Something About Us- MG || (Part 51|Page 52) - Page 36

Part 32

Agonized Update

Maan is losing hope in Geet yet his love makes him

stay on

please let Geet awake soon

Hi Nilanjana

how are you?

appreciate the update

Part 32

sad seeing no improvement in Geet's condition

of cos something changed in Man

as expected he did even leave her side

glad that he is there to hold Geet through this

so the doc sensed that Maan is now steadied

well everyone can see Maan is fighting for the best

Tara had a valid point

liked Maan's determination

Priyanka had no answer for Maan's absence

oh no Priyanka saw the pic of Maan at the hospital with Geet

great that Maan sent Mr Rao who explained everything

pleased that he put Priyanka in her place

as expected Mr Rao assured everyone

finally Maan erased Priyanka

it as high time

now she realised Maan chose Geet

hate that she referred to Geet as that girl

Maan's thoughts and fears were reasonable

loved that he spoke to Geet and opened up

hope she responds soon

update soon

part 31

He is saying it all now. All the words that were never spoken before. Hope she hears.

part 32

Priyanka - erased. Thats the best news. She needed to go. She would never let Geet have any peace.

He needs to keep at it until she responds. His words will make their way at some point.

Part 33

City General Hospital – Men’s Washroom, 2:11 a.m.

The corridor was silent, save for the mechanical rhythm of IV pumps and the occasional squeak of rubber soles on linoleum floors. The ICU lights had dimmed into their night mode—soft and sterile. Maan hadn’t moved from Room 407 in over a day. But now, his steps were slow. Measured. Like a man walking toward something he didn’t want to name.

He entered the washroom without a word, pushing the door open with the flat of his palm. The light flickered once before stabilizing—white, clinical, unforgiving. The air was sharp with the scent of disinfectant and something older—bleach-scrubbed grief.

He locked the door behind him.

Then walked to the sink, leaned forward, and looked.

His reflection stared back: hair flattened and unwashed, cheek hollowed out near the bone. The whites of his eyes were no longer white. His shirt was crumpled, buttons mismatched.

He just stood there.

For one full minute.

Then, quietly, he said it aloud.

“She may not come back.”

His voice was steady. Unnaturally so.

A pause.

“She might wake up… and look at me with hatred.”

His throat clicked when he swallowed. He leaned closer to the mirror until his breath fogged the glass.

“And I’ll still stay.”

That’s when the first crack broke.

He exhaled once, sharply. A strangled sound followed—a guttural noise of something caged too long. His hand clenched into a fist.

And with no warning—
CRACK.

His fist slammed against the tiled wall. The sound echoed. A fracture webbed instantly across the surface, a small chip of tile flying off. His knuckles split open, blood blooming like a secret.

Another breath.

Then another punch.

The second one hit the mirror—not hard enough to shatter it, but enough to rattle it in its frame. His arm dropped limp to his side.

And then he slid.

Back to the cold, tiled floor.

His back hit the wall. His knees bent.

He collapsed like a folding structure. A man whose bones couldn’t carry his grief anymore.

He didn’t cry. The tears had long dried somewhere in the folds of earlier nights.

But his lips moved.

Geet.

Just her name.

A whisper so fragile it barely qualified as sound.

He closed his eyes, chest trembling not from sobs, but from the strain of holding them in. His fingers, bloodied and shaking, clutched at the hem of his own shirt like he needed something—anything—to stay grounded.

Ten minutes passed.
Fifteen.

He didn't move.

Then, slowly, mechanically, Maan stood.

Rinsed his bleeding knuckles under cold water. No flinch.

He used paper towels to wrap the worst of the cuts. Pulled his shirt sleeve down.

Looked back into the mirror.

Blank. Composed.

The mask was back on.

No one would know.
Not the nurse outside.
Not Dr. Ahuja.
Not even Geet—if she ever opened her eyes again.

He walked out of the washroom like nothing had happened. Not a hair out of place.

And when he entered Room 407, he did what he always did.

