Something About Us- MG || (Part 51|Page 52) - Page 43

Like a mother understands her child, he understands her. Every gesture, every movement.

Part 40

glad that Geet has been steady

great that Geet was able to ease on her own

of cos she is looking like herself again

liked how Maan and Geet communicated

as expected he understood what she said

so it has been seventeen days

well Geet noticed his condition

finally Maan shaved and changed

enjoyed their convo

pleased seeing a smiling and laughing Maan

not surprised that Maan fed Geet

adore his care for her

wonderful that Maan opened up to Geet

she was ecstatic that she came back

loved that she answered him

update soon

Beautiful part

Maan just being there for Geet and touching our hearts

Cont soon

Part 41

Now, at night, he used the narrow cot the nurses had quietly wheeled in days ago. It sat flush against the wall beside her bed. Close enough that he could reach up and still touch her wrist. Close enough that she wouldn’t wake alone.

He never fully slept. Not really.

But in the quiet hours before dawn, with her vitals steady and her breathing rhythmic, he let his body rest.

This morning, he stirred before she did. He sat up slowly on the edge of the cot, rubbed the back of his neck, and looked at her.

She was awake.

Eyes open. Focused. Breathing steady through the nasal cannula. Her head didn’t move, but her gaze slid to him. She blinked once.

“Morning,” he murmured, voice lower, warmer now that he no longer spoke from panic.

She blinked again.

An hour later, after her vitals were checked and she’d been cleared for another round of clear liquids, Maan reached for the remote beside her bed.

“You need to be more upright for this,” he said. “Doctor’s orders.”

He tilted the head of the bed upward.

Just a few clicks.

“That okay?” he asked.

Her brows shifted—barely. Then—

“...nnnnh.”

A breathy groan. Not sharp. Not pain.
More like protest.
Specific protest.

He paused.

“Too high?”

She blinked once.

He tilted it back down slightly.

“Better?”

Another blink.

He adjusted it a little more.

“This?”

She gave the faintest breath through her nose. The smallest movement of her mouth.

“...hhuhh…”

Approval.

He set the remote down.

“Noted. Forty-five degrees. Not fifty.”

Her eyes didn’t close, but they softened. She watched him settle back onto the cot, just beside her, his hand reaching up again, instinctively finding hers.

Their fingers touched—barely. But even that was familiar now.

He didn’t say more.
Didn’t need to.

He just lay back down. His face turned toward her bed. Watching her eyes. Listening to her breath.

And even when his own eyes slipped shut, his fingers stayed lightly curled around hers.

+++

The day had grown long again.

Evening light spilled gently into Room 407, filtered through the half-tilted blinds. It painted soft shadows across the tiles, the foot of her bed, the pale sheets that now seemed less sterile than they had weeks ago.

The room smelled faintly of hand lotion, mild antiseptic, and something warmer—simple supper, now cleared.

Maan stood at the small corner sink, rolling up the sleeves of his clean cotton shirt, rinsing his hands in steady, practiced motions.

The water ran over his fingers like a ritual.

He hadn’t eaten properly in days—weeks, really.

But tonight, after he’d helped her sip her liquid meal—half a paper cup of warm vegetable broth, a little spoonful at a time—he’d eaten too.

Not out of habit.

But because she had.

Because for the first time in half a month, he felt human again.

Hungry. Alive. Like someone who wasn’t just waiting to breathe.

He’d sat beside her, quietly, a paper tray balanced on his lap. Plain khichdi. Soft bread. Something warm and real. He hadn’t spoken while eating. Just glanced up every now and then, catching her watching him between slow, sleepy blinks.

She wasn’t smiling yet.

But her eyes held something now.

A presence.

A knowing.

He wiped his hands on a soft towel and glanced at the small bathroom mirror. His reflection still startled him sometimes—clean-shaven, hair combed, shirt ironed. His housekeeper had sent a second bag of clothes last week, and for once, he’d actually cared enough to change.

Because she was awake now.

And she noticed things.

He’d seen it earlier—her gaze following him as he walked across the room, the way her eyes narrowed just faintly, almost like curiosity.

