Waiting to be His

"Some wars never make the headlines. Some are fought in the silence of a heart that still waits." They told me he died with honor. That somewhere in a snow-choked crevice along the Siachen Glacier, Major Shashwat Rajput became a name etched in granite and gunmetal. That the country gained a hero... and I lost everything. But what they don't say in uniformed condolences is how it feels to sit across an empty chair for the rest of your life. They don't tell you that grief isn't a flood—it's a glacier. Slow. Crippling. Beautiful in the way it numbs everything it touches. I still remember the last time I saw him—storm-grey eyes full of words he never said. Frostbite bruising his knuckles, but his hold on me? Warm. Unforgiving. Final. He kissed me like the ceasefire might break any second. He left like he was born to be gone. And I... I wrote him a hundred letters I never sent. One for every heartbeat I gave away. Even now, I wonder if he knew. If he ever read the last page of his journal—the one I'd slipped my confession into. Even now, I hear his voice in the whisper of snowflakes. They told me to move on. But how do you move on when you were never his to begin with... yet all you ever did was wait? I loved a man made of war. And in the end, he did what war always does. He never came home. This is not a story of forever. This is a story of waiting. Of frostbitten love, unposted poems, and the kind of heartbreak only soldiers can write. This is his story. This is mine. This is "Waiting to Be His."