He sat down in the chair beside her bed.

Took her hand gently in his.

Pressed his lips to her knuckles like it was prayer.

And whispered, “Hey… still here.”

No one would ever see it.

But something in him had just broken quietly.

And permanently.

+++
City General Hospital – ICU, Room 407
Nightfall to Dawn

It began like every night before it.

Machines hummed. Monitors blinked in silent rhythm. The overhead lights softened to a dim glow that spilled across sterile white floors. The ICU settled into its graveyard hush—a world suspended between life and waiting.

Maan didn’t speak.

He didn’t look at the nurses.

Didn’t acknowledge the tray of untouched food left on the side table hours earlier.

He simply walked to the side of the bed where Geet lay, eyes closed, breath shallow but steady, body still.

And sat.

The metal chair creaked beneath him—familiar now, molded to the hours he had poured into it.

He took her hand.

Not like someone claiming ownership.

But like someone reminding the world that they hadn’t let go.

Not yet.

His thumb moved in slow circles across the back of her hand, brushing over skin that had turned pale under the fluorescent ceiling. He didn’t try to speak to her tonight. Didn’t tell her stories. Didn’t update her on anything outside that room.

He didn’t have it in him.

Tonight, even breath felt borrowed.

So he leaned forward.

And rested his head gently against the edge of the mattress—just close enough to feel the faint warmth of her body through the blankets.

And stayed.

For hours.

He didn’t shift. Didn’t adjust his posture.

Just... stayed.

His shoulders trembled once.

Then again.

And the first tear fell without warning—silent, singular, sliding down his temple where it met the cotton of the bedsheet.

Then another.

Then another.

One tear at a time.
One hour at a time.

There was no sound.

No sob.

No gasp.

Only the slow, saltwater offering of a man who had run out of words. Of pride. Of reasons.

The overhead light flickered at 3:17 a.m., briefly illuminating the way his body curled slightly inward—like a child trying to disappear into the folds of something larger than pain.

He didn't press the nurse call button when his back began to cramp.

He didn't ask for water.

He didn’t even wipe the tears.

The night passed in stillness.

Even the ICU staff—seasoned, hardened by tragedy—didn’t dare disturb Room 407. Nurse Tara paused when she walked by and saw him, unmoving, cradling Geet’s hand like a talisman. She didn’t go in. Just whispered to the others:

“Let him be. He’s still holding on.”

By 5:00 a.m., a hush had settled over the entire wing, as if even the beeping monitors respected the sanctity of that vigil.

And when the first light of dawn crept in through the narrow hospital window—soft, golden, hesitant—it found Maan still there.

Eyes red.

Head bowed.

Fingers tangled with hers.

Unmoved.

Unmoving.

He hadn’t said a word all night.

But the silence had never spoken louder.

And that night became legend on the ICU floor.

Not for what he said.

Not for any grand declaration.

But because in a place where people begged, wailed, and broke down hourly...

He did none of those things.

He simply stayed.

+++
City General Hospital – ICU, Room 407, A week Later

By the seventh day, the ICU staff had stopped asking questions.

They’d stopped waiting for him to leave.

The man in Room 407 wasn’t a visitor anymore.

He was an extension of the space—quiet as the walls, unshakable as the bedframe. He hadn’t changed rooms, hadn’t changed his shirt, hadn’t changed his posture in days. But something in the air shifted every time someone entered.

There were no tantrums. No cries. No desperate outbursts.

Just presence.

Constant, unwavering presence.

And so, quietly, without ceremony, the hospital responded.

That evening, Nurse Tara wheeled in a small foldable cot.

She didn’t speak. Just placed it against the wall near Geet’s bed, adjusted the brakes, and straightened the thin mattress. A silent nod to permanence.

Thirty minutes later, an orderly passed by and left behind a simple kit—nothing extravagant, just the essentials. A bar of soap. A disposable razor. A fresh towel. A packet of wet wipes. A pair of socks still sealed in pharmacy plastic. Someone had tucked in a packet of mints, as if to say, Breathe. You’re allowed.

