The Last Rain
August 3, 1990
It’s raining outside. The kind of soft, steady rain that feels like the sky is grieving with you. I sit beside Meera on the hospital bed, my old fingers wrapped around her fragile ones. Her breaths are faint. Her eyes closed. She hasn’t spoken in hours.
But I talk to her anyway.
“Do you remember, Meera?” I whisper, brushing a strand of grey hair from her face. “How you used to fuss over me like I was a child. You were always scolding me—feeding me when I refused, wrapping that stupid muffler around my neck even in April…”
A broken chuckle escapes me, laced with tears.
“You never let me forget my medicine. You used to yell when I forgot where I kept my spectacles, and I’d pretend to be annoyed… but truth is, I loved it. I loved being yours.”
“Who will yell at me now when I mess up?” I choke out. “Who will force me to eat when I skip meals out of stubbornness? Who will take care of me like you did, Meera?”
My grip tightens around her fingers, desperate, trembling.
“Are you listening to me?” My voice cracks. “You have to listen. Because I love you. You hear me, Meera? I love you.”
Her chest rises and falls, slow, steady… but distant. Like she’s halfway between this world and the next.
The monitor beeps gently. She doesn’t stir.
“I don’t know how to breathe without you. Who will I fight with over the TV remote? Who will threaten to leave the house every time I forget our anniversary—only to make tea for me ten minutes later?”
A sob escapes me. I don’t wipe my tears.
Tears slip silently down my face. I lean in closer, resting my forehead against her hand.
“I’m not ready, Meera. I never was. I thought… I thought we had more time.”
Outside, thunder rumbles softly. Rain kisses the windows.
I lean in again and press a kiss to her forehead. Her skin is still warm.
“I love you,” I whisper one last time. “Even if you forget me in your next life… I’ll find you.”
