The city was dressed in red.
Red banners. Red roses. Red spotlights lighting up the glass dome of TEDx New Delhi, where ideas worth spreading echoed off stage walls like gospel.
And tonight, Meera Kapoor was the closing speaker.
It was the kind of platform writers dreamed about, especially debut authors like her. But Meera wasn't dreaming.
She was reliving.
The TEDx team had reached out just a week after Two Days After You was published. The book had already climbed to bestseller charts, loved not for its grandeur, but for its brutal honesty about life, love, and terminal illness.
When they asked her if she wanted to speak about grief and resilience, she said yes—on one condition:
"I don't want to just talk about loss," she'd said. "I want to talk about what comes after."
And so, here she was, standing backstage in a cream kurta, her manuscript held like an anchor in her hand, waiting for her name to be called.
As technicians buzzed around, adjusting lights and mics, an intern approached her with a puzzled look.
"Excuse me, Ms. Kapoor?"
"Yes?"
"This was delivered to the speaker's desk this morning. It has your name on it… and, well, an older date."
He handed her a small, white envelope. On the back were words written in Aarav's unmistakable, messy script:
"Play only when you're about to speak to the world."
Her breath caught.
She tore it open gently. Inside was a USB drive and a note.
Meera, If you're seeing this, it means you did it. You kept going. I knew you would. And I know you're probably wearing that kurta I like—the one with the embroidered cuffs that you think makes your arms look weird (they don't).
Play this for them. Not for me. For us. With all the breath I had left, –Aarav
Her hands trembled as she walked up to the media booth.
"Can I queue a short video before my speech?" she asked.
"How short?"
"Three minutes. Maybe less."
The technician nodded. "We'll make it happen."
A few minutes later, a voice announced over the auditorium speakers:
"Please welcome our closing speaker, author of Two Days After You, Meera Kapoor."
As Meera stepped into the red circle, thunderous applause greeted her—but it felt far away, like she was moving underwater.
The spotlight warmed her skin.
She cleared her throat, then looked at the audience.
"Before I begin, I'd like you to hear a voice I've missed every day for the last two years."
She stepped aside.
The screen behind her flickered.
And then—Aarav appeared.
He was wearing a hospital gown and sitting in what looked like Room 408. A soft light fell across his face. He was thinner than Meera remembered, but his eyes still held that maddening spark.
"Hi."
The audience froze.
"I don't know who you are, or what day this is, but if you're watching me, it probably means Meera shared our story. And that's good. Because silence helps no one."
"I have cancer. Still do. Probably always will until… well, you know."
"But this video isn't about dying. It's about what living with love looks like when you know the clock's ticking."
He smiled faintly.
"People say love is about forever. That's crap. Love is about now. About messy breakfasts and inside jokes and holding someone's hand while your IV beeps like a dying alarm clock."
A few people in the audience laughed softly through tears.
"I'm not afraid to die. I'm afraid to be forgotten. And Meera… if she's standing there right now, then she made sure I won't be."
He looked directly into the lens.
"So to whoever's watching this—don't wait for a diagnosis to say what matters. Don't wait for tragedy to write your story. Love loudly. Fight kindly. And if you're lucky… find someone like her."
The screen faded to black.
Silence.
Then the auditorium erupted in applause. Not polite. Not respectful.
Roaring.
The kind that wraps around your ribs and lifts your heart to your throat.
Meera stepped forward again. Her voice shook, but she was steady.
"That was Aarav Sharma. My best friend. My lover. My soldier."
"He died two years ago. But he lives here now. In this circle. In these pages. In me."
"I used to think grief was something you got over. Like a cold. But I've learned it's something you carry. Like a second heartbeat. A quieter one. But just as real."
She paused, letting the weight of it settle.
"The greatest thing Aarav ever taught me wasn't how to be brave. It was how to be soft in the middle of pain. How to choose joy. How to believe that two broken people can still build something beautiful."
"And if you remember anything from tonight, remember this: The story doesn't end when someone dies. It ends when we stop telling it."
She stepped back.
The lights dimmed.
And the audience rose again, this time not just for her—but for them.
For a love that lived beyond blood counts and heartbeats.
Backstage, Meera sat down and exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for a year.
Her phone buzzed.
It was a message from Dev Mehta, the man from Kashmir who'd known Aarav.
"Just watched your TEDx live stream. Cried like a child. You gave him the legacy he deserved. Thank you."
She smiled, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Then typed:
"Thank you for reminding me that heroes aren't always loud. Sometimes, they're just people who keep showing up—until the end."
That night, Meera stood on the hotel rooftop, overlooking Delhi's skyline.
The moon was full.
And somewhere, beneath that same sky, she felt Aarav's laughter ripple through her like a warm breeze.
She didn't need proof.
She was the proof.
Of a love that survived.
Of a grief that taught her to bloom.
And of a voice—once lost—that still echoed in the world, long after the body was gone.
To be continued…