with her own logic.
Labeled boxes. Folded towels. A kettle that made one perfect cup of chai.
She liked order.
Aarav liked stories in chaos.
They clashed, gently. But somewhere between unboxing his worn-out typewriter and her five jars of pasta, it started to feel like home.
They put up photos.
Not of them, but of things they loved— Mountains. Street food. Old bookshops. A swing tied to a Banyan tree.
The kind of life they wanted to live if time allowed.
And time… well, it didn't pause. But it began to breathe a little slower.
Chemo started again. Round 2. Stronger meds. Harsher side effects.
But this time, they were prepared.
Aarav would wake up nauseous, but Meera would already be boiling jeera water.
He'd come home with a pale face and a drained spirit— and she'd read aloud from his favorite books, adding dramatic voices that made him laugh until he choked.
One morning, he shaved his head before the hair could fall out again.
Meera watched silently as the clippers buzzed across his scalp.
"Do I look ridiculous?" he asked, rubbing his bald head.
"No," she said, walking over. "You look like a monk who does stand-up comedy on the side."
"Sexy?"
"Like… Buddhist James Bond."
He cracked up.
They started keeping a "fight-back journal" by the bed.
Each day, they wrote one thing cancer hadn't stolen.
Day 1: We still laugh. Day 7: We can still kiss. Day 13: You still smell like rain when you sweat.
By Day 22, the journal had over thirty entries.
Because some days, they wrote multiple.
But not all days were sunshine and cheeky grins.
There were nights when Aarav threw up everything he ate.
Nights when his gums bled.
When his back spasmed so hard, he screamed and cried and begged Meera to make it stop.
And she would hold him, whispering into his chest:
"I'm here. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
Even when she broke inside, she never let it show.
One night, after a particularly brutal hospital day, he said:
"If I die—"
"Don't," she interrupted. "Don't start this again."
"—if I die," he continued gently, "you're allowed to fall in love again."
She turned away.
"I won't."
"You might."
"I don't want anyone else."
He smiled sadly.
"Then be everything for yourself. Write your book. Get drunk in Italy. Adopt a cat named Gulab."
She faced him.
"Stop giving me instructions for a life without you. I didn't sign up for that."
Silence hung between them.
Then she added softly:
"I signed up for now. Today. This. Toothbrushes next to each other. Your socks on my pillow. Your bad jokes and stupid Rubik's cube. I didn't come here to plan your death."
He kissed her forehead.
"You came here to love me. And you do. In ways I never imagined someone could."
That night, she cried herself to sleep in his arms. Not because he was dying.
But because she had never felt more alive in her life.
Weeks passed.
The apartment began to feel less like a hospital ward and more like a battlefield with fairy lights.
They painted one wall mustard yellow.
It was messy.
Paint splattered on her cheeks, on his jeans, on the floor.
But they laughed through it.
That was the rule.
If you're going to suffer—suffer with laughter.
One Sunday morning, Aarav made her pancakes.
Burnt ones.
The smoke alarm went off.
She coughed her way into the kitchen.
"You trying to kill me before the cancer does?"
"I added chocolate chips," he grinned.
"To burnt carbon circles?"
"They're artisanally charred, thank you."
She shook her head and kissed him.
Because that was love now.
Burnt pancakes and half-written bucket lists.
Speaking of which…
They finally wrote one together.
The "We're-Not-Dead-Yet List":
1. Dance in the rain without umbrellas.
2. Visit the mountains and watch sunrise together.
3. Make love under the stars.
4. Record a podcast called "Life With Cancer and Chocolate."
5. Write a children's book about a bald superhero named Captain Aarav.
6. Surprise each other every Friday.
7. Grow a plant and name it something ridiculous.
8. Watch every sad movie and not cry (fail).
9. Paint a wall yellow (done).
10. Leave behind something beautiful.
Aarav looked at the last one.
"What does that mean?"
"Anything," Meera said. "A poem. A mural. A memory. Something that outlives us."
"That's heavy," he said.
"That's love," she replied.
That night, Aarav looked at their toothbrushes—blue and pink—leaning against each other in a plastic cup.
And he whispered:
"I'm not scared anymore."
Meera looked up.
"Why?"
"Because even if cancer wins, it won't beat me."
"Why not?"
"Because I lived well enough that death has to wait in line."
They laughed.
And they loved.
And for now, that was more than enough.
To be continued…