I still remember the first time I saw her—Shweta—laughing under the school courtyard’s gulmohar tree, sunlight catching the edge of her braid. I was just Vicky, the scholarship boy from the other side of town. She was the heiress, untouchable. But then she smiled at me. Not out of pity. Out of something real.

We stole moments—bus rides, late calls, whispered promises. Her father found out. Lies started. He said I stole from her. That I only wanted her money. I tried to prove myself. I worked nights. I stayed away. But love doesn’t obey distance.

Then came the night he sent men after me. I woke up in a hospital bed, broken, barely breathing. I didn’t know she’d left her wedding for me. I didn’t know she’d stand by my side as I took my last breath.

Now I’m gone. But she’s still here. And I can feel her standing on the rooftop, wind in her hair, tears in her eyes. She’s about to make her choice. Will she jump? Will she let this world keep us apart, even in death?