Dr. Kavya Malhotra, First‑Person POV
The morning light in Leh was golden and deceptively calm as I woke to an empty cot. The world felt off‑balance without him beside me—the cold stillness in my bed a testament to all that had shifted since our first stolen kiss under gunfire. I dressed quietly in the early dawn, careful not to disturb the thin layer of papers and medical supplies scattered across the floor. Today was the last day he would be here; tonight, he would leave for his deployment to Kupwara.
I carried my satchel to the mess tent, heart lodged in my throat. The smell of chai and parathas drifted through the air, a reminder of routine even as time vaulted forward around me. Soldiers milled about, exchanging nods and tentative smiles. No one spoke of departure; the silence itself seemed an acknowledgement of what was coming.
He arrived midway through breakfast, uniform crisp, rifle slung lazily across his shoulder. His eyes searched the tent until they found me. Relief flooded his features when I rose to meet him; gratitude and sorrow mingled in his gaze.
"Kavya," he said softly, voice catching. He sat beside me, closing the distance that had felt immeasurable all night.
"Shash," I whispered, placing a hand on his. "I—"
He squeezed my fingers. "We still have today," he promised. "Let's make it count."
I nodded, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. "Tell me where you want to go."
The Ridge of Memories
He led me back to the abandoned observation post where we'd shared our first true moment of peace—before the gunfire, before everything changed. The canvas flapped in the breeze, its lanterns dark now, and the valley lay spread beneath us in muted greens and grays.
He handed me a thermos of tea, and we sat on the low stone wall, legs swinging over the drop. For a long moment, neither of us spoke, watching the world awaken—rivers carving through the valley, flags fluttering at distant posts, the mountains looming, indifferent.
"I want to leave something here," he said at last, voice low. He reached into his pocket and drew out a small, brass locket—inside, the photo of his younger brother, Rishi. "Take this," he said, pressing it into my hand. "Keep it until I return."
Tears stung my eyes. "Why me?"
"Because you'll remind me what I fight for," he replied. "And because I trust you to guard his memory."
I clasped the locket between my fingers, weighty with significance. "I will."
He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. "One more promise," he said. "No matter how far I go, I'll come straight back to you."
I closed my eyes, daring to believe him. "I promise I'll be here."
A Walk Through the Clinic
We wandered through the rows of cots—patients both soldier and civilian—each marked by a quiet struggle. He paused beside a young corporal shaken by memories of home; gently, he showed the corporal a breathing exercise I'd taught. Then he knelt by a teenage volunteer suffering frostbite, recounting a joke to coax a smile. I followed, heart swelling as I watched the man I loved become the healer he was born to be.
When he finished tending to the last patient, we stepped outside into the bracing air. I wrapped my arms around him from behind, pressing my cheek to the back of his coat.
"Don't go," I whispered.
He turned in my arms, hands on my hips, eyes dark with longing. "I have to," he said. "Duty calls."
I nodded, tears slipping free. "Then let me go with you."
He gently loosened my arms. "I need you to stay."
And for the first time, I understood the true weight of love and sacrifice.
Midday—Tea by the Cherry Blossoms
He led me to the grove of cherry trees—petals drifting like snowflakes against the blue sky. Underneath, we shared tea from a battered pot, our hands brushing across chipped cups.
He watched a petal drift to the ground. "Life goes on," he said softly. "Even after everything."
I lifted his hand, letting the petal rest on his palm. "So will we."
He smiled, though his eyes glistened. "You'll keep blooming, no matter the frost."
I drew him close. "Promise me you'll bloom too."
He pressed his forehead to mine. "I promise."
The Farewell
By late afternoon, the supply trucks rumbled at the tent perimeter. He donned his pack and weapon, every piece of gear a reminder of the danger he faced. I had nothing but my coat and the locket in my pocket.
We stood beneath the tent flap, the world contracting around us. He stepped forward, raising a hand to my cheek. "Remember," he said, voice thick. "I carry you with me."
"I carry you," I whispered. "Always."
He pressed a kiss to my palm, then saluted—half soldier's formality, half farewell. I returned his salute, heart pounding as he climbed onto the truck. The engine roared; he looked back once, lifting his hand. I stood unmoving until the truck's silhouette vanished between the ridges.
Night Surveillance—My Vigil
That night, sleep eluded me. I wrapped the locket around my neck and stepped outside, the cherry blossoms bathed in moonlight. I whispered into the empty air, "Come back to me."
I paced beneath the stars, clutching the locket and the promise of his return. Every gust of wind carried my hope farther into the dark.
Weeks of Solitude
In the days that followed, I maintained the clinic alone, guiding soldiers through nightmares and helping war widows navigate sudden emptiness. Each time I opened my satchel, my fingers brushed the locket—reminding me of what awaited at his return.
I wrote letters I never sent, imagining his face at each word:
I miss you beneath every sky...
The world feels less certain without your hand in mine...
I bundled the letters into a small box, tucking them away until his homecoming.
A Sign at Dawn
On the thirtieth morning, I found a single envelope pinned to the tent flap. No writing, only the jagged outline of a locket pressed into the paper. My heart stuttered as I tore it open:
At the cherry grove, dawn.
I raced through the pre‑dawn mist, clutching the box of letters. Under the blossoms, he stood—boots caked in snow but eyes alight with relief.
We ran to each other, colliding in an embrace so fierce it blurred the world. He pressed the locket into my hand. "I'm home," he said, voice hoarse from cold and emotion.
I pressed my forehead to his. "And I waited."
He smiled, love and gratitude mingling in his gaze. "Let's never be apart again."
I closed my eyes, the oaths we'd spoken echoing in my heart: two souls bound by promise, standing beneath blossoms that bloomed despite the frost—proof that even after the fiercest departure, love could guide us home.