Part 37
The hallway was half-lit, late afternoon sun spilling across the white tile floor like it didn’t belong.
Rounds were over.
Charts updated.
The quiet had returned.
Dr. Radhika—junior resident, two months into rotation—walked down ICU corridor B with a tablet in one hand and exhaustion pooling in her knees.
She didn’t intend to stop.
But her steps slowed outside Room 407, like everyone’s did now.
She glanced through the glass.
And paused.
Inside, nothing had changed.
Maan Singh Khurana was in the same chair he’d occupied every day for two weeks. One hand resting on Geet’s, thumb moving in an absent, rhythmic motion like he wasn’t even conscious of it anymore.
She hadn’t moved.
He hadn’t left.
No talking. No pleading. Just presence.
And something about that sight—quiet, steady, raw—pulled the breath from Radhika’s throat.
Her colleague, another young doctor with earbuds in, stopped beside her.
“What?”
Radhika didn’t look away.
She said it softly. Not bitter. Not loud. Just… honest.
“My fiancé couldn’t even wait two days after my surgery before going to brunch with his ex.”
The other doctor blinked, confused.
“What?”
She nodded toward the window, chin tilting slightly.
“That man’s still holding her hand. After two weeks. Without a word.”
Her voice caught on the last syllable—not with grief. With clarity.
Because what she saw wasn’t patience. It wasn’t romance. It was something more sacred than either.
It was a man still sitting beside the same girl.
Fifteen days.
Countless hours.
No guarantees.
And still—
He held on like her silence was the only thing keeping him alive.
They moved on.
But she kept thinking about it.
And back inside Room 407, Maan adjusted the blanket near Geet’s shoulder.
Didn’t know he was being watched.
Didn’t care.
He wasn’t trying to prove anything.
He just stayed.
Because she hadn’t let go.
And neither would he.
+++
Most interns moved quickly through the ICU.
Eyes on clipboards. Pages turning. Words flying back and forth between nurses and doctors and consultants. Always rushing, always behind.
But Arnav, barely twenty-two, awkward, sleep-deprived, and still unsure how to properly hold a stethoscope, moved a little differently.
He watched people.
Watched how they stood. How they sat.
How they waited.
He’d heard whispers about Room 407 from his first week.
The girl in the bed.
The man in the chair.
The silence that had begun to feel sacred.
He hadn’t dared pause before.
But tonight, the hallway was quiet.
He was walking past to deliver a sealed vial from pathology when something made him stop.
He turned, glanced sideways—
And froze.
Inside, through the glass pane, he saw it.
Maan Singh Khurana, head bowed forward, fast asleep.
His entire body leaned inward, like gravity had finally won.
But it wasn’t the sleep that struck Arnav.
It was the way his cheek rested lightly against the back of her hand—not holding it, not gripping it—just… touching, like even in unconsciousness, Maan couldn’t bear the distance.
Her hand was wrapped in gauze, fragile, unmoving.
His was draped over hers.
Their fingers, not laced—but aligned. Barely touching.
And somehow, it was more intimate than anything he’d ever seen.
Arnav’s breath caught in his chest.
He looked around once.
Then slowly—almost shyly—he pulled his phone from his pocket.
Lifted it just high enough.
And took the photo.
No flash.
No sound.
Just a quiet click.
A stolen moment.
A soft confession to himself.
He didn’t take it to post.
Didn’t even plan to show anyone.
He just needed to remember this.
Because years from now, when the world felt cynical and hollow and loud—
He wanted proof that once, in a silent hospital hallway at three in the morning—
He saw what devotion looked like.
+++
Nurse Tara’s shift was almost over.
Her legs ached. Her shoulders slumped. The edges of her glasses pressed faint red marks into the bridge of her nose.
She sat at the corner station desk, surrounded by half-filled charts, digital vitals, auto-saved entries blinking in sleepy green.
But Room 407’s file—that one she still did by hand.
She didn’t know why.
Maybe because typing felt too sterile.
Maybe because handwriting felt more... human.
She flipped open the chart, pen already in hand, and recorded the usual:
Patient stable.
Vitals consistent.
No distress noted.
Ongoing pain management administered as scheduled.
She paused.
Glanced up through the open door.
Maan was seated just as he always was.
Not asleep.
Not speaking.
Just there—his hand resting lightly over Geet’s, his gaze steady on her face like he was watching her through time.
Tara’s pen hovered for a second longer.
And then—
In her neat, steady script, she added a line.
Partner present throughout.
Never left.
She didn’t say it aloud.
Didn’t call attention to it.
Just wrote it quietly. Clearly.
Then closed the file.
Slid it gently into the slot at the foot of the bed.
And left the room without a sound.
Not because anyone would read that note.
But because some truths deserve to be written down, even if they never make it to a report.
Because even in silence—
Someone saw.
+++
Fifteen days.
Fifteen days of machines breathing in her place.
Fifteen days of stillness so total, it had started to feel normal.
Room 407 had learned to live without motion.
The IV bag changed. The oxygen hissed. The heart monitor pulsed. But she didn’t.
Not a blink. Not a sound.
Not even a twitch that wasn’t written off as nerve response or sedation artifact.
And Maan?
Maan stayed.
Not like a visitor.
Not like someone hopeful.
He stayed like someone anchored. Like leaving wasn’t an option because part of him no longer existed outside that room.