That morning, after washing up, he’d returned to her bedside and caught her eyes resting on him.

“What?” he’d murmured, under his breath. “I finally look decent?”

She’d blinked once.

Slow.

That was all he’d needed.

Now, he walked back to her again.

Not from far. Just a few steps.

But it still felt like returning to something.

She was propped up slightly today—more upright than before. Her neck brace still secure, her arm resting in its molded foam support. Her eyes weren’t closed. They weren’t flickering either.

They were still.

Focused.

Watching the narrow slice of sky through the blinds.

He sat down again. The familiar chair creaked softly beneath him, but she didn’t flinch.

She kept watching.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

Until—

Her eyes shifted.

From the window.

To him.

Then back again.

And again.

Once more.

Slow. Careful. Like someone dipping their toe into a memory that still felt too fragile to trust.

He followed her gaze.

Out toward the evening sky.

Just a thin stretch of dusky blue, streaked with faint orange and shadowed clouds.

It wasn’t remarkable.

Except it was.

Because she was seeing it.

He exhaled softly.

Voice low, steady, like it had been waiting inside him for hours.

“You saw the sky.”

A pause.

Her gaze moved to him again. Just once. And stayed.

His voice dropped lower.

Almost a whisper.

“And you wanted me to see it too.”

She didn’t blink.

But her eyes didn’t leave his.

And in that quiet, something passed between them.

Not a conversation.

Not clarity.

But recognition.

She had seen something beautiful.

And with all she had—without words, without full memory or strength—she had tried to share it with him.

And he had understood.

Like always.

+++

It started with a breath. A realization

Not the kind that catches in fear or effort—but the kind that feels like noticing you're still alive. Like realizing your lungs are moving, and so much else… isn’t.

Geet lay still under the soft, warm glow of the late afternoon.

The lights above had dimmed to evening mode, casting a muted hue over the corners of Room 407. The soft beep of her vitals monitor, the faint whisper of circulating air, and the faraway murmur of wheels squeaking down polished corridors were the only sounds left behind.

Maan had stepped into the bathroom just minutes ago. The door was still ajar. She could hear the water running. Could picture him there—folding his sleeves, washing his hands. His presence never left the room, not really. Even when he wasn’t in her line of sight.

But for a moment, she was alone.

And in that moment—it found her.

Not the memory of the assault.

Not even the pain, which her body carried like a silent scream between sedatives and braces.

But something more subtle.

A quiet, rising ache from inside her chest. Not sharp. Not sudden.

Just… human.

Her eyes—already open, gazing softly toward the ceiling—stung before she knew why.

There was nothing on the ceiling to hold onto. No color. No shape. Just that bland, sterile white above her. Empty and too bright in places.

And her body. Her body was a stranger.

She couldn’t lift her arm.

Couldn’t scratch the itchy spot just above her temple.

Couldn’t shift her leg without pain chasing it.

She didn’t try to cry.

But her chest fluttered. Her lips parted.

A single tear escaped—slow, quiet, unwelcome.

It slid down the side of her face. Paused at her temple. Then curved downward, nestling briefly near her ear before soaking soundlessly into the pillowcase.

Another breath.

Ragged, but low.

The sound of water stopped in the bathroom.

The rustle of a towel.

The door creaked faintly as it opened.

Maan emerged, freshly changed—hair slightly wet, a navy shirt now clinging to his back from where he'd rubbed it dry too quickly. A towel hung over his shoulder, one end tucked absently into the collar.

He looked more put-together, not because of the shirt. But because she'd opened her eyes to him.

He caught the softness in her face first—the slight flush in her cheeks, the redness around her eyes. He paused. Just enough to register that something had shifted.

She blinked once.

Slow. Measured.

He didn’t ask.

Didn’t make it about her pain or his worry.

He just walked forward.

Pulled the chair closer.

And sat back down beside her.

As if there were nowhere else in the world he would rather be than returning to this silence beside her.

He rested his arm on the edge of the bed again, not touching her hand this time—just letting the closeness settle back in.

Like it always had.

And Geet, still blinking the last of the sting away, let her breath steady.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did she.

But for the first time in her silence—she didn’t feel alone.

