Ananya was six months pregnant when she stopped getting out of bed.
Their apartment was in an old residential building near the sea in Mumbai, where every morning the salty breeze drifted through the balcony, mingling with the distant sound of trains and the endless honking of traffic. She used to wake up early, brew masala chai, and stand by the window watching the sun rise over the Arabian Sea.
Now, she lay facing the wall, one hand resting on her belly, silent in a way that felt deeply unsettling.
Rajiv—her husband—assumed it was just pregnancy fatigue.
He brought her a glass of warm turmeric milk, adjusted her pillows, and said softly,
“Rest. I’ll take care of everything.”
Ananya nodded, but her eyes were hollow.
Three days passed.
Then five.
Then an entire week.
She didn’t bathe. She didn’t go outside. She didn’t open the curtains. When her mother-in-law called from their hometown to check on her, Ananya replied with only a few scattered words, as if she were barely holding herself together.
On the eighth night, Rajiv couldn’t take it anymore.
He sat on the edge of the bed and gently touched her shoulder.
“Ananya… you’re scaring me.”
There was no response.
A cold sense of dread crept up his spine.
Rajiv reached out… and lifted the blanket.
PART 2: THE LETTERS BENEATH THE BLANKET
Rajiv froze.
There was no blood.
No wounds.
Only letters.
Dozens of handwritten letters were neatly arranged across Ananya’s stomach, written in the familiar handwriting of his wife. Each one began with the same line:
“My beloved child…”
Rajiv’s hands trembled as he picked one up.
“If one day you read this letter, it means your mother was not strong enough to stay by your side…”
He struggled to breathe.
“Ananya… what are you doing?”
His voice cracked.
Tears soaked into the pillow. For the first time in days, Ananya turned to look at him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m afraid… I won’t have enough time to tell our child everything.”
Rajiv collapsed beside her, gripping her hand tightly.
“What do you mean?”
Ananya closed her eyes, as if gathering the last of her courage.
“The doctor called me while you were on your business trip to Pune,” she said.
“They said I have a rare complication. If I deliver naturally… the chances of me surviving are very low.”
The room went completely still.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Rajiv asked, his voice nearly begging.
“Because every night, I see you place your hand on my belly,” Ananya sobbed.
“That look in your eyes… I couldn’t take that away from you. I just wanted our child to know that no matter what happens to me, they were loved—before they were even born.”
Rajiv pulled her into his arms. For the first time in his life, he cried like a child.
“You don’t get to decide this alone,” he said through tears.
“We’re a family.”
PART 3: LETTERS THAT WERE NO LONGER GOODBYES
From that day on, Rajiv never left Ananya’s side.
He took an extended leave from work, took her to the best hospitals across Mumbai, met with leading specialists, and repeated every test possible. On nights spent waiting for results, he carried one of the letters in his pocket, reading it again and again—reminding himself that sometimes love begins with the fear of loss.
The delivery came earlier than expected.
The operating room was stark white, heavy with the smell of antiseptic. Rajiv stood outside, hands shaking, whispering prayers under his breath.
Then—a baby’s cry.
After what felt like an eternity, the doors finally opened.
The doctor smiled.
“Both mother and baby are safe.”
Rajiv collapsed into a chair, tears streaming down uncontrollably.
Months later, in their small apartment overlooking the Mumbai coastline, Ananya sat beside her baby’s cradle, carefully gathering the letters.
She didn’t throw them away.
She placed them into a wooden box and labeled it:
“Letters I wrote when I was most afraid—and loved you the most.”
Rajiv stood behind her, wrapping his arms around both mother and child.
He whispered,
“One day, you’ll read these. Not as goodbyes… but as proof that sometimes, love is stronger than death.”
Outside, the sea breeze drifted onto the balcony.
Ananya lifted her child and opened the window.
This time, she wasn’t writing farewell letters anymore.
She was alive—
and learning to believe that:
Some goodbyes are written… only so they never have to be used
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