The Last Letter

Aarav and Meher met in college, under the shade of a gulmohar tree where she used to sketch, and he used to read. Their friendship was soft and slow, like the monsoon that lingers before the rain.

Over time, their hearts intertwined in silence — not with loud promises, but with small acts. He saved her favorite seat in the library. She always brought him homemade tea in a flask. The world never saw them kiss, but it saw how they looked at each other — as if the other was a poem written just for them.

Then came life. Jobs, families, distances. Meher moved to another city. Aarav stayed behind, buried in work and unspoken love.

They never confessed. They never needed to. Or so they thought.

Years passed.

One morning, Aarav received a small envelope — no return address, just his name in familiar handwriting.

Inside was a letter:

> Dear Aarav,

If you're reading this, I am probably gone. Don't be sad — not for long. I just wanted to say... thank you.

Thank you for making my youth beautiful.

For letting me fall in love quietly.

You once asked me why I always drew under the gulmohar tree. It’s because you sat there. And I drew what I couldn’t say.

I never married. Not because I was waiting… but because I had already loved. Once. Fully.

I hope you smiled more than I did.

Love,

Meher

Aarav sat by the old gulmohar tree that evening, the letter in hand. Leaves fell slowly around him like time forgiving the moments they never took.

He whispered, “I loved you too.”

And for the first time in years, he wept.

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Moral: Not all love stories need a forever. Some are complete in the silence of what was felt… but never said.