+++

She’d been awake longer than usual—nearly forty minutes now.

Her gaze was steadier, not floating in and out like before. The hospital bed had been inclined just enough to support her upper body, and her head, still nestled in the brace, tilted slightly toward the window.

It was the first time since the incident that she’d graduated from the liquid-only diet. The nurse had noted it earlier—her swallow test had cleared her for soft solids. Maan had listened to every word like it was a medical briefing on something sacred.

He’d helped feed her.

One hand still wrapped in a cast, the other trailing IV lines and tape, she couldn’t hold the spoon herself.

So he did.

Slow, careful scoops of mashed vegetables and warm, seasoned broth. Nothing too thick. Between each bite, he paused—waited for her to swallow fully, watched her chest rise gently beneath the cotton hospital gown. Her throat had been suctioned earlier, making it easier. Her lips still cracked, but her body was cooperating now, even if only slightly.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even domestic.

It was reverent.

He held the spoon like it was a brushstroke in a painting that could not afford to go wrong.

Now, the spoon rested idle in the tray beside her, glistening faintly.

He hadn’t offered another bite in over five minutes.

Because she hadn’t looked at the spoon.

She’d been looking at him.

Not blinking. Not drifting.

Just watching.

Her lips were parted, dry. A bit of broth had lingered on her lower lip earlier—he’d wiped it with the corner of the napkin, muttering something about how she was the only person who could still manage to look poised while eating hospital mush. She hadn’t laughed—but her lashes had fluttered, a soft blink that told him she’d heard.

He sat back now, his elbows resting on his thighs, shoulders slightly hunched from days of the same position.

But when her eyes didn’t leave his, something tightened in his throat.

“Still hungry?” he asked softly.

She didn’t blink.

Instead, her lips moved—just barely.

He couldn’t read it. Not fully.

But she didn’t look away.

Her mouth parted. Her breath caught slightly. She swallowed once.

Then—

“Thank…”
It came out raw. Airy. Like she was pushing it over broken glass.
“...you.”

Maan didn’t smile.

He didn’t cry.

He just reached across the space between them and wrapped his hand gently around hers.

“You’re welcome,” he said quietly. “You’re so welcome.”

He just looked at her. Really looked—like she’d just reached through whatever space had kept them apart and touched the center of his chest.

Then—

He leaned forward.

His hand, still wrapped gently around hers, squeezed just slightly.

“You’re welcome,” he whispered. His voice was thick. Cracked.

He bowed his head slightly, eyes fixed on her hand.

“You’re so welcome. And—”

He stopped. Swallowed hard.

His lips parted again. A breath left his chest, shaky.

“Thank you for coming back…”

His voice trembled. Something in his throat collapsed under the weight of it.

“I—”

Another breath.

“I… am… very thankful…”

His jaw clenched, trying to hold it steady.

“You don’t… you don’t know how much I—”
He shut his eyes briefly.

Not to cry.

To hold the rest in.

“I’m just… I’m really—thank you.”

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t look away.

She just let the silence fill the space between them like something warm.

And then—

“...mmhh…”

A small sound. Not quite another word. Just something soft.

And her eyes fluttered once—slow, long.

Not tired.

Grateful.

And for the first time, in the quiet cocoon of everything they hadn’t said—

Maan let his forehead rest gently against the edge of her bed.

Still holding her hand.

Still breathing for her.

++++

The room had dimmed to near-darkness.

The machines still hummed their soft rhythms. The hallway had long since gone quiet. Somewhere in the distance, a monitor beeped its soft reminder that time kept moving.

But inside Room 407, it felt like everything had stopped.

Geet had drifted into that hazy space between sleep and waking.

Her eyes were closed now, lashes resting gently against pale skin. Her chest rose and fell with effort, but rhythmically. One hand rested in his.

Maan hadn’t moved in over an hour.

Not since she’d said it.

Thank you.

Just two words. Air-thin. Shaky.

But from her.

Her.

He hadn’t cried then. He wouldn’t cry now.

But God, it had undone something in him.

He sat now on the cot pulled tight beside her bed, leaning forward, his arms crossed on the edge of her mattress, head bent, still holding her hand.

