The dim glow of a bedside lamp bathed Meera's room in soft, golden light. The space was a sanctuary of her art and memories, the walls adorned with her sketches, every corner reflecting her passion. Yet tonight, none of it brought her comfort.
The faint creak of the door drew her gaze. Anuradha Malhotra, her mother, stepped inside, carrying a glass of milk. Her face was calm but tinged with a seriousness Meera couldn't ignore.
"Meera," Anuradha began, setting the glass on the side table and sitting beside her daughter on the bed. Her voice was gentle, but the weight of her words made Meera's heart sink. "Your father and your aunt Chandrika have been discussing your marriage."
Meera straightened, alarm flashing in her eyes. "Marriage?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"Yes," Anuradha said firmly. "To Aryan."
The name hit Meera like a thunderclap. Her hands clutched the edge of her blanket as she looked at her mother in disbelief. "Aryan? How, Mom? How could you even think of this? How can I marry someone else when my heart belongs to Shourya?"
Her voice cracked as she said his name, and tears brimmed in her eyes. Memories of Shourya flooded her mind—the laughter, the stolen glances, the dreams they had once shared.
Anuradha's face hardened. "Enough, Meera. Shourya has humiliated this family. He broke your trust and dragged your name through the mud. Do you think the world doesn't talk about you? About him?"
Meera shook her head vehemently, her tears spilling over. "I don't care what the world thinks! I love him, Mom. I always have. How can you ask me to forget everything and marry someone else?"
Anuradha's voice rose, cold and unyielding.
"Because this isn't just about you, Meera! This family has a name, a reputation. And your marriage to Aryan will silence every whisper, every scandal. It will be a statement—a slap in the face of Shourya's betrayal."
Meera's breath hitched. Her chest heaved as she tried to process her mother's words. "This isn't fair," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You're asking me to sacrifice my happiness?
"You'll do it," Anuradha said sharply, standing up.
"You'll marry Aryan, and you'll hold your head high. That's what a Malhotra does. You don't let someone like Shourya destroy your life."
Meera stared at her mother, her heart breaking under the weight of the decision being forced upon her. She felt trapped, her love for Shourya battling against the duty her family demanded of her.
As Anuradha walked out of the room, leaving the glass of milk untouched, Meera curled up on her bed, sobs wracking her body. The world around her seemed to crumble, and for the first time in her life, she felt utterly powerless.
The morning sun streamed through the windows of the Verma mansion as Shourya adjusted his cufflinks, preparing to leave for the office. His driver approached him at the entrance, holding a neatly folded envelope.
"Sir, someone gave me this letter to pass on to you," the driver said respectfully.
Shourya raised an eyebrow but took the envelope without much thought, slipping it into his pocket. "Alright."
The day unfolded with meetings and presentations, his sharp mind focused on the intricacies of running Verma Industries. Yet, as the hours passed, a nagging feeling tugged at the back of his mind—the letter.
By late afternoon, as he leaned back in his chair for a brief respite, the memory surfaced. Shourya pulled the envelope from his pocket and studied the handwriting on the front. His heart skipped a beat as he recognized the name.
Meera.
For a moment, he froze. Memories of her flooded his mind—the warmth of her laughter, the brightness of her eyes when she spoke of her art, the love they once shared. A pang of sadness pierced through him as he opened the letter with trembling hands.
Her words, written in her familiar delicate script, bled pain and longing onto the page:
*"Shourya,
I don't even know where to begin. These words feel so heavy, yet I have no one else to say them to. I'm not the same Meera you knew, and I don't think I ever will be again. You left, and with you, you took the part of me that believed in happiness.
Every day feels like I'm suffocating. I laugh when they tell me to, smile when they expect me to, but inside, I'm breaking. I hear your name in the silence, and it hurts because I know you're not coming back.
Now, they've decided I must marry Aryan—my aunt's son. They say it's for the family, for our name, for respect. What about me, Shourya? What about what I want? What about the love we promised each other?
You told me once that no matter what happened, we'd face the world together. But now, I'm here, alone, carrying the weight of our dreams that were never fulfilled. Do you feel it too? Or have you already moved on?
I know your life has changed. They say you have a wife now. Are you happy with her? Does she see the man I once saw? Or is she as lonely as I am, pretending to be fine while her heart aches?
I hate that I still hope, Shourya. I hate that every night, I pray you'll come back. But I know you won't. This is the end, isn't it?
I just needed you to know… no matter what, you are and will always be the only one in my heart.
I'll never stop loving you.
Goodbye, Shourya.
Meera"*
Shourya's grip on the letter tightened, his knuckles white as he reread the words. Each sentence was a dagger, slicing through the carefully built walls around his heart. Her pain was palpable, her words like screams echoing in the silence of his office.
He sat back, the letter trembling in his hands. His chest felt heavy, guilt and regret flooding his mind.
Her words haunted him: "I hate that I still hope."
Shourya's jaw clenched as he felt an unfamiliar sting in his eyes. He allowed himself to acknowledge the depth of her love, and the depth of his betrayal.
Rising abruptly, he walked to the bin and crumpled the letter in his hand. He threw it in, but it wasn't just the letter he was discarding—it was the part of himself that still dared to dream of her.