Meera stared at the email on her laptop screen.
Subject: RE: Submission for "Captain Aarav – A Love Story in Rain"
Dear Ms. Kapoor, Thank you for your submission. While your story moved us deeply, we regret to inform you that we are unable to publish it at this time. While the material is emotionally powerful, we believe it may not fit our current catalogue. We wish you the best in your creative journey. Warm regards, The Editorial Team
She closed her laptop softly, as if shutting it quietly might make the sting go away.
But it didn't.
She had poured everything into the manuscript—her grief, Aarav's spirit, Yuvaan's smile, and every moment soaked in rain and memory. The pages weren't just words. They were her healing stitched together with ink.
And now they were... rejected.
She didn't cry.
Not because it didn't hurt—but because pain like this had become familiar. Like a scar that stopped bleeding but still throbbed when touched.
Later that evening, she found herself at their old café—BeanLit, a tiny place tucked behind an art gallery where she and Aarav had spent hours doodling ideas on napkins.
She sat in their usual corner, where the cracked leather couch still leaned a little too far to the left.
She ordered their usual: a black Americano and a chocolate muffin with two spoons. Only this time, there was just one spoon.
As she stirred her coffee absentmindedly, someone at the counter caught her attention.
A man in his early thirties, beard half-grown, sleeves rolled, carrying a large folder with "Storyseed Publishers" stamped on the front.
That name stirred something.
She recognized it—they were the ones who rejected her.
He ordered a cappuccino and turned around. Their eyes met for a second.
And Meera looked away.
But the man walked over and gestured to the seat across from her.
"Mind if I sit? Every table's taken."
She nodded, hesitant. "Sure."
He sat down, offering a polite smile.
"I'm Aarav," he said instinctively, then chuckled awkwardly. "Not that Aarav. Sorry. Weird coincidence."
Her heart stumbled.
"It's fine," she said softly.
He extended a hand. "Aarav Singh."
She didn't shake it immediately. But finally, "Meera Kapoor."
His eyes widened just slightly. "Wait… are you—?"
"Yes," she replied before he could finish. "That Meera."
"You submitted Captain Aarav," he said, surprised. "I read it."
She gave him a tight smile. "And you rejected it."
"I didn't want to," he said immediately. "It wasn't me directly. It was the board. Said it was too personal. Too raw."
"It is personal," she said, picking at the muffin. "It's the only way I know how to write now."
Aarav hesitated. Then leaned forward.
"Can I tell you something? Off the record?"
She nodded warily.
"After I read your manuscript… I couldn't sleep. Something about it felt… unfinished. Like there was more to that story than what was on the page."
Meera looked at him curiously. "There is."
He pulled out a smaller envelope from his folder. "Then maybe this belongs to you."
She froze.
Her name was on it. In Aarav Sharma's handwriting.
Meera. If he ever finds you, give this to her.
"Where did you get this?" she whispered.
"He gave it to my mother," he said quietly. "They were pen pals. Sort of. My mom was a volunteer with a palliative care project. She used to exchange letters with patients anonymously. But she always kept Aarav's letters. Said he wrote like someone who'd already lived three lifetimes."
Meera was stunned.
"I didn't know he did that."
"Neither did I, until she passed two months ago. I found this among her keepsakes. Said to find you. So when I saw your name in the submission list… I knew it was more than coincidence."
He pushed the envelope toward her gently.
She picked it up, hands trembling.
The seal was already opened.
Inside was a letter dated three days before Aarav died.
Meera,
If this ever reaches you, it means I got selfish again.
I didn't want to die with everything in my chest. So I wrote to strangers. Told them things I couldn't even say to you.
But you should know something:
That day we danced in the mountains—under the stars and snow—I wanted to ask you to marry me.
I had a ring. It's in the third drawer of the medicine cabinet, taped under the lid.
But I couldn't ask you to say yes to a ghost.
So I gave you memories instead of promises.
But I hope you say yes anyway. Not to a ring. But to love. Again. Someday. To someone brave enough to hold your grief without trying to fix it.
And if not… just promise me you'll dance again. Even if it's alone. Especially then.
Love, Aarav
Meera's tears were silent, but the letter in her hand felt warm.
Heavy.
A weight of love that didn't die with him.
Aarav Singh sat quietly across from her, not interrupting. Letting her sit with the storm.
When she finally looked up, she smiled faintly. "Do you still think the story was too raw?"
He shook his head. "No. I think it's perfect. I think we made a mistake."
She wiped her cheek. "You said something felt unfinished."
He nodded.
"Now I think I know why. Because the story doesn't end with Aarav dying. It ends with you surviving."
They sat for a while, sipping cooling coffee in silence.
Then he said, "If you're willing to submit it again… I'll fight for it. I'll help you shape it. Not as an editor. As someone who thinks grief deserves to be seen."
She smiled.
Not because of the offer.
But because for the first time in a long time, she felt like someone was still listening to Aarav's voice through her words.
That night, she returned home, opened the medicine cabinet, and peeled back the tape.
There it was.
A simple silver ring. Small. Elegant. With a tiny inscription inside: Still Fighting.
She slid it onto her finger.
Not as a symbol of mourning.
But as a promise kept.
To be continued…