He thought she was asleep.

That was why he spoke.

Not loudly. Not clearly.

But in the way someone speaks when they’ve spent weeks choking on silence.

“I didn’t know if you were going to come back,” he whispered, voice low and rough. “And the worst part is… I kept thinking that if you didn’t, it would be because I hadn’t done enough.”

He swallowed, his jaw tight.

“I didn’t know if the things I said mattered. Or if I’d made it worse just by staying. I just— I couldn’t leave.”

He looked up, just slightly.

Her face was still. Peaceful.

He took a breath.

“Every time they told me it was okay to rest, or to go home, or that someone else could sit with you…”
He paused.
“I felt like they didn’t understand.”

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers shaking now that no one could see.

“It’s not that I wanted to be here.”

“It’s that I didn’t know how to exist somewhere you weren’t.”

He exhaled sharply, then quieter—

“I was so fcking scared.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he whispered more softly—

“But you came back.”

“You came back.”

“And I swear, I’ll never forget that.”

He lowered his head again, forehead resting near her arm.

Still holding her hand.

Still breathing for her.

And in the dark—

She didn’t open her eyes.

But her thumb moved.
Just barely.
A weak brush across the top of his fingers.

It wasn’t reflex.

It wasn’t sleep.

It was presence.

And Maan closed his eyes for the first time that night.

Letting himself believe—just for a breath—that maybe this wasn’t grief anymore.

Maybe it was beginning.

+++

Morning light skimmed the edges of Room 407. It was quiet, the kind of stillness that settles after long storms.

Maan had fallen asleep beside her—his body folded awkwardly onto the cot, his hand resting lightly over hers on the mattress. Not fully asleep. Just hovering near it, his grip never loosening, his breath still matching hers.

Geet was awake.

Not newly. Not with surprise.

Her eyes had been open for minutes. Watching him. Breathing slowly.

He didn’t know yet.

She studied the curve of his shoulder, the way his jaw relaxed only in sleep. He looked… tired. But not wrecked like before. His skin looked cleaner. He’d finally changed. Finally shaved. Yet he still looked like he belonged here—nowhere else but beside her.

Her throat ached.

Not sharply. But deeply.

She had tried so many times before. Tried to say it. His name. Failed every time.

The closest she’d come was a broken whisper, a fractured breath, a syllable that dissolved in her throat.

But now—

Now she knew she could.

She swallowed once.

Gathered every quiet breath her ribs could carry.

And then—

“Maan.”

Not loud.

Not rushed.

But real. Whole.

The word settled into the room like something ancient had finally been spoken.

His fingers twitched in hers.

He blinked awake, eyes heavy.

“Hmm?”

He looked up slowly. His voice was still half-asleep, soft.

And then he saw her.

Her eyes—wide, still on him.

And—

She smiled.

It was tired. Crooked. Barely there.

But it was a smile.

Real.

Her lips moved again—just slightly. Like she wanted to say it again, but didn’t have to.

He didn’t ask her to repeat it.

He didn’t speak for a moment.

He only watched her.

Like he was afraid to blink and lose the image.

Like the weight of hearing his name from her mouth—after all this time, after all the silence, after all the waiting—was too much to bear without breaking.

And then—

Something shifted in him.

Not pain.
Not grief.

Awe.

He looked at her like she was something holy.
Like she wasn’t just recovering—she was rising.
Like she was some quiet, battered goddess and he was already kneeling, without realizing it.

He looked at her like he could worship the ground she walked on

Rever the air she breathed

She blinked, slow. Her throat worked gently as she breathed.

Their hands stayed joined.

Her smile faded, but her eyes didn’t leave his.

And his voice, when it finally returned, was cracked at the edges.

“You don’t have to say anything else,” he whispered.
“That was everything.”

41

maan feels alive after geet open her eyes

maan can understand her every blink

maan share his inner feeling thinking geet is asleep

Now just want geet thik ho jaaye

And he get so much love from her side too

Its so painful to see both like this

Broken

He knows just what to do for her. So much care. Just the right touch.

So painful and emotional update. Feel like crying