Part 43
The morning after she broke down, Room 407 felt heavier than usual.
The sun had climbed, but the light barely reached past the blinds. The world outside was moving—nurses at their stations, wheels creaking down hallways, someone laughing too loud near the water dispenser.
But inside?
Stillness.
Maan sat beside her as he always did, his hand resting loosely on the bedrail. He’d fed her earlier—same as every day now. But she hadn’t met his eyes. Not once.
She’d taken the spoonfuls of rice and lentils with the same rhythm. No protest. No groans. Just… silence.
Not passive silence.
Not discomfort.
Just the kind of quiet that comes when someone isn’t ready to be seen again.
Her hair was starting to mat behind her ears. Two strands clung stubbornly to the side of her face. She hadn't asked for it to be brushed. But she hadn’t asked for anything since yesterday.
After he cleared the tray and handed her a sip of water through the straw, Maan stood.
Moved to the drawer.
Took out the soft-bristled brush he’d asked the nurses for the day before.
He said nothing.
She didn’t stop him.
He came behind her gently—her bed inclined at just the right angle, her head braced, her body stiff but upright.
And with the kind of care only someone holding something sacred can give, he began brushing her hair.
He worked in sections.
Soft. Focused. Silent.
No tugging. Just small downward strokes—pausing every few seconds to make sure she was still okay with it.
She didn’t flinch.
But after a long moment, her voice—low, slow, slightly clearer than before—emerged:
“You don’t have to do this.”
He paused.
“I know.”
Another few seconds.
“You have work.”
She said it not like an accusation, but like she was giving him an exit.
A way out.
Maan didn’t take it.
He moved around her, placing the brush on the tray table, and returned to his chair—closer now.
He leaned forward slightly, arms resting on the edge of the bed.
“Work can wait.”
He said it simply. Without drama.
“You’re more important.”
She looked at him now.
Finally.
The quiet between them was no longer cold—it was charged. Heavy with things they hadn’t said. Heavy with memory. With the fact that before all this—before the machines and IV lines—he had kissed her like he was already too far gone.
And she had kissed him back.
Not out of accident.
Not out of confusion.
But because something between them had already started burning.
And now—here they were.
Not the same.
Not undone.
But fragile. And still tied together by something unspoken.
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then:
“Why are you doing this?”
Not just the brushing. Or the feeding.
Everything.
“After everything I am now…”
“After what I look like now…”
Her voice didn’t break. It just cracked softly at the end. Like paper creasing.
Maan leaned forward further, elbows on his knees. Hands clasped.
“Because I care about you.”
He didn’t pause for breath.
“Because I should’ve said it sooner. Shown it sooner. Stopped being a coward about it sooner.”
“And because none of this—”
His eyes swept toward her gauze, her brace, the stillness in her limbs—
“—changes what I saw when you first walked into my life.”
Her breath stilled.
“And what I still see now.”
She looked away—sharply. But not out of rejection.
Out of fear.
Of being seen like this.
Of being loved like this.
He reached forward. Gently. Fingers brushing her chin.
“Geet.”
She resisted. Barely.
But he tilted her face back toward him.
“I’m here because I choose to be. I’m not afraid of what happened to you.”
“But I’ll be damned if I let it make you afraid of me.”
Her eyes glistened.
One tear fell.
And he caught it with his thumb.
Wiped it gently.
Not like it needed to be erased.
But like it needed to be witnessed.
For a long moment, they just looked at each other.
Not as patient and caregiver.
Not as tragedy and rescuer.
But as them.
Geet and Maan.
And somewhere beneath all that silence, the foundation between them settled again. Cracked, but still standing.
+++
It was late afternoon in Room 407.
The kind of hour where even the machines seemed to hum softer, where the hallway sounds dulled beneath the lull of post-shift quiet.
Geeti had dozed off again—not deeply, but enough. Her head tilted slightly in the brace, mouth parted just a little in rest. The sunlight cast a pale glow across the blanket folded over her midsection. Her arm—the one without the cast or IV lines—rested limply at her side, palm up, fingers curled faintly.
Maan sat in the chair beside her.
Not reading. Not scrolling.
Just… watching.
Her hand had caught his attention earlier—fingernails uneven, edges chipped. Not from negligence, but from all the days she hadn’t been allowed to be a person. Just a patient.
He reached into the drawer beside her bed.
Took out the small nail file one of the nurses had tucked there after noticing it too.
He looked at her face once more.
She didn’t stir.
He moved slowly, gently lifting her hand off the blanket and resting it across his knee.
