The hospital smelled of antiseptic and something faintly metallic—clean, but suffocating. The sterile brightness of the white walls did nothing to ease the heaviness pressing down on my chest. I sat on the edge of the examination table, legs dangling just above the floor, my back rigid. My hands were clenched together so tightly in my lap that my knuckles had turned white, nails digging into my skin in a desperate bid to feel something other than the chaos swirling inside me.
I was terrified. And ashamed of being terrified.
Anup sat beside me, quiet but steady. His presence, though silent, was grounding—like an anchor in the middle of a storm. He hadn't asked questions. He hadn't tried to fix it. He had simply shown up, like he always did, like I didn't have to face this alone. His thumb brushed lightly across the back of my hand, a small gesture, but one that told me he understood the magnitude of the moment.
The door opened with a soft click, and the doctor walked in. She was in her mid-forties, with tired eyes that had seen too many women like me—young, scared, trying to make impossible decisions. Her lab coat was crisp, but her expression was anything but clinical.
She glanced at the file in her hand before looking up. "Harshita?" she confirmed softly, and when I nodded, the doctor gave a small smile—kind, but cautious. I had learned, over years of practice, that kindness sometimes hurt more than indifference.
The doctor moved to the stool beside the machine and rested the file gently on the counter. "Are you sure about this?" she asked gently, her voice more human than professional.
The question lingered in the air like smoke. I didn't respond right away. My throat felt too tight. The words wouldn't come. All I could do was nod—stiffly, mechanically—like I was just trying to get through this without crumbling.
"Yes," I finally said, though my voice wavered, and it sounded more like a question than an answer.
The doctor watched me for a long moment, her gaze searching. Not judging, not pressuring. Just... watching. She seemed to understand that this wasn't a simple choice. That nothing about this moment was black or white.
Finally, the doctor nodded. "Okay," she said quietly. "Before we proceed, I'll need to do a quick scan. Just to confirm everything is okay."
I gave a barely perceptible nod. My stomach twisted as the doctor turned to the ultrasound machine. I lay back on the table, my body stiff, my eyes fixed on the ceiling. The overhead light glared down at me, unforgiving and cold.
When the doctor applied the cold gel to my stomach, I flinched. The sensation was sharp, sudden, and strangely symbolic—like a line had just been drawn between the life I knew before and everything that would come after.
Anup reached out again, his hand firm around mine. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
And then—
A sound filled the room. A soft, rhythmic thumping. Faint but steady. Strong.
My breath caught.I hadn't expected it. Hadn't prepared for the sound of it—
My baby's heartbeat.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
My chest tightened painfully. Tears blurred my vision as I turned to look at the small monitor. There, in the grainy black-and-white image, was something tiny, something fragile... but alive. A sob tore from my throat before I could stop it.
Anup reached for me, his grip firm on my shoulder. "Harshita—"
"I can't," I choked out, covering my mouth as tears streamed down my face. "I can't do this."
The doctor watched her, silent, waiting.
I let out a shuddering breath. "This... this is a life,"I whispered, my voice breaking. "My baby. My child."
More tears came, shaking me to my core. I had spent so long thinking of this baby as a mistake, a burden. But now, hearing that heartbeat—knowing that something so small was fighting to exist inside me—She couldn't do it. She couldn't take that life away.
After all, I was a mother. My hands instinctively went to my stomach, as if trying to protect what I had once wanted to erase.
"I can't do it," I whispered again,my voice stronger this time.
Anup exhaled, his eyes filled with something unreadable—maybe relief, maybe pride. Maybe just understanding.
The doctor nodded, her expression gentle. "It's your choice," she said simply. "And whatever you decide, you don't have to do it alone."
I sniffled, my fingers trembling as I wiped my tears. For the first time since this nightmare began, I had made a decision not out of fear, but out of love.I wasn't sure how I would do this. I wasn't sure if I was strong enough. But as I listened to the tiny, steady heartbeat echoing in the room, I knew one thing for certain—I would fight for this life. Because I was a mother now.
I wiped my tear-streaked face, my hands still trembling. The sound of the heartbeat echoed in my mind, louder than anything else. It had changed something inside me.
But along with the warmth of that realization came fear. Crushing, suffocating fear.
I turned to Anup, my voice barely above a whisper. "How... how am I going to be a good mom?"
Anup, who had been watching me closely, exhaled softly. He reached for my hand, holding it gently but firmly. "Harshita..." he said, his voice steady, reassuring. "You already are."
I let out a weak, shaky laugh. "How can you say that?" I looked away, my eyes filled with doubt. "I wasn't even sure if I wanted this baby. I came here to..." my voice broke, and I couldn't finish the sentence.
Anup squeezed my hand. "But you didn't."
I bit my lip, shaking my head. "I don't know anything about being a mother. I don't know how to raise a child. What if I ruin their life? What if—"
"Stop." Anup's voice was firm but gentle. "Harshita, listen to me."
I looked up at him, my eyes still wet.
"The fact that you're scared? That you're questioning yourself?" He gave me a small, reassuring smile. "That's proof that you'll be a good mother."
I blinked at him, confused. "How?"
"Because good parents worry," he explained. "Good parents wonder if they're doing the right thing. Good parents question themselves because they care."
i swallowed hard, my heart hammering in my chest.
"You have so much love inside you, Harshita," Anup said softly, his voice steady but filled with warmth. "I've seen it—more times than you know. I've seen the way your eyes soften when you talk about people you care about, how you're always the first to notice when someone's hurting, even if they're trying to hide it. You carry so much empathy in that heart of yours, like it's second nature to you."
He paused for a moment, his gaze locked on mine, as if he wanted to make sure I truly heard him—not just with my ears, but with my heart.
"I've seen the way you feel everything so deeply. You don't just exist, Harshita. You live every emotion, you hold space for others even when you're falling apart yourself. That kind of love... it's rare. And it's beautiful."
Slowly, he reached for my hand, gently cupping it between both of his as if he was holding something fragile, something sacred. "You may not have all the answers right now," he continued, his thumb brushing across the back of my hand in the most reassuring way. "And that's okay. Life doesn't always come with clarity or closure. But you don't have to figure everything out at once. You don't have to carry it all on your shoulders."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "You just have to take it one day at a time. One breath at a time. And I'll be right here... every step of the way."
A tear slipped down my cheek, but this time, it wasn't from fear. It was from something softer.
Hope.
I let out a shaky breath. "You really think I can do this?"
Anup smiled, nodding. "I know you can."
I stared at him for a long moment, then looked down at my stomach, gently placing a hand over it. For the first time since I had learned I was pregnant, I didn't just feel afraid.
I felt... ready.
My fingers trembled as I placed a protective hand over my stomach. The warmth of Anup's words still lingered, but so did the fear—the fear of the world outside this hospital room.
I lifted my gaze to meet his, my voice trembling, barely above a whisper. "But society won't accept a bastard child."
Anup stilled. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking ever so slightly, and his eyes—usually so calm and warm—darkened with a quiet storm. For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked at me, like he was weighing a thousand thoughts behind that silence. Then, slowly, he exhaled, the breath long and controlled, like he was pushing back all the anger that threatened to rise.
"Society?" he repeated bitterly, the word falling from his lips like poison. He shook his head, scoffing. "Society is a crowd of cowards hiding behind norms they didn't even choose for themselves. It's full of people who sit on their thrones of convenience, throwing stones at anyone who dares to live differently. People who judge without knowing your story, who whisper behind your back because they don't have the courage to look you in the eye."
He leaned in, his voice low and unwavering, but every word wrapped in something fierce—something protective. "Are they the ones who held you when you cried yourself to sleep? Did they show up when your world fell apart?" His eyes searched mine, softening just a fraction. "Are you really going to hand them the pen and let them write your story? Let them decide what your child is worth?"
I blinked rapidly, my throat tightening, but the tears came anyway—hot and blinding. "But they'll whisper," I choked out. "They'll stare. They'll make sure my baby grows up knowing they're different... like they don't belong." My voice cracked. "How do I bring a baby into a world that will treat them like they're a mistake?"
Anup reached out slowly, like he was approaching a wound he didn't want to hurt. He cupped my cheek in his hand, his thumb brushing away the tears I couldn't hold back.
"Then we change the world around them," he said, softly but fiercely. "We create a space where they're safe, where they know they are wanted. Where love drowns out the noise and your strength becomes their inheritance. Because your child isn't a mistake, Harshita. They're proof that even after everything, you're still capable of love. Of hope."
He paused, voice steady. "And if the world can't handle that... then it's the world that needs fixing. Not you. Not them."
I felt something inside me crack at his words.
"But it'll be hard," I whispered, voice breaking. "People will say things... about me. About my child."
"Yes, they will," Anup admitted. "But what matters more? The words of people who don't even know you? Or the love you give your child?"
Tears welled up in my eyes.
He squeezed my hand tighter. "You don't need their acceptance. You don't need their approval. What you need is the strength to stand tall. To show your child that they are loved, that they are wanted."
I let out a shaky breath. "And what if I can't do it alone?"
Anup's lips curled into the faintest smile. "Then you won't."
My breath hitched.
"I'll be here," he said simply. "If you let me."
A fresh wave of emotions crashed over her—fear, relief, doubt, hope—all tangled together.
I he had spent so much time worrying about what society would say, what the world would think. But in this moment, sitting in this hospital room, holding onto the one person who had never left my side, I realized something.
I didn't need society's acceptance.
I just needed love.
And as I looked down at my stomach, I realized I had already found it. I sat in silence, my mind still spinning from everything—my decision, my fears, the weight of the future pressing down on me. And then there was Anup. Always there. Always steady.
I turned to him slowly, my heart thudding in my chest like it didn't quite know what to make of the moment. My voice came out soft, shaky, barely more than a breath. "Why are you doing this, Anup? Why are you standing by me when you don't have to?"
The question hung in the air, fragile and raw.
Anup didn't answer right away. He just looked at me—really looked at me—like he was peeling back the layers I'd carefully built to keep the world out. His gaze wasn't hurried or dramatic. It was steady, quiet... heavy with something unspoken.
There was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, like he was standing at the edge of a cliff he'd been afraid to jump from for years. And then, slowly, he exhaled, his shoulders relaxing just a bit as if he'd made peace with whatever was about to come.
A small smile tugged at his lips—gentle, unsure, but achingly sincere. "Because I love you, Harshita."
The world stopped. Just for a moment.
My breath caught in my throat, the words hitting me like a wave I didn't see coming. I blinked, stunned, as if my brain hadn't quite processed what he'd just said, but my heart had heard every syllable loud and clear.
He loved me.
Not out of pity. Not out of obligation. Not because he felt sorry for my pain.
But because it was me.
And suddenly, everything felt louder—the pounding of my heart, the rush of blood in my ears, the silence between us stretching, deep and delicate. My lips parted, but no words came out. What could I even say to something like that?
Anup's hand was still gently resting near mine, his fingers not touching, but close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. He didn't rush me. He didn't try to explain further. He just let the truth sit there, unpolished and real, between us.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn't feel alone.