Maan didn’t look up.

Didn’t say thank you.

Didn’t move at first.

But later that night, when the corridors dimmed again and the monitor beside Geet slowed into its night rhythm—he rose.

Washed his face in the tiny washroom. Changed his socks. Splashed water down his arms. Cleaned the dried blood from his knuckles without wincing.

Then, he returned to the cot.

He didn’t lie across it like a man claiming space.

He lay sideways, facing her.

One arm still stretched up to the hospital bed, fingers curled tightly around hers.

His other hand rested on his own chest, over his heart, like it was the only way to keep himself tethered to the now.

He didn’t close his eyes fully. Not for long. Every blink was broken by the sound of a beep, a shuffle, a breath.

But for the first time—he allowed himself to lie down.

To not sit in vigilance, spine aching from the chair.

To not resist gravity with a martyr’s determination.

It wasn’t sleep. Not truly.

But it was rest.

His hand never loosened.

And in the morning, when a nurse tiptoed in to check Geet’s IV—

She paused.

Because there he was.
Still holding her hand.
Still half-awake.
But no longer fighting the universe.

And the cot stayed.
Just like he did.

+++

It had been eight days.

Eight days since she last blinked with focus. Eight days since she last moved for herself. Since her voice—so rarely used, but sharp when it needed to be—had been heard.

She lay there, unmoving. Breathing. Alive. But elsewhere.

The doctor’s voice had faded minutes ago, but the words still clung to the room like static.

“We could try sensory stimulation. Music. Familiar voices. Smell—anything personal. Sometimes, even the smallest triggers reach farther than medicine.”

The nurse’s voice was gentle. But her words landed like a hammer.

“Maybe bring her something she used to love. A scent, a song. Anything familiar.”

Maan didn’t respond.

Didn’t move.

Just stared ahead, the lines under his eyes sharp with sleeplessness. The monitor beeped in steady defiance of the chaos in his chest.

Then, slowly, like the words had to be dragged out of him—

“Does she even… have a favorite perfume?”

He didn’t look at the nurse when he said it. He didn’t need to.

Because the ache in that question was already too loud.

It hung there—thick, unforgiving—until the silence answered for him.

Of course he didn’t know.

Of course he f**king didn’t.

She’d been in his orbit for so long—first as the quiet girl he’d seen too late, then the one who’d dragged him out of hell without asking for thanks, then his employee, his mystery, his match, his undoing.
And not once had he stopped to ask what she liked.

Not what music she played when no one was around.
Not what side of the bed she slept on.
Not what scent made her feel like herself.
Not if she liked black coffee or added too much sugar.
Not if she left the windows cracked open at night or if she curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket.
Not what her toothbrush looked like.
Not what color she hated.
Not which book she re-read when the world got too loud.

And now she was here.

Eyes closed. Body still.
Unreachable.

And he—

He was the fool who had memorized the arch of her eyebrow in war but forgotten to ask how she smiled in peace.

He leaned forward in the chair, elbows digging into his knees, jaw locked.

The overhead lights cast a soft glow on her cheekbones—those same cheekbones he’d once trailed with his eyes like they held secrets he didn’t deserve to know.

He remembered the scent she carried. Of course he did.

Not the brand. Not the bottle.
But the feeling.

That soft, barely-there floral sweetness that never clung too hard, never begged to be noticed—but once it touched your skin, it lingered. Like her.
Subtle. Beautiful. Impossible to forget.

She had always smelled like something alive.
Like jasmine caught in rain.
Like almond and something else—grace, maybe. Strength.

She had smelled like the kind of girl who survived things without talking about them.

And he had been too arrogant—too busy playing God in his glass tower—to realize that knowing someone isn’t the same as understanding them.

Now, sitting here, surrounded by antiseptic air and machines breathing for her future, he was drowning in all the questions he’d never asked.

Did she hum in the shower?
Did she dance alone when no one watched?
Did she collect things—like feathers or receipts or fortunes from cookies?
Did she cry when cutting onions, or was she the kind who didn’t flinch?

God, he didn’t know.

He had kissed her.
Touched her skin.
Felt her breathe against his mouth—soft, heady, unspoken things rising between them.

But this?

This distance?

It was cruel.

Because it wasn’t new.

It had always been there—she, just out of reach. Him, just too late.

And now?

Now he might lose her without ever having truly held her.

He reached for her hand.

It was smaller than he remembered. Lighter.
He wrapped his palm around it carefully, afraid to press too hard—as if she might shatter beneath his touch.

His thumb stroked over the curve of her knuckles.

He didn’t speak for a long time.

Then, finally—

“I knew your strength,” he whispered, voice rough, “but I should’ve learned your softness.”

The beeping continued.

She didn’t move.

And still, he didn’t let go.

She didn’t stir.
Not when he spoke.
Not when his thumb brushed lightly over the fragile slope of her knuckles.

But something inside him cracked open anyway.

It wasn’t loud.
It didn’t bleed.
It just… unraveled.

Like thread pulled loose from the seams of who he thought he was.

He leaned back slightly, still holding her hand, and looked at her—not as the girl who once saved him from his own drunken ruin, not the employee who outlasted every impossible challenge he threw at her, not even the woman whose mouth he could still feel against his, burned into the folds of memory.

No.

He looked at her now as someone he’d failed to see when it actually mattered.

He had known her in fragments—anger, brilliance, silence, stubbornness.
Had admired her strength from a distance like a fool watching the sun and assuming it couldn’t burn him.

But he hadn’t known what made her laugh.

Not the sound of it—not the accidental one, breathy and rare, that escaped her when she let herself forget the weight of the world.
Not what caused it.

He hadn’t known if she preferred the city lights or stars.
If she had a favorite season.
If she ever sang out loud when she cooked.

He didn’t even know if she believed in second chances.
He never asked.

His throat tightened.

“You were right here,” he murmured, voice brittle. “Every f**king day. And I never slowed down long enough to really see you.”

The machine beside her let out a faint, rhythmic beep.

Steady.

Mocking.

He pulled her hand gently toward his chest, resting it over his heart, the hospital ID bracelet brushing his shirt.

“You think I won’t wait for you?” he whispered. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

His eyes shut for a moment, lashes damp.

“But when you wake up... I swear, Geet—”
His voice cracked.
“—I’ll ask. I’ll know. Every little thing. Not just how you fight, but how you heal. Not just how you stand your ground, but how you fall asleep. I’ll know which tea you prefer. Which sock goes on first. How you tie your hair. If you tie your hair.”

He exhaled hard through his nose, pressing the heel of his hand to his eye.

“I’ll know the scent that makes you feel like yourself. The song that makes you cry even when you're happy. The book you never lend anyone. The meal you make when you miss home.”

“I won’t miss a f**king thing next time,” he said.

It wasn’t a declaration.
It wasn’t even a vow.

It was a promise, forged in the space between her stillness and his devastation.

And it lived inside him now—stubborn, quiet, immovable.

Just like her.

He didn’t ask for signs.

Didn’t beg for miracles.

He simply sat there, holding her hand like it was a lifeline, and promised to learn the girl he should have known all along.

Every breath.
Every blink.
Every quiet, beautiful thing.

Beautiful update wonderful 😊 hopefully geet gets well soon

Part 33

Heart Wrenching Update

It's actually so sad seeing Maan in this state

I'm truly hoping that soon Geet awakes otherwise

Maan will turn into stone soon

the hospital staff bringing in a bed for him was rather sweet of them

32

all hospital staff talking about maan's presence near geet from day one

maan is there with geet talking to her

expressing himself

geet is still not responding laying on bed with all machines around her

priyanka got clear message when mr. rao convey maan's message to all

33

very painful

maan promising geet to be with her for each n every moment n will know everything about her knowing she is not going to respond very soon it will take long time

hope it dint take or push maan beyond his limit