The Last Letter of Love

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The Last Letter of Love

The rain had been falling since dawn — not the harsh, angry kind, but soft, rhythmic drops that whispered against the windowpane like someone tapping gently to be let inside. Ayesha sat curled in her armchair, a cup of steaming tea in her hands, the warmth seeping into her fingers. The faint aroma of cardamom rose from the cup, but she barely noticed. Her attention was on the old diary resting on her lap — its pages slightly yellowed, edges worn from years of being opened and closed.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she turned each page. Every entry was a piece of her past, a moment frozen in ink. Some made her smile faintly, some brought a sting to her eyes. And then she came upon it — the chapter she both dreaded and longed to read. She didn’t need to see the name written there to know whose story it was. It was the chapter of Ahmed.

She closed her eyes, and just like that, the years melted away. She could see him clearly — the first time they met at a college event. The auditorium had been buzzing with voices, laughter, the clinking of cups and plates. And then, in that crowd, she had caught sight of him. Ahmed stood a little apart, leaning casually against the wall, a faint smile playing at his lips as he watched the stage. There was something about his eyes — calm, deep, and warm — that made her feel as though she had known him all her life.

They met by chance that day, introduced through a mutual friend. Ayesha remembered how awkwardly she had smiled, and how easily his smile had dissolved her hesitation. His voice had been gentle, yet carried a strength that made her want to listen to him forever.

From that day, their paths kept crossing — in the library, at the café across the street, at the bus stop. Soon, they no longer waited for chance. They began meeting deliberately, sharing coffee, exchanging notes, telling each other about their dreams. Somewhere in those stolen hours, friendship turned into something deeper, something unspoken but undeniable.

Ahmed once told her, “Ayesha, you are the answer to a prayer I have been making for years.”

She had laughed softly and replied, “And you are the fragrance that brought spring into my life.”

It was a quiet love, the kind that didn’t need grand declarations. It lived in shared silences, in the way he’d walk on the side of the road closest to traffic, in the way she’d bring him tea exactly how he liked it — with two spoons of sugar and just enough milk to turn it the color of caramel.

But life, as it often does, had other plans. One evening, Ahmed’s tone was heavier than usual when he said, “We need to talk.” They sat at their favorite bench in the park, the one under the jacaranda tree. He avoided her eyes as he spoke. His family had arranged his marriage to a girl they had chosen — the daughter of his father’s closest friend. He had protested, argued, even pleaded. But his parents’ decision was final.

“I wanted us to be one,” he said, finally looking at her, his eyes wet with a pain that mirrored her own. “But perhaps fate has other plans for us.”

That day, the world seemed to lose its colors. Even the rain, which had begun as they sat there, felt like a cruel reminder of everything slipping away. Ayesha went home, her clothes soaked, but the real storm was inside her.

Ahmed’s wedding happened quietly; she didn’t attend. And just like that, he was gone from her life.

Years passed. Ayesha threw herself into her studies, then into her job. She became someone people admired for her independence and strength. But only she knew how much of her strength was just armor over an old wound.

Every time it rained, she would stand by the window, looking out at the wet streets, imagining Ahmed somewhere in the world, perhaps looking at the rain too. She never reached out to him — some wounds were too delicate to reopen.

Then, one gray afternoon much like this one, the sound of the doorbell pulled her out of her thoughts. The postman stood there, holding an envelope. She thanked him absently, but when her eyes fell on the handwriting, her breath caught. The name in the top corner read: Ahmed bin Saleem.

Her hands shook as she tore open the envelope. The letter inside was written in a hand she knew as well as her own.

> Ayesha,

By the time you read this, I will no longer be in this world. For the past six months, I have been battling a terminal illness. I wanted to see you, but I was afraid — afraid you’d break seeing me this way. I felt the pain of losing you when I was alive, and now, one last time, I want to tell you — you are the most precious prayer of my life, one that was never fulfilled, but always lived in my heartbeat. If I get another life, I will find you first.

Ahmed.

Two faint marks blurred the ink — perhaps raindrops, perhaps his tears.

Ayesha pressed the letter to her chest, closing her eyes. Outside, the rain had grown heavier, drumming against the glass in an endless rhythm. She could almost feel him there, standing just beyond the window, smiling the way he used to.

Memories rushed back in a flood — the sound of his laugh, the way he’d tease her about being too serious, the time he had run through the rain just to bring her a notebook she’d forgotten. She remembered the park bench, the scent of jacaranda blossoms, the quiet moments that had felt like entire lifetimes.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, clutching the letter, her tears mingling with the rain’s reflection on the glass. The world outside blurred, but in her heart, something felt strangely clear — a sense that love, real love, never truly dies. It simply waits, quietly, for its moment to return.

For the first time in years, Ayesha unlatched the window. The cool air swept in, carrying the scent of wet earth and something else — something warm, familiar, almost like him. She stepped forward, stretching her hands into the rain, feeling it wash over her skin.

“Ahmed,” she whispered, her voice trembling but sure, “I’ll find you in the next life too.”

And somewhere, she believed, he heard her.

The rain kept falling.

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