Her fingers were cold. Thinner than before. But still warm enough to hold.
He started at the thumb.
No clicks.
No scrape.
Just the soft whisper of a file smoothing uneven edges.
One nail. Then the next.
He moved with quiet purpose, brushing away each small flake with the back of his knuckle. He was careful not to tug. Careful not to disturb her wrist. Even his breathing had softened to match the stillness.
She stirred once.
Just a small shift of her legs beneath the blanket.
But she didn’t wake.
Didn’t pull away.
So he kept going.
There was no pride in the gesture. No need to be noticed. He didn’t expect her to wake and thank him, or even see the difference.
But he saw it.
And that was enough.
Because in a world where he couldn’t undo what had happened to her, where he couldn’t fight what she’d seen in the mirror or felt in her silence—
he could still do this.
He could still care for the things she wasn’t ready to care for herself.
+++
It was evening when she noticed.
Dinner had come and gone—just a few spoonfuls of soup and soft-cooked vegetables fed to her patiently by Maan, who had said little and watched even less. His presence had grown quieter lately. Not distant. Just… steady. Like he didn’t need to fill the space anymore to be in it with her.
The lights were dimmed now, the window catching the last amber sliver of daylight before it bled into dusk.
Geet sat reclined slightly, her spine still supported, the edges of her body slowly learning their own weight again.
Her right hand rested on the blanket, palm facing her.
Her thumb moved, brushing slowly across the edge of her index finger.
She paused.
Blinking once.
Then she slowly lifted her hand, eyes narrowing slightly.
Her nails—filed.
Smooth.
No sharp corners. No ragged edges. No uneven curves.
She hadn’t asked.
Hadn’t even thought of it.
But someone had.
Her eyes didn’t move right away. She just stared at her own fingers for a long moment. Processing.
Remembering how heavy her arms still felt.
How limited her strength still was.
And how recently she’d stopped feeling like her body belonged to her at all.
But this—this tiny, gentle detail—felt… returned. Restored. Like someone had taken care of her in a way that didn’t speak of pity, or performance, or protocol.
But of knowing.
Her gaze lifted slowly, drifting toward the chair beside her.
Maan was seated there, head bowed slightly, elbow propped on the armrest, fingers at his temple. He wasn’t asleep, but he was quiet. Somewhere between watching and waiting.
He didn’t see her looking.
She didn’t say anything.
But her hand remained elevated, just slightly, as if holding something invisible between her fingers.
And for the first time in days, her chest loosened just a little.
Not in relief.
But in recognition.
+++
Her hand lowered slowly, resting back on the blanket, but her thoughts didn’t drift with it.
She kept looking at him.
Maan hadn’t moved. He sat in the low light of the room like he belonged to it—shadowed but still present, his profile soft in the quiet. He was staring at the corner of the floor like it might answer a question he hadn’t asked aloud.
Geet watched him a moment longer.
Then—
“You filed my nails.”
Her voice was low. Breath-wrapped. But clear.
He looked up.
Not surprised.
Not even startled.
Just… caught.
He blinked once. Straightened slightly.
Then nodded, once.
“They were sharp,” he said simply. “You scratched yourself in your sleep the night before.”
She looked down at her hand again.
“You could’ve asked.”
“You were sleeping.”
A pause.
He added, quieter now—
“You needed the rest more than the permission.”
She didn't answer that.
Not with words.
But her hand shifted, palm up now, fingers splayed lightly across the blanket as if trying to feel its weight.
Then her voice came again. Softer.
“You do things like it’s nothing.”
Maan tilted his head slightly.
“What kind of things?”
She didn’t look at him this time.
Just stared at her hand again.
“The quiet things,” she said.
“Things no one sees.”
“You noticed.”
He said it not as praise. Not even as relief.
Just… quiet truth.
She nodded once.
And then, slowly, her eyes found his again.
“You shouldn’t have to.”
A flicker passed across his face. Not pain—but something close. The way grief looks when it’s given purpose.
He leaned forward, forearms resting on the edge of her bed again.
“Maybe not.”
“But I want to.”
Silence again.
This time, warmer.
The kind that holds a pulse.
She looked at him, really looked—and this time, she didn’t turn away.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He didn’t reply.
Just nodded.
And for the rest of that hour, they sat in that shared hush—
Not patient and caregiver.
Not guilt and grace.
Just Maan. And Geet.
Two people finally saying what they both had felt for weeks:
I see you.
I stayed.
And I’d do it again.
Edited by NilzStorywriter - 2 months ago
1.1k