The morning sun filtered through the gauzy cream curtains of a sprawling bungalow in Bandra, an elegant corner of Mumbai known for its lush greenery and old-world charm wrapped in modern luxury.
The house stood proud in its design, a blend of heritage and minimalism. Wide French windows opened to a small manicured garden, its hibiscus flowers blooming against the mild June sun. Inside, the marble floors gleamed, reflecting a quiet domesticity. Everything spoke of understated affluence, curated art on the walls, soft lighting, and the distant hum of a fountain in the courtyard.
Upstairs, in a sunlit master bedroom painted in hues of dove grey and ivory, Lubna stirred awake.
She reached instinctively for her phone on the side table.
No missed calls. No messages.
Her brows creased slightly. Hadi always messaged. Even when he travelled for business. Especially when he didn’t come home the previous night.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
Maybe he was asleep. Or… maybe still in transit.
Before her thoughts could spiral, a soft sound redirected her.
She turned to find Zohan, their baby boy, sleeping soundly beside her, his tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm, one fist curled near his cheek. His hair was tousled, a soft brown halo around his head.
A small smile broke across her face. He had his father's features and had just turned one, last month.
She leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. The softness of his skin, the faint baby scent, everything melted her thoughts for a moment.
Carefully, she lifted him and laid him into his crib, tucking the blanket around his legs. He let out a small sigh but didn’t wake.
Lubna stood and stretched slightly before walking toward the washroom, a soft cream-and-gold suite with polished brass taps and a large mirror that framed her reflection in the early light.
Fifteen minutes later, she stepped out, dressed in a simple but elegant peach kurta with delicate embroidery. Her wet hair draped over one shoulder, a towel in hand as she dabbed the ends dry.
She picked up her phone again, tapping Hadi’s number.
Voicemail.
Her eyes narrowed.
“That’s strange,” she whispered, glancing at the screen. No new updates.
She was about to try again when a soft whimper came from the crib. Zohan was awake, squirming, his tiny mouth opening for a wail that never came.
“Aww, mama’s here,” she cooed, rushing to him.
The next hour slipped into routine, warm milk, a change of clothes, a bath in the nursery’s tiny tub. She hummed a lullaby while oiling his hair, brushing it neatly after.
Just then, Zohan’s Dadi arrived, her mother-in-law, Wahida, as graceful and poised as ever, stepping into the room with a warm smile.
“Come here, my little baby,” she said, scooping Zohan in her arms.
“He’s already full and dressed,” Lubna said, placing a quick kiss on his cheek. “I need to leave now Mumma. There’s a strategy meet at the office.”
“You go. We’ll be fine,” She assured her.
Lubna grabbed her tan leather bag and headed out.
The driver opened the door of the sleek silver sedan parked in the covered driveway.
As the car pulled onto the main road, her fingers moved toward the phone again.
She dialed Hadi.
Voicemail. Again.
She frowned deeper this time. Something felt... off. But before she could sink into that thought, her calendar alert buzzed.
Work was calling.
She slid the phone into her bag and looked out of the window.
But the silence, the absence, had begun to hum in her chest.
---
The hospital corridors were quieter now, sunlight slipping through the half-shut blinds. A nurse walked by, sparing a glance at the man slumped in the chair near the ICU, eyes red, face worn.
Hadi stirred, glancing at his dead phone. He had almost forgotten the rest of the world existed. But Lubna… she would be wondering. He hadn't messaged. Hadn’t called. And now, as the silence weighed on him, he knew he couldn’t avoid it much longer.
He caught a passing nurse.
“Can I get a phone charger, please? Mine’s dead… I need to make a call.”
The nurse nodded and returned a few minutes later, helping him plug it into the socket behind the reception desk.
While the device flickered to life, Hadi exhaled slowly, rubbing his forehead. He would have to make something up. Just this once.
He turned to Rubina, who was sitting nearby, pale and exhausted.
“You should go home,” he said gently. “You’ve been here all night. I’ll be here if anything happens.”
Rubina hesitated. “But....”
“I’ll call you the moment there’s a change,” he assured her. They exchanged numbers.
She looked toward the ICU, eyes misting again, then slowly nodded. “Alright… just for a few hours. Please keep me updated.”
As she left, a nurse approached.
“Sir… you can see her now.”
He stood quickly, pulse quickening.
Inside the ICU, machines beeped softly. The room smelled of antiseptic and stillness.
There she was.
Maira.
A tube ran across her mouth, her face was pale and fragile under the oxygen mask, her hands covered in small bruises from IV lines. After the operation, it felt as if she looked.... even more breakable.
A lump formed in his throat.
He walked slowly and sat beside her. For a long time, he didn’t say anything, just looked. At the girl whose eyes had blinked in consent only hours ago. At the soul who had silently accepted his promise without words.
“You know…” his voice cracked as he reached for her hand, careful not to disturb the lines.
“…you’re very strong.”
That’s all he managed before tears clouded his vision.
He bent his head slightly, ashamed, guilt-ridden.
“This shouldn’t have happened to you. None of this. And yet, here you are… lying there because of me.”
He swallowed hard.
“The doctor said you made it… barely. They shocked your heart back. You were gone for a moment.”
His hand tightened around hers, voice dropping to a plea. “But you came back. Don’t… don’t go again. Please.”
A tear slipped down his cheek.
“I didn’t even know you yesterday. And yet…” he paused, “all I want now is for you to open your eyes.”
He sat like that for a while, watching her chest rise and fall, whispering apologies.
He told her everything the doctor had said. About the coma. The 48 hours. How they needed a miracle again.
“I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he choked. “But I need it. And I need you to wake up."
Her eyelids didn’t flutter.
But he didn’t move. Didn’t leave.
Not until the nurse gently tapped his shoulder.
“Sir… please. Just for a little while. Let her rest. You can come back soon.”
Hadi nodded numbly and walked out, dropping onto the same chair like a ghost of himself.
A moment later, the nurse returned, holding out his now-charged phone.
He wiped his face quickly. Braced himself. And dialed.
Lubna.
She picked up immediately, her voice laced with concern.
“Hadi? Where have you been? I’ve been trying you since last night—”
“I… I had to travel to Bangalore,” he said, voice controlled, forced. “For a meeting. Last-minute. Couldn’t inform you… my phone died.”
There was silence on the other end.
“Oh. Okay,” she said softly. “But you’re okay, right?”
He looked toward the ICU window, heart shattering.
“Yeah,” he lied. “Just… tired. I’ll be back soon. Take care of Zohan. And yourself.”
“Of course. I… I miss you.”
He swallowed the lump in his throat.
“I miss you too.”
He ended the call quickly, before the crack in his voice gave him away.
Then, as silence returned, he bit down on his knuckles, hard, just to stop the scream building in his chest.
But pain… didn’t leave.
It sat with him, heavy, like the truth he couldn’t confess.
---
It was just past noon when Rubina returned to the hospital.
The faint sun was now bright through the high windows, warming the sterile corridors slightly. She looked visibly fresher than when she had left, hair tied neatly, face washed, the heaviness of the night still present but hidden behind composed eyes. In her hands was a modest cloth basket filled with food she’d quickly put together at home.
Her steps slowed as she spotted Hadi.
He was still there. On the same chair. Same position. As though time had forgotten him.
Rubina swallowed the lump in her throat before walking over and gently sitting beside him.
“I brought lunch,” she said softly.
No response.
He didn’t even blink.
She placed the basket on the side chair beside him, carefully unwrapping a few things, some rice, a vegetable curry, water.
“Hadi…” she tried again, “You haven’t eaten anything since yesterday.”
He looked straight ahead, his jaw tight, his eyes red-rimmed.
“I have to pray Zohr,” he murmured, standing up suddenly and walking away.
Rubina watched him go, a painful ache spreading in her chest. She knew what was happening, she had seen grief in many forms. But this wasn’t just guilt. It was something else. Something deeper.
Once he was gone, she packed the untouched food again and quietly made her way to the ICU.
The beeping monitors greeted her like uneasy music. Maira lay still, eyes shut, wrapped in tubes and wires, her face so calm it broke Rubina’s heart.
Despite not knowing the girl for more than a day, something had shifted.
She felt like an elder sister watching over a younger one. Protective. Powerless. Praying.
She leaned close, brushing a strand of hair away from Maira’s forehead.
“Don’t give up,” she whispered, “Please… don’t.”
Her lips moved silently in supplication, one dua after another, as if each word could hold the weight of life.
After a while, she kissed Maira’s forehead gently and stepped out.
Just as she walked back into the corridor, she saw Hadi returning from the prayer room. His face looked no different, solemn, lost, shadows deepening under his eyes.
She went ahead of him and quietly set the food basket beside the chair again.
He glanced at it for a moment… and then looked away.
“Please… lunch kar lo,” she said softly. “You need to be strong. For her.”
(Please have lunch)
He sat back down, shoulders hunched, voice barely above a whisper.
“Mujhe bhook nahi hai.”
(I'm not hungry)
Rubina sighed.
She tried again, words, coaxing, reminders. But he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
She finally gave up, pulling her knees slightly up on the chair, wrapping her arms around them.
And they sat like that, two strangers bound by a girl they barely knew. Waiting in silence.
Waiting for a miracle.
---
The rest of the day passed in aching silence.
Hadi moved only when it was time to pray, quietly slipping into the hospital’s prayer room, bowing his head in sujood longer than needed, whispering words only Allah could hear.
Every other minute, he spent either beside Maira’s unmoving form or on the chair right outside the ICU, his eyes fixed on the sliding glass door as though it would open and hand him hope.
He had stopped speaking. The words had dried out.
Nurses came and went. Rubina sat with him sometimes, sometimes didn’t. But nothing broke the heavy stillness that had settled on him.
Even Dr. Zafar, after his evening round, tried.
“You should go home for a while. Eat. Rest. I’ll call if there’s anything.”
But Hadi just shook his head.
“I can’t leave her.”
His voice was low, cracked, distant, as if he wasn’t speaking to Dr. Zafar at all, but to his own guilt.
And so, as night returned, it was heavier and colder than before, Hadi sat on the hospital chair , just outside the ICU. The halls were quieter now. Visitors had thinned. Lights dimmed.
Rubina had gone home again, only after making him promise to call if anything changed. She had attempted one last time to persuade him into eating something, but he hadn't, only taken a few sips of water.
The stainless-steel chair beneath him was cold, but he didn’t move. He hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t spoken. His phone was on silent. His thoughts were too loud.
Somewhere between staring at the ICU and watching the ceiling fan go round in the dim hallway, sleep crept up on him, uninvited, unstoppable.
His body finally gave in, shoulders slumping forward, breath deepening slowly.
He didn’t even know when it happened.
One moment, he was staring at the door…
The next, darkness.
And silence.
His mind, shut down at last
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