Chapter 7: The Words That Stay
Rain tapped softly against the windows as David sat at Mavia's desk, the notebook open before him. A blank page stared back, its silence louder than grief.
He hadn't moved all morning.
Time had become water—slipping through his fingers faster the more he tried to hold it. Since meeting Zayan, something in him had shifted. Not peace. Not closure. Just a soft cracking open.
Forgiveness, maybe. Or at least the shape of it.
He wasn't just mourning anymore.
He was remembering with purpose.
And building something in the wreckage.
---
The room still carried Mavia's scent—old books, sandalwood, and something faintly citrusy. David had preserved it all like an exhibit: the cluttered shelves, the crooked desk lamp, even the sticky note on the mirror that read "Look up. You're still here."
He kept the window cracked open, the way Mavia always had. The breeze brought in the smell of wet earth, and the dust in the sunlight floated like ghosts caught mid-dance.
David glanced down at the notebook. Its spine was worn now, the edges feathered. Pages filled with two voices—Mavia's scribbled confessions and David's careful, quiet replies.
He opened his laptop and clicked into a blank document.
His fingers hovered over the keys.
Then, slowly, he typed:
> The Last Message
A Story by David Khan
For Mavia.
For the things you couldn't say.
And the ones I didn't know how to hear.
He sat back.
Even that much left him winded.
A knot formed in his chest—not pain, exactly. More like pressure. A question he couldn't answer.
Would this be enough?
Footsteps padded softly outside the door.
Then Meher appeared, a mug of tea in her hands, her hair pulled into a loose braid. She looked like she hadn't slept in days—but there was something steady in her eyes. Something that hadn't been there a week ago.
"You're writing it," she said quietly.
David nodded without looking up. "Trying to."
She set the mug beside him. The tea was too sweet. Just how they used to drink it as kids, when they thought sugar could solve anything.
"I think it's time," he murmured.
"To let him go?" Meher asked.
He shook his head. "To make him stay."
---
Later, they opened the second shoebox—the one not meant for grief but for memory. Inside were fragments of Mavia's life: Polaroids, gum wrappers, half-drawn sketches, dried flower petals between notebook pages.
Receipts from bookstores.
A rusted charm bracelet with one missing link.
And at the very bottom, a packet of lavender seeds.
Meher's breath caught. "He kept those."
David turned the packet over. A message was scrawled on the back in Mavia's slanted, hurried handwriting:
> "Grow things—even when you can't grow yourself."
David felt the words land deep. Deeper than reason. Like something sacred had touched the hollow places inside him.
He looked at Meher.
She was already crying, but smiling too.
"He laughed when I gave them to him," she said. "Told me he'd probably kill them in a week."
"You said they were low-maintenance."
"Yeah," she nodded. "The opposite of him."
They both laughed—shaky, broken laughter. The kind that only came after days of not laughing at all.
---
That evening, David sat alone, typing.
The story didn't come like a river.
It came like stitching a wound—slow, careful, each word pulling at something deeper. He didn't write it like a memoir. He wrote it like a heartbeat. A love letter to the boy who never knew how much space he'd taken up in the world.
The boy who kept quiet so others wouldn't worry.
The boy who screamed through ink and tape and torn pages.
---
The next morning, David uploaded the first chapter to a quiet writing forum. Nothing big. Just a small platform where strangers came to whisper stories into the dark.
He titled it simply:
> The Last Message
He hit publish.
He didn't expect anyone to read it.
He just wanted it out there.
For Mavia. For whoever else might need it.
---
That night, a single message arrived.
Subject: Reader Feedback — The Last Message
David hovered over it before opening.
> I don't know who you are. But thank you.
My brother died last year. He was like Mavia—quiet, kind, carrying too much.
Your story made me realize he wasn't weak.
Just tired.
Just human.
Your friend mattered.
So does this story.
David blinked hard.
Then whispered aloud: "You mattered, Mavia."
---
The following morning, he returned to the cemetery.
The clouds hung low, and the wind tugged at his coat like a child begging to be heard. David sat beside the gravestone, cross-legged, a printed copy of the story in hand.
He read it aloud.
Every word.
Even the ones that made his voice tremble.
Even the ones that broke him.
No one interrupted. No birds sang. But the silence felt different now—less like absence, more like a listening ear.
When he finished, he placed the pages beneath the flowers Meher had left.
"I'm telling your story," he whispered. "And people are reading it."
The wind stirred again. Cold. Gentle.
"It's not enough," David admitted. "But maybe it's something."
---
Back home, Meher was in the garden, kneeling beside a small ceramic pot, planting the lavender seeds.
Without a word, David joined her.
They worked side by side, dirt under their nails, silence hanging like a third companion between them.
"You think he'd like this?" she asked.
David pressed the last seed down. "He wanted to grow. Even when he didn't think he could."
Meher smiled. "Then let's grow something for him."
---
That night, David couldn't sleep.
The house felt alive again—but gently. Like it was breathing around them, holding space for their healing.
He wandered into Mavia's room and picked up the voice recorder from the nightstand.
He hadn't played it in days.
He pressed play.
> Test. One, two, three...
I hate the sound of my voice. But I'm doing this anyway.
Maybe I'll delete it. Maybe I won't.
I just needed to say it out loud—once.
Sometimes, I think people like me aren't meant to be understood.
We're meant to be felt.
David felt me.
That was enough.
I hope he knows.
David closed his eyes, holding the recorder to his chest.
He saved the audio file to his computer and uploaded it as a bonus chapter online: "Mavia, Unfiltered."
By morning, the story had been shared 112 times.
---
Three new messages had come in.
One read:
> My son hasn't spoken to me in months. I thought he was just angry.
Now I'm wondering if he's hurting.
I'm going to talk to him tonight.
Thank you.
Another simply said:
> I was planning to end my life next week.
But this story made me wait.
Maybe that's enough—for now.
David didn't cry.
Not exactly.
But something inside him softened.
For the first time in weeks, he felt… steady.
Not whole.
But strong enough to stay.
---
That evening, he returned to the notebook.
He flipped past all the old pages, past Mavia's sketches and scrawled lyrics and torn-out corners.
He found a blank space.
And wrote:
> You didn't finish your last message.
So I will.
You mattered.
You were heard.
You are still being heard.
And the silence you left behind will never be louder than your story.
He paused.
Then added:
> —David.
For Mavia.
For all the ones who stay too late.
And the ones who leave too soon.
---
Outside, the wind shifted.
The curtains fluttered like soft wings.
David didn't turn toward the doorway.
He didn't need to.
He smiled faintly, closed the notebook, and whispered into the dark:
"I know it was you."
---
End of Chapter