“The Last Letter”

The rain had not stopped for three days. It came in soft sheets against the window, washing away the dust but leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than the clouds above. Inside the small apartment, Ayaan sat at the wooden table, staring at the envelope in his hands. It was wrinkled now, worn from hours of being held but never opened.

It was from her.

He could recognize Zara’s handwriting anywhere — the way she curved her letters gently, like she was afraid of hurting the paper. It had been two months since she left, and every day since, he had told himself he wouldn’t open it. Not because he didn’t want to, but because once he did, it would mean the end — the final page of a story he wasn’t ready to finish.

The apartment still carried traces of her. The faint scent of jasmine in the hallway. Her favorite mug, chipped at the rim, sitting near the sink. Her laughter — or maybe the memory of it — echoing in the corners of his mind.

They had met five years ago, on a winter afternoon much like this one. She was a photographer, capturing moments that everyone else overlooked. He was a writer, always chasing words that could make sense of a feeling. Together, they built a world made of stories and stolen moments — coffee at midnight, long drives to nowhere, dreams whispered into the dark.

But love, as he learned, is not always enough.

When Zara got sick, she told him not to worry. “It’s just a fever,” she said with that same bright smile that made him believe her every time. But the fever didn’t fade, and soon, hospitals replaced cafés, and the smell of medicine replaced the scent of jasmine.

She fought quietly, never complaining, always hiding the pain behind jokes and photos of the sky. “Look,” she’d say, pointing at the sunset from her hospital window. “It’s still beautiful, isn’t it?”

He had wanted to tell her everything then — how afraid he was, how lost he felt — but he couldn’t. So instead, he smiled and took her hand.

The day she left, she whispered, “Don’t forget to live.” Those were her last words to him.

And now, sitting at the table with her unopened letter, he wondered what “living” even meant without her.

With trembling fingers, Ayaan finally tore open the envelope. The paper was soft, the ink slightly smudged as if tears had touched it before.

> My dearest Ayaan,

If you’re reading this, it means I couldn’t keep my promise. I’m sorry. I wanted to stay longer — to see the stories you’d write, to hear your laugh again, to walk by the sea one last time. But I guess some things aren’t meant to be.

Please don’t spend your life in the shadow of what we had. You gave me joy, more than you’ll ever know. You were my favorite photograph — the one I never wanted to fade.

Go live the life we dreamed of. Write your stories, take the long drives, feed the birds. And when you look at the sky and see a streak of light, think of me — just a little part of me, still loving you from far away.

Forever yours,

Zara

The words blurred as his tears fell onto the page. The rain outside grew heavier, as if the sky itself was mourning with him.

He sat there for a long time, the letter pressed against his chest. It was strange — the pain was unbearable, yet within it, there was a quiet peace. For the first time since she left, he felt her presence not in the empty spaces, but in the small, living things — the rain, the wind, the heartbeat that refused to stop.

That night, Ayaan went for a walk in the rain. He didn’t take an umbrella. The streets glowed with reflections of streetlights and memories. Somewhere between the sound of thunder and his own heartbeat, he whispered, “I’ll live, Zara. I promise.”

And though the wind carried no reply, he felt something warm brush against his skin — like a touch, soft and familiar.

Maybe it was her.

Maybe it was hope.

But for the first time, he smiled.