Day One.
The first of the two days Aarav asked for began with Meera waking on the living room floor, still wrapped in the shawl that smelled faintly of cinnamon and him. Snow framed the window like a quiet painting. The world outside was soft, almost unreal.
For the first time since his death, Meera made tea.
Not because she wanted to drink it. But because she remembered how Aarav said, "The world can be burning, but tea means it still turns."
She poured two cups.
One stayed untouched across from her.
She didn't cry. She stared at the steam until it vanished.
By noon, she wandered out of the house with Aarav's old camera slung around her neck. He hadn't used it in weeks before he passed, but she'd kept the battery charged, just in case. The lens cap was cracked. She left it on.
She walked the snowy path behind the cottage, following the trail they used to take during spring mornings, when the wildflowers bloomed like secrets across the hillside.
At the base of the hill was the bench they built together. Still there. Weathered, slightly tilted. Meera sat down.
"Okay," she whispered, as if he was watching. "One photo."
She raised the camera and took a picture of the sky.
Nothing special. No birds, no colors.
Just blue.
But to her, it felt like Aarav was still in it.
That evening, she read aloud to his grave.
It was a poem she'd written that afternoon:
"What if love isn't a flame, but a door— Opened once, but echoing forever."
Then, placing her hand on the stone, she said, "One day down. Don't get excited."
Day Two.
She woke to the smell of rain—not fresh rain, but petrichor rising from deep beneath the snow as it melted slightly under a warmer sun.
She had no plan. No ritual.
Just the haunting countdown: two days.
Aarav had asked for two more days of living.
But he never said what would happen after.
Was it permission to die? An invitation? A goodbye? Or maybe… was it something more?
Meera lit a fire. Cleaned the kitchen. She even laughed once—when she opened the fridge and saw the jar of pickle Aarav had sworn would "outlive us both."
She didn't know what moved her next. Maybe a whisper in her mind. Maybe memory. Maybe longing.
But she went upstairs.
And opened his Documentary Project folder.
"Love in Terminal Time."
It was the documentary Aarav had started recording shortly after they moved to the hills. The idea was simple—document their journey, their love, and how terminal illness doesn't mean the end of living.
He'd recorded hours of footage. Interviews. Confessions. Moments between treatments. Laughter and breaking down. She'd forgotten how much he filmed.
She clicked through file after file.
Until one video caught her breath.
It was dated exactly ten days before his death. She hadn't been home that day. She had gone to the town clinic to pick up his morphine.
The video started with a close-up of his face. Pale, worn, but eyes blazing.
He looked straight into the camera.
"If Meera is watching this," he said, smiling gently, "then either I'm dead, or she finally got curious before I was gone." He chuckled. "Either way… hi, jaan."
Meera leaned forward, her hands trembling as she clutched the table.
"I know you're mad at the world right now. Maybe at me too. But I left you something—one last twist in our story. Because you always said I never surprised you enough." He paused, looked away briefly, then back at the camera.
"I didn't tell you something."
Meera froze.
What?
Aarav continued.
"You remember that day in Delhi—the hospital visit where they said it was progressing too fast? That was when I asked Dr. Shah for my full records."
He reached out of frame and lifted a folder, tapping it.
"I found something in there. Something the doctor didn't tell you because I asked him not to."
He took a shaky breath.
"Meera… I had a choice. One final round of experimental treatment. Not guaranteed to help. Might've made the pain worse. But maybe—just maybe—buy me another month. Maybe two."
He paused.
"I didn't take it."
Meera's heartbeat surged in her ears.
"I didn't want our last days to be filled with tubes and beeping machines and hospital lights. I didn't want you to watch me fade in fluorescent silence. I wanted to die in our bed, in our home. I wanted you to remember me by the snow. By laughter. By love."
His voice cracked.
"I chose us. I chose now. I chose to go while you could still look at me and smile."
He looked into the camera with tear-glossed eyes.
"So if you're thinking about following me… just know—I already made the sacrifice. You don't have to."
He swallowed hard.
"Live for both of us, Meera. Please. Write the book. Publish the poems. Finish the documentary. Tell them what love really looks like. Even in dying."
Then, softer:
"Let me be the last person you bury. Not yourself."
The video ended.
Meera sat in stunned silence, staring at the black screen, tears streaming down her cheeks.
It wasn't just about two days.
It had been his final plea for her to stay.
That night, Meera didn't lie beside his grave.
She sat on the porch.
Laptop open.
Camera beside her.
Notebook in hand.
And the beginnings of a new poem on her lips.
To be continued…