His body had molded to the hospital chair. His breath synced with the soft beep of the monitor. He slept in uneven snatches—if at all—and when he did, it was always with his hand resting near hers. Sometimes over it. Sometimes barely touching. But always there.
That night was no different.
The hallway lights were dim. Outside, the world continued.
But inside, it was still a room of silence.
Maan sat forward again, elbows on knees, head bent, eyes on her.
She hadn’t stirred.
Not once.
His fingers were cold. His spine hurt. His skin itched from the same shirt he hadn’t changed in three days. But none of that mattered.
Because she was still.
And he refused to move first.
It happened suddenly.
Without sound.
Without prelude.
Without warning.
Her chest hitched.
Not the rise of breath from a machine-fed rhythm.
But a real hitch.
A stutter of life through lungs that had forgotten what initiative felt like.
Maan straightened instantly.
Not loudly.
Not frantically.
He just froze.
His breath held.
He stared at her face.
And then—
Her fingers moved.
The smallest flex.
A shift in skin.
A pull in the muscle beneath the bandage.
Not a spasm.
Not a twitch.
A decision.
The air changed in the room.
It wasn’t hope yet.
It was shock.
Raw, living disbelief.
“Geet…”
His voice broke on her name.
He leaned closer, too fast, gripping the bed rail with one hand, the other ghosting above her hand like touching it might end it.
And then—
Her brows moved.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
As if something beneath the skin of her face was trying to speak before her mouth could remember how.
Her lips parted.
Not wide.
Not enough for sound.
But open.
And he felt it.
A force. A presence.
Like the room was no longer housing silence, but return.
She was in there.
Fighting.
Pushing against the weight of whatever had held her captive.
He didn’t cry.
Not yet.
But his hands began to shake.
Not from fear.
But from the violence of relief his body couldn’t contain.
He leaned forward, so close now.
“You’re here…”
It wasn’t a question.
“You’re here.”
Her eyelids fluttered—once.
A broken tremor of lashes.
No focus. No gaze.
But life.
He pressed the call button.
Didn’t look away.
“Room 407,” he said, voice steady but shredded. “She moved.”
He dropped the button. Didn’t wait.
“Geet... if you can hear me—don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
His hand hovered at the edge of her shoulder, trembling.
He didn’t touch her face.
He couldn’t.
She looked too fragile, like touching her would break the thread she’d just found her way back along.
But his voice stayed. Right there.
“You’re doing it. You’re doing it, baby, come on…”
A sound escaped her throat.
Low. Raw.
“...hhuhh…”
His knees almost gave under him.
He dropped back into the chair. Reached for her hand fully now. Clasped it like she was going to disappear.
And for the first time in fifteen days—
he sobbed.
Silently.
Head bowed.
Forehead pressed to her wrist.
Because it wasn’t a miracle.
It was her.
And she was trying.
And it was enough to tear him in half.
Nurse Tara arrived within seconds, her expression alert but calm. She’d been waiting for this too—all of them had.
She moved quickly but gently, sliding her stethoscope from her neck.
Geet’s brow was faintly creased now. Her lips parted again as another ragged breath slipped out.
“...uhhhnn…”
The monitor beeped slightly higher—her heart rate elevating.
Tara checked reflexes, shining a soft penlight into her eyes.
They didn’t track.
They didn’t focus.
But they opened.
Just barely.
A thin sliver of iris appeared. Then closed again.
“She’s responding,” Tara said quietly. “Briefly. Inconsistently. But it’s volitional.”
She made a few quick notes in the chart.
“No additional sedation tonight. We’ll let her continue coming out naturally.”
Maan stayed beside her, standing now, watching every inch of Geet’s face like it might disappear.
He saw her throat move.
Saw the faintest wince cross her brow.
Saw another whisper of sound escape her lips—
“...mmhh…”
Like the body doesn’t know how to ask for help. Only that it needs.
Tara glanced at him.
“It’s good. This is the beginning. But it’ll be slow.”
Maan didn’t speak.
Didn’t smile.
He just sat again.
Closer this time.
His hand returned to hers—two fingers brushing along her knuckles.
He leaned in—closer than before, his breath steady now, as if holding it might take her further from him.
His fingers trembled as they swept a stray hair off her temple, avoiding the gauze.
He whispered—not with desperation, but with the kind of quiet only someone who has known long silence can carry.
“That’s it, Geet...”
His voice cracked, barely above a breath.
“You hear me, don’t you?”
She didn’t move. But her brows were still faintly furrowed, the muscles of her face straining like someone reaching up from deep water.
“You’re almost there,” he murmured, leaning his forehead briefly to the edge of the bed. “Whatever it is—whatever’s holding you back—fight it. Just a little longer.”
Another broken sound escaped her throat. A whimper, not shaped into anything human yet.
“Come back,” he whispered. “You don’t have to rush. Just… don’t stop.”
His hand cradled hers again, thumb brushing over the bandaged edge.
“I’m right here. You’re not alone. I’m not leaving.”
And then—
He said her name. Like it was the only thing in the room that mattered.
“Geet.”
It was a prayer. Not to a God. To her.
Her eyelids fluttered once more.
And for the rest of the night, Maan didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t sleep.
Because now—
She was trying.
And he was the voice she had left in the world to follow.
Cricket
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