"The Beginning of the End" by Pragyan Parui
*This is part one of a longer story. Continue reading this story on Neobook.
*CW: swearing
Aarav Verma had always been a mystery. A celebrated writer whose words could cut deep into the soul, he had spent years weaving stories that touched hearts, but none had ever felt so personal -- until now.
Then, one quiet evening, an announcement sent ripples through the literary world: Aarav Verma's final novel was coming.
The Final Chapter.
No explanation. No interviews. Just a simple statement posted online:
Image Description: An aged but well-preserved typewriter sits on the corner of a dark desk. The typewriter is black with silver keys and embellishments. An old, brown, hardcover book and an antique lamp sits nearby. The room is dimly lit. A small fern sits in a window in the corner.
Credit: Daria Kraplak / Unsplash
"This is the only story I was ever meant to write."
The words echoed. Readers speculated. Critics dissected. Was it an elaborate farewell? A marketing trick? Or something more?
Aarav himself remained unreachable, his usual silence how heavier, more profound. His publisher barely heard from him, his closest friend Ajay, found his presence fleeting. But the manuscript arrived -- each page trembling with raw emotion, as if it had been ripped from his very being.
A Love Story Too Real
Ajay sat alone in his dimly lit apartment, the cold glow of a single lamp casting long shadows across the wooden floor. His hands trembled as he opened the package -- Aarav's final manuscript. He had been one of Aarav Verma's greatest fan, but even he hadn't seen this coming. The world was searching for Aarav, but Ajay held what felt like the last piece of him in his hands.
Taking a deep breath, he flipped the first page.
"It was a cold winter night when I first saw her.
The streets of Delhi were slick with rain, the neon lights of coffee shops and bookstores shimmering in the puddles at my feet. I wasn't meant to be there that night -- I had simply wandered, lost in my own head, until I found myself ducking under the awning of a small bookshop to escape the downpour.
And then, I saw her.
She was standing just a few feet away, the hood of her coat drawn over her head, shielding her from the drizzle. Her eyes were dark, unreadable, but they held something -- something that made my breath catch. I don't know if it was longing or sadness, but it was a feeling I recognized.
"Waiting for the rain to stop?" I asked.
She turned to me, studying me for a moment before nodding. 'Aren't we all?'
A faint smile tugged at the corner of my lips. 'I suppose we are.'
That was the first time I met her. A fleeting moment, an exchange of words between strangers, yet something about it settled deep within me."
Ajay turned the page, his heart racing. "Aarav's words always hit hard, but this one feels different. It feels personal, raw -- like a confession disguised as fiction."
"Days passed, and I found myself returning to that bookshop, lingering just long enough to wonder if she would appear again. And then, one evening, she did.
'You again?' she said, raising an eyebrow.
I laughed, rubbing the back of my neck. 'Maybe I just like books.'
'Or maybe you were hoping to run into me,' she teased.
I had no defences against that. I had no idea what to say.
'I'm Aarav,' I finally offered.
'I know,' she said, smirking. 'You're the writer.'
That night, we talked for hours. We walked the streets, the rain now nothing but a distant memory. She was unline anyone I had ever met -- sharp-witted, endessly curious, and completely unafraid of silence. She would let long pauses hang between us, studying me as if she were trying to unravel something hidden beneath my skin.
" wanted to ask her so many things -- who she was, where she had come from, why she looked at me like she already knew how our story would end. But I didn't. Some things are better left unknown."
Ajay could feel it deep in his chest -- "This ain't just a story, man. This is Aarav's real truth right here. That woman he's talking about? She's not some made-up character. Nah, she's real. And somehow, she's the whole reason he's been shut off from everyone, stuck in his own damn world."
As Ajay read on, the story deepened. The stolen conversations over coffee, the way she would trace invisible patterns on the tabletop as she spoke, the nights spent walking through quiet streets, the way her gingers would linger in his grasp just a second too long.
But there was something else beneath it all. A shadow between the lines.
"She told me once that love was like poetry -- beautiful, fleeting, and sometimes impossible to understand. 'But isn't poetry meant to last forever?' I asked.
She had only smiled, shaking her head. 'No Aarav. The best poetry is the kind that vanishes before you can fully grasp it.'"
Ajay swallowed hard. "Who was she? And where is she now?"
Aarav's Growing Isolation
Despite the novel's rising acclaim, Aarav withdrew further from the world. His once lively presence became a ghost of itself, flickering in and out of existence.
He was seen less often, his home a place of solitude and unanswered calls. Even those closest to him found him slipping away, like a dream dissolving at dawn.
Then, the final pages of the manuscript took a turn.
Ajay's breath hitched as he reached the last part Aarav had written.
Foreshadowing the End
"I always thought love stories ended with closure -- with some grand declaration, some final moment that made all the pain worth it. But life isn't a nvel, and love isn't always a perfect arc.
She left on a Tuesday. No warning, no explanation. Just an absence where she used to be.
I searched for her, but she was nowhere.
And yet, she was everywhere.
I wrote about her in the only way I knew how. I poured her into every word, every sentence. I wrote until I could see her in the ink, until I could hear her voice in the spaces between the lines.
But writing doesn't bring people back. It only makes the absence louder."
Ajay's hands were shaking by now. He turned the final page.
The last sentence Aarav had written:
"Some love stories don't get an ending. And some writers don't wait for one."
Ajay felt his stomach drop. His mind reeled.
The next morning, he reached for Aarav, scrolling through the missed calls, yet no answer.
"Where the damn, fuckin' hell is he?" he muttered, frustration bubbling up. "Fifteen missed calls and no answer? What the hell's going on?"
He drove straight to Aarav's place, pulling up to the gate. The guard opened it without a word. "Where's Aarav?" Ahay snapped, his patience wearing thin. "I've been calling him all damn morning. What's going on? Where is he?"
The guard hesitated for a moment before responding, "Sir, he left last night around 3:00AM, didn't say anything. Just took off."
"Left off! What the damn were you doing?"
Ajay grabbed his phone, his fingers trembling as he dialed the police. "Hellow, I'd like to report a missing person. Aarav Verma, the writer. He left last night around 3:00AM without any word, and I haven't been able to get in touch with him since."
Next Morning's News Headline: Famous Writer, Aarav Verma, is missing.
No note. No trace. Just an unfinished novel and a world left searching for answers.
To be continued...
About the Author
Pragyan Parui is a high school student and a pediatric Crohn's patient. You can read more of Pragyan's work on Neobook.
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