The Last Dance

 

Deepika had always loved dancing. Ever since she was a little girl, she would twirl and spin in her mother’s dresses, pretending to be a ballerina. She dreamed of performing on the big stage, of being admired by the audience, of feeling the music in her veins.

Hrithik had always loved music. Ever since he was a little boy, he would play his father’s piano, composing melodies and harmonies. He dreamed of creating masterpieces, of being praised by the critics, of feeling the passion in his fingers.

They met at the conservatory, where they both enrolled to pursue their dreams. Deepika was a dancer, Hrithik was a composer. They were assigned to work together on a project, a ballet inspired by Romeo and Juliet. They soon discovered that they had a lot in common, not only their love for art, but also their sense of humor, their values, their hopes.

They fell in love, as naturally as breathing. They complemented each other perfectly, like two halves of a whole. Deepika brought joy and light to his life, he brought depth and warmth to hers. They supported each other through the challenges and celebrated each other’s achievements. They were happy.

But fate had other plans for them. A war broke out, and he was drafted to fight for his country. Hrithik had to leave her behind, promising to return as soon as possible. Deepika had to stay behind, praying for his safety every day. They wrote letters to each other, expressing their love and longing.

They waited for the day when they could be reunited, when they could finish their ballet, when they could dance together again.

But that day never came.

Hrithik was killed in action, by a stray bullet that pierced his heart. Deepika received the news on a cold winter morning, along with his last letter. He had written it the night before he died, telling her how much he missed her, how much he loved her, how much he wanted to see her again.

She felt her world shatter into pieces. She felt her heart break into fragments. She felt her soul die with him.

She stopped dancing. She stopped living.

She spent her days in grief and despair, locked in her room, clutching his letter to her chest. She ignored the calls and visits from her friends and family, who tried to comfort her and persuade her to move on. She had no interest in anything else but him.

She wanted to join him.

She decided to end her life, on the anniversary of their first meeting. She dressed in her best gown, the one he had bought for her on her birthday. She put on his favorite perfume, the one he had given her on their anniversary. She wore his ring, the one he had proposed to her with on Valentine’s Day.

She went to the conservatory, where they had met and fallen in love. She entered the auditorium, where they had rehearsed and performed their ballet. She climbed onto the stage, where they had danced and kissed for the last time.

She took out a bottle of poison, which she had stolen from the pharmacy. She opened it and raised it to her lips.

But before she could drink it, she heard a familiar sound.

It was his music.

It was coming from the piano in the corner of the stage, where he used to play for her while she danced. It was their song, the one he had composed for their ballet.

She looked at the piano and saw him sitting there, smiling at her.

He was wearing his uniform, stained with blood. He was holding a letter in his hand, the one he had written to her before he died.

He spoke to her with his voice, soft and gentle.

“Hello, my love.”

She gasped and dropped the bottle. She ran towards him and threw herself into his arms.

“Hello, my darling.”

They hugged and kissed each other with tears in their eyes. They felt each other’s presence with joy in their hearts. They felt each other’s love with peace in their souls.

They spoke to each other with words of affection and gratitude.

“I missed you so much.”

“I missed you more.”

“I love you so much.”

“I love you more.”

“I’m sorry I left you.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not your fault either.”

They looked at each other with eyes of admiration and devotion.

“You’re so beautiful.”

“You’re so handsome.”

“You’re so talented.”

“You’re so amazing.”

“You’re my everything.”

“You’re my everything too.”

They held each other’s hands with fingers of tenderness and loyalty.

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

“Will you dance with me?”

“Yes.”

They stood up and walked to the center of the stage. He put his arm around her waist and she put hers around his neck. They looked into each other’s eyes and smiled.

They began to dance to the rhythm of their song. They moved with grace and elegance, as if they had never stopped. They danced with passion and emotion, as if they had never parted.

They danced their last dance, as if it was their first.

They danced until the music stopped.

They danced until the poison took effect.

They danced until they died.

They died in each other’s arms, on the stage where they had met and fallen in love.

They died with a smile on their faces, knowing that they were together again.

They died with a letter in their hands, the one that said:

“I’ll see you soon, my love.”

The end.

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