It arrived at 2:43 a.m.
An email.
Subject line: "He Didn't Tell You Everything."
Meera had been half-asleep on her couch, Netflix murmuring in the background. She might've ignored the notification altogether—except the sender's name was unfamiliar.
Dr. Ishaan Dev.
And beneath the name: "Department of Oncology, Himadri Wellness Centre."
She sat up slowly.
That was the hospital in Dharamshala.
Aarav's hospital.
Fingers trembling, she opened the message.
From: Dr. Ishaan Dev To: Meera Sharma Subject: He Didn't Tell You Everything
Dear Ms. Sharma,
You don't know me, but I was Aarav's attending oncologist during his final six months. He spoke about you often — usually during late evenings, when the pain was worse and the truth came easier.
I debated for months whether to write this. Aarav didn't want you to carry more grief than you already would. But with the recent wave surrounding your book, I saw something in your letters — a strength I believe can carry this truth.
Aarav asked us to withhold one file from you. One that detailed an alternative trial he rejected.
A treatment that might've prolonged his life.
He chose not to take it.
There were risks, yes. No guarantees. But he could've had more time — a few months, maybe even a year.
I believe he didn't tell you because he feared you'd beg him to try. And he didn't want you to live with hope that might collapse.
But you deserve to know.
If you'd like, I can share the file.
Respectfully, Dr. Ishaan Dev Himadri Wellness Centre
Meera didn't blink for a full minute.
Her pulse raced. She read the email again. And again.
He chose not to fight longer?
Why?
They had fought every day. Every damn day. Together.
Hadn't they?
And Yuvi… had he known?
By 3:00 a.m., she was pacing the room.
At 3:07, she called Yuvi.
He picked up on the third ring, voice groggy. "Meera? What happened?"
"Did you know?" she asked.
Silence.
"Yuvi. Did you know about the alternate treatment?"
Long pause.
Then: "Yes."
Her heart sank.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because he asked me not to."
"You should've told me!"
"I wanted to! Meera, I nearly did so many times, but he begged me not to. He said… he said it would ruin the peace you'd built. That you'd blame yourself. Or worse—convince him to take it just to make you happy, even if he didn't believe in it."
"So you lied to me."
"I didn't lie. I... protected his choice."
Meera bit her lip to keep from screaming.
"You should've trusted me with the truth."
"I was trusting him," Yuvi said softly. "And I didn't think you'd ever forgive me if I betrayed that."
The line went quiet.
Then Meera whispered, "I don't know if I can forgive you now either."
She hung up.
That morning, Meera sat on her balcony, the sun just beginning to lift the city into gold.
She opened the email again.
Clicked reply.
Dear Dr. Dev, Yes. Please send the file. I need to know everything now.
—Meera Sharma
She didn't cry.
Not yet.
Anger had filled the space where grief used to sit.
By noon, the file arrived.
Aarav's file.
The report was 22 pages long. Scans. Medical notes. Doctor's recommendations.
Highlighted in yellow was the trial offer: Immune-C Response Therapy. Experimental. 38% success rate in slowing progression. Not a cure. But time.
And in Aarav's handwriting, scrawled on the final page:
"If I have six good months with her instead of twelve miserable ones, I'll take six. Let me go when the light is still golden. Don't let her remember me in tubes and silence. Let her remember me laughing."*
Her vision blurred.
The handwriting.
It was his.
So final. So deliberate.
He'd made the choice for her.
But without her.
She didn't know if that was love… or betrayal.
Or both.
The next day, she met Yuvi.
Not at their usual café.
But at Aarav's tree — the deodar tree in Dharamshala.
She didn't speak for a long time.
Yuvi waited.
Finally, she said, "He made the choice. But you helped him keep the secret."
Yuvi nodded. "I know."
"You said you saw him in pieces I didn't. Was this one of them?"
"Yes. And I hated it. I begged him to try. I told him he owed you that."
"What did he say?"
"He said, 'I don't want her last memory of me to be a body trying not to die.'"
Meera looked up at the sky.
Then at Yuvi.
"I thought I was part of every decision."
"You were. But in this one… he didn't want you to suffer false hope."
"But I would've rather suffered with him than lived with this silence."
Yuvi swallowed.
"I know. And I'm sorry."
She turned away.
"I'm tired, Yuvi. I've been strong for too long."
He stepped closer. "Then be tired. I'm here. I won't fix it. I'll just sit in it with you."
And for the first time, Meera didn't fight the ache.
She leaned into it.
And into Yuvi.
Not for answers.
But for air.
That night, she wrote again.
Not to Aarav.
Not to Yuvi.
But to herself.
"Dear Meera, You loved deeply. You hurt honestly. And you survived truth you didn't ask for. This is your strength: not that you avoided pain… but that you faced it, again and again. Now rest. Not because you're weak. But because you are brave enough to stop running. Let him go, if only for tonight. You are still here. And that matters."
The letter didn't fix everything.
But it reminded her who she still was.
And that maybe, just maybe, the final part of loving someone...
...is forgiving them for not including you in how they chose to leave.
To be concluded…