I force my eyes to meet hers. Her face is full of quiet understanding. She doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask what she already knows I won’t tell.
“I’m alright,” I manage, though the words feel heavy, foreign.
She studies me, her gaze searching but gentle. And somehow, without saying a word, I know she sees right through me.
“Your fever has gone down,” she says with a small smile. “I checked a while ago when you were still asleep.”
Her voice grounds me. So does the faint scent of her—the lavender shampoo she always uses, the subtle warmth of home and familiarity.
“I brought upma and coffee for you,” she adds, standing. “You should eat something.”
I nod mutely, and she walks to the small tray on the table. Her steps are careful, almost rehearsed. As if she’s holding herself together through sheer force of will.
She brings the plate and cup to my bedside. When she hands me the spoon, our fingers brush. Just that. A touch. But it sends a wave through me. Something raw and fragile.
Her eyes meet mine.
And for one suspended moment, the world narrows down to that single connection. Her pupils dilate slightly. Her breath catches. Mine does too.
“I’m sorry,” I say before I can stop myself. The words burn my throat.
Her jaw tightens. She sets the plate down on the bedside table and stands, pulling away.
“Let’s focus on you getting better,” she says evenly. It’s not cold. But it’s not forgiving either.
She turns, starts to walk away.
I can’t let her go. Not again. My fingers wrap around her wrist.
She stops.
I sit up straighter, the blanket falling off my lap. I grip her hand like it’s the only solid thing in a world constantly slipping away.
“I didn’t tell you because…” I inhale shakily. “Because it seemed like you wanted to hide your surname. And I wanted to protect that choice. Not from me, but from the people around us.”
She doesn’t speak. Her eyes glisten, but her expression is unreadable.
“I never meant to hurt you, Aditi. I could never,” I continue, and something in my voice breaks on its own.
Her lips part, but I don’t let the silence linger.
“I didn’t let you off the hook at all. If I really wanted to, I wouldn’t have given you the hardest assignments. I wouldn’t have asked you to stay late, make coffee, run around departments delivering files. I was—” I falter. “I was holding onto you in the only ways I knew how.”
She swallows, her chin quivering.
“I let you speak to me the way you did because at first it… intrigued me. You were honest. Unfiltered. Everyone else either feared me or flattered me. But you? You cut through all that. And slowly… it became something I needed.”
A pause. Her hand remains in mine, trembling slightly.
“Every day used to feel the same, Aditi. Just… existing. Ticking minutes. Meetings. Numbers. Empty praise. But then you walked into my life like a storm. Loud, infuriating, chaotic—beautiful.”
She closes her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek.
“You made me feel the moments. Not just count them.”
I shake my head, the confession flowing without restraint now.
“I always thought I had it all figured out. Like a finished puzzle. But I never knew I was missing the most important piece until you. You—” my voice cracks, “you were the part I didn’t know I was looking for.”
