They met the way most important things begin—by accident, with no warning and no sense of consequence.
It was raining the first time Aarav noticed Meera. He had ducked into the old public library near the bus stand, annoyed at the delay and irritated by the dampness clinging to his jeans. She was standing near the return counter, shaking rain from her hair like she was trying to wake herself up. A few drops landed on the pages of the book she was holding, and she looked genuinely distressed, as if the book had feelings she had hurt.
"Paper towels?" Aarav offered, holding out a handful he had stolen from a café.
She looked at him, surprised, then smiled. "You just saved a life," she said solemnly, dabbing at the pages. "This book has survived three owners and one flood. It didn't deserve this."
That was how it started. A joke. A smile. A conversation that refused to end.
They began meeting at the library without calling it a habit. Aarav liked history, Meera loved poetry, and they compromised by sitting together and reading separate things, occasionally interrupting each other with sentences they found beautiful. He noticed how she underlined lines with a pencil, never a pen, as if she believed words should always have a way out. She noticed how he cracked the spine of books without guilt, believing stories were meant to be lived inside, not preserved.
They fell in love slowly, which felt safe. Like a mutual decision rather than a fall.
Meera worked part-time at a stationery shop and dreamed of publishing a book of poems someday. Aarav was studying engineering because it felt practical and disappointed his parents less than art ever would. They talked about the future carefully, like people handling glass—always aware it could break if held too tightly.
"I don't need a big life," Meera said once, sitting on the library steps at sunset. "Just a meaningful one."
Aarav looked at her and thought, You are the meaning.
But love rarely asks what people think they deserve.
The first crack appeared quietly. Meera started cancelling plans, brushing it off as tiredness. She laughed the same, smiled the same, but Aarav noticed how she touched her chest sometimes, just briefly, like she was reassuring her heart that it was still there.
"It's nothing," she insisted. "Just stress."
He wanted to believe her. Love often believes lies when the truth feels too frightening.
The diagnosis came on a Thursday. A rare heart condition. Treatable, the doctor said, but unpredictable. Careful living. No unnecessary strain. No guarantees.
Aarav sat very still as the words settled. Meera reached for his hand first.
"Hey," she said softly. "I'm still here."
But suddenly, here felt temporary.
They tried to live normally after that, but normal had changed its meaning. Aarav watched her more closely. Meera pretended not to notice. They argued for the first time because he insisted on walking slower and she hated feeling fragile.
"I don't want to be loved like I'm breaking," she snapped.
"I just don't want to lose you," he said.
That sentence stayed between them, heavy and unfinished.
Meera began writing more. Poems filled her notebooks—about time, about unfinished sentences, about love that arrives knowing it must leave early. Aarav read them secretly, feeling like he was holding pieces of her he wasn't meant to keep.
One evening, she handed him a notebook.
"If something happens," she said casually, "I want you to have this."
"Don't talk like that," he said sharply.
She smiled sadly. "Someone has to be honest."
They stopped planning far ahead. No "someday," no "after graduation." Their love existed in smaller units now—this walk, this meal, this moment. It was intense and exhausting and unbearably precious.
The night it happened was ordinary in every way that mattered.
They were in the library again, the rain tapping softly against the windows. Meera was reading aloud, her voice calm, almost peaceful.
"'To love is to accept the ending before the beginning,'" she read, then looked up. "Do you agree?"
Aarav opened his mouth to argue—he always argued—but she suddenly went quiet. Her book slipped from her hands.
"Meera?" he whispered.
She looked at him, eyes unfocused but gentle. "I'm glad it was you," she said.
Those were her last words.
The hospital was all white walls and helpless waiting. Doctors spoke. Machines beeped. Aarav heard everything and nothing. When they finally told him, he nodded like someone accepting instructions he didn't understand.
Meera was gone.
The library closed for renovation the next month. Aarav stopped going there anyway. He carried her notebook everywhere, though he rarely opened it. When he finally did, weeks later, the last page held a single poem.
If I leave early,
don't say love failed.
Say it was brave enough
to stay anyway.
Years passed.
Aarav graduated. He worked. He lived. People said time heals, but he learned that time doesn't heal—it teaches you how to walk with the wound.
Sometimes, when it rains, he stands outside a library somewhere, listening to water hit the ground, remembering a girl who loved books like they were alive.
Their love did not last.
But it was real.
And sometimes, that is the saddest ending of all.