First‑Person POV – Kavya
I never know how to wake up without him beside me, the emptiness of our cot a cruel reminder of his absence. The dawn light seeps through the thin canvas, pale and hesitant, as though unsure the world is ready for another day. Outside, the wind whispers against the tent, carrying echoes of artillery and far‑off thunder. I pull my shawl tighter around my shoulders and sit up, heart tightening in my chest. Today is the day the ceasefire ends. Today is the day everything changes.
At first light, I slip into my clinic coat and step outside. The air is brittle, as cold as a polished blade. My boots crunch on frozen mud. I walk to the cherry grove—our secret haven—where lanterns still hang from leafless branches, their glass diffusing the dim glow of morning. I rest my palms on the rough bark of the trunk, tasting tears on my lips.
I remember him here: his eyes closing against the chill, how he once whispered, "Stay with me," and I did, pressing close enough to feel his pulse beneath my ear. I trace a line down the bark, a silent promise: "I'm here."
A soldier passes by, nodding. I force a smile. Duty calls for healing; my grief must wait.
Back in the tent, I arrange my satchel for the morning's intake clinics: forms, pens, a small wooden box of relics—Sepoy Yadav's lucky coin, a blood‑stained glove, a silver map pendant. Each object is a piece of my heart, each symbol a fragment of his story.
I steel myself for the first patient: a young lieutenant, eyes hollow from frostbite nightmares. I guide him through grounding exercises, but my mind drifts to Shashwat—his storm‑grey eyes, the way his voice cracked when he spoke of home. I grip my pen tighter, drawing on every ounce of training to remain present.
The mess bell clangs at 0900 hours. I step into the makeshift canteen for tea, expecting my usual solitude. Instead, I find Shashwat standing by the urn, uniform immaculate, medal bar shining faintly in the morning light. My breath catches.
He hands me a steaming cup. "Thought you'd need this," he says simply. The warmth seeps into my fingers, but it's his presence that scorches my chest.
I blink back tears. "You're early."
He shifts, casting a glance to the door. "They delayed the ceasefire end by an hour. I had a moment."
Moments with him are priceless, fragile—stolen from the world. I nod, voice soft. "I'm glad."
He offers me a small smile—one that once made my world bloom. "Me too."
We slip away from the canteen into the corridor where empty stretchers line the walls. The clang of the mess bell still echoes behind us. I lean against a stretcher. He stands close enough that I feel his warmth through the layers of cloth.
"You shouldn't fraternize," I whisper, heart pounding.
He reaches for my hand. "Rules were made to keep us apart. I want a moment of truth."
His fingers entwine with mine—calloused, strong, unwavering. I press my palm against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.
"Promise me," he breathes. "Promise me we'll have this, no matter what comes."
I close my eyes. "I promise."
His lips brush mine—gentle, questioning. It's a kiss born of longing held too long, of fear and defiance entwined. My fingers tangle in his hair as I return it, deeper now, as if to seal the promise between us.
When we part, the world rushes back: distant shouts, a tumble of orders, the gunmetal clang of rifles. He presses his forehead to mine. "Stay safe," he whispers.
"Bring me back," I counter.
He nods, voice fierce. "Always."
Then he moves away, boots echoing, as I stand rooted, heart raw and alive.
An hour later, the sirens wail—a jarring shriek that shatters peace. I rush outside to find soldiers scrambling for cover. Bullets rake over sandbags, the air erupting in percussion.
I freeze, heart lurching between terror and resolve. Then I see him, shielded by a wall of sandbags, rifle at the ready. His eyes lock on mine: Kavya—get down.
I duck beside him, breath catching as rounds rip stone at our feet. His arm wraps around me, anchor and armor. I press into him, tasting smoke and adrenaline, feeling every thunderous beat of his heart against my ear.
"Stay low," he commands. His voice is calm, clinical. Then softer: "I need you."
I nod, tears stinging. "I'm here."
For a moment, the world narrows to the curve of his shoulder and the tremor of his finger on the trigger. Then a lull—a sudden blank space in the chaos. He leans close. "Kiss me," he murmurs.
"No," I gasp, heart torn between fear and all‑consuming desire.
"Yes," he insists, voice firm. "Trust me."
I close my eyes as his lips find mine in the midst of gunfire, a fierce kiss that shouts our love against the roar of war. His arms cradle me, holding me in a moment suspended between life and death.
When we break apart, a mortar lands nearby—dust and rubble shower us. He pulls me behind a shattered slab, rifle up again. "I love you," he breathes, eyes thunderous.
"I love you," I reply, voice steel beneath tears.
Then he's gone—slipping into the fray, the soldier returning to duty.
I stay low, guiding the wounded one after another—cleansing wounds, applying tourniquets, murmuring reassurances. Yet every time I close my eyes, I see his scarred face, hear his dying words against my lips.
By the time the breach ends, the sky is streaked with smoke. Soldiers drag stretchers back to the tent; the wounded groan beneath blankets. I collapse against a wall, shaking, the weight of grief and relief colliding.
A hand touches my shoulder. It's Captain Singh, eyes solemn. "He covered you," Singh says. "We owe him our lives."
I nod numbly. "I know."
He squeezes my shoulder, then moves on. I stare at the ground, the echo of that kiss blazing inside me.
That evening, orders arrive: Shashwat's unit is being redeployed—Kupwara sector. He must leave at dawn. The news lands like a blow to my chest.
I find him in the corridor outside the mess. He's reading his orders by lantern light, face pale. He looks up at me, hope and sorrow warring in his eyes.
"He's being pulled out?" I whisper.
He nods, biting his lip. "I didn't expect it so soon."
I swallow. "Will you come back?"
He folds the paper, stepping closer. "I'll come home if I can."
I reach for his hand. "Promise me you'll return."
He clasps my hand in both of his. "I promise."
We hold each other in silence—two souls tethered by that single vow.
That night, I stand outside our tent under the cherry blossoms, moonlight illuminating petals like soft snow. I clutch the locket he gave me—the photo of Rishi smiling, frozen in time. I press it to my lips and whisper, "Come back."
He emerges from the tent, face haunted but determined. He crosses to me, eyes catching the moonlight.
"Stay with me," I plead, voice trembling.
He wraps me in his arms. "I have to go. But I carry you with me—in every breath."
I raise my face to his. "Then breathe for both of us."
He kisses me—tender, fierce, a final promise in the light of the full moon.
When we part, I press the locket into his palm. "For luck."
He nods, tears glinting. "Goodbye, my heart."
At first light, I follow him to the landing pad—a ring of sandbags and thrumming rotors. He stands by the helicopter, pack strapped tight, helmet in hand. We exchange a soldier's salute—perfect form, hollow emotion.
Then we abandon protocol: he drops the salute and pulls me close. I bury my face in his chest, breathing the scent of pine and metal. He holds me as though letting go will break him.
"I'll be back," he whispers, voice muffled by fabric.
I pull away, meeting his eyes. "I'll wait."
He presses one last kiss to my forehead, then steps onto the skids. The rotors spin up, wind tearing at my hair. I hold the locket higher, watching as the chopper lifts him away—each foot of ascent carving distance through my soul.
I stay until the drone of blades fades, then turn toward the cherry trees. Petals drift around me like silent tears.
I return to the cherry grove, where lanterns now hang like fallen stars. I light one candle, placing it at the base of the trunk. I press my palm to the wood.
"Here," I whisper, "we wait."
The cherry petals swirl in the breeze. My tears fall on frozen earth, blossoming into a promise: I will carry on. I will save lives. I will write letters he'll one day read.
Because hope, like love, can flourish in the coldest places.
And I will keep waiting to be his.