The kettle whistled, and Meera poured hot water into two mugs, out of habit. She always made two cups — one for herself, and one for Aryan. Even now.
But Aryan wasn't coming back.
The calendar on the wall was stuck on October 3rd, the day he left. A small red heart was scribbled in the corner — their anniversary. They had fought that morning. It was about something silly. Meera couldn't even remember what it was now. He had slammed the door, angry, and gone out to clear his head.
He never came back. A drunk driver hit his bike.
Now, Meera lived in a house that echoed with silence.
Every day since his death, she'd brewed two cups of tea. She would place one across from her on the table, as if he might walk in and tease her for how weak she made his tea. Then, she'd sit, stare at the steam rising from the untouched cup, and let her tears fall freely.
Today was no different.
Except… it was.
Today, she opened the old wooden drawer in the corner of their study. Aryan used to keep all his scribbles there — poems, napkin notes, half-written songs. She found one she had never seen before. Folded carefully. With her name on it.
*"Meera,If you're reading this… then I didn't get to say goodbye.
I want you to know, I was never angry at you. I could never be. I left the house to cool my head, but all I thought about was how lucky I was to have you, even when we fought.
If something happens to me, I need you to keep living. Not just breathing — living.
Travel. Laugh until your stomach hurts. Wear that mustard yellow dress I hated. Sing, even if you're off-tune.
And Meera, please… don't wait for me over cups of tea.
But if you ever do… add an extra spoon of sugar. Just how I liked it.
Forever yours,Aryan."*
Meera didn't cry that night.
Instead, she brewed one cup of tea. Just one.
And she added an extra spoon of sugar.
Then she opened the window, let the breeze in, and for the first time in months — she smiled.