
The sharp-ass ring of my phone sliced through the quiet like a damn knife.
I blinked, dazed, staring up at the hospital ceiling. Cold. White. Too clean. The lights buzzed like they were tryna mock me.
Hospital.
The word hit me like a punch. Everything smelled like bleach and blood—metallic, sharp, sick. A heart monitor beeped somewhere, steady and loud. I was alive. Lucky me.
My hand moved on its own to my waist—bandages wrapped tight like they were tryna hold in the guilt. Something was missing. Not just from my body... from my soul.
I tried to shift—pain lit up my back like someone stuck a knife in me. My limbs felt like bricks. My mouth was dry as dust, lips cracked like a desert. My throat? Wrecked from crying in silence.
But that ache in my chest? That's the real killer. The kind that don't let you breathe without reminding you you're still hurting.
I remembered something. A dream. A nightmare. Maybe both.
Screams.
Glass breaking.
Blood on white tiles.
I flinched.
Buzz. My phone again.
I turned my head, slow like my bones were rusted. It sat there on the table, glowing, vibrating like it was possessed. I reached for it—hand shaking, fingers cold as death.
Twenty-seven messages.
All from one name.
Mishti.
Didn't even gotta check. Only she'd spam like that. Only she'd care that much.
My day-one. My ride-or-die. My only real one.
I unlocked the phone. My eyes burned, but I kept looking. Her messages lit up the screen:
"Shivani please... reply something."
"Did you eat? Are you okay? Please Shivani I'm really scared."
"I'm so sorry I left you alone."
"You don't know how much I regret going with my family."
"Avni left too... I should've stayed."
"Just text anything... please."
"I feel like I failed you."
Tears rolled down my face, quiet and hot. I didn't even wipe them. Just laid there, face dead still, while everything inside me cracked all over again.
My bloodied shoes and clothes were still under the bed in a plastic bag. Nurse tried to toss 'em. I said nah.
I gripped my phone like it was the only thing keeping me here. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Then the screen lit up.
Incoming call – Mishti
One ring. Two.
I almost let it go.
But her voice was already in my head. And something inside me—whatever piece was still me—begged me to pick up.
I hit answer.
"Hello?"
Came out all rough, like I'd swallowed gravel. That one word stole all my strength.
"Shivani?!" Her voice exploded out the speaker. Panicked. Scared. "Oh my God. I didn't mean to wake you. I just—when you didn't reply—I've been losing it. I thought—God, I thought you were gone."
I closed my eyes.
"It's fine," I rasped. "Wasn't asleep."
Heavy silence.
Then her voice again, soft now. "Are you okay? Did you eat? How you feeling?"
I looked at the tray. Cold-ass rotis. Daal crusted over. Banana looking half-dead.
"No," I mumbled.
She gasped. "I'm sorry, Shivani. I should've been there. I knew something was off—I felt it. But I still left. I let them take me. I should've stayed."
"You didn't know," I said. Voice flat. Nothing left in it.
"But I should've."
More silence.
"Avni didn't know either," she whispered. "Her dad picked her up before... everything. But me? I had a choice. And I chose wrong."
I didn't say a word. My body shook under the blanket. My eyes burned.
Nurses said I was lucky. The knife wasn't sharp . Said it could've been worse.
They didn't know I was regretting for not checking before how sharp it was i should have choosen sharpest.
And I didn't move.
"It don't matter," I said. Voice like ashes. "I'm still here."
Didn't feel like survival.
Felt like punishment.
She didn't say anything. Just breathed. Like even she knew not to push.
"They're here," I muttered.
Her breath hitched.
"Who?"
I glanced at the half-open door. Saw them earlier. Suits. Fake sad faces. Cold eyes that looked like mine but never saw me.
"My sperm donor," I said. "And his golden boys."
Silence. Then fire.
"What?! Are you serious? What the hell they doing there? I thought you never even spoke to them!"
"Didn't. Barely knew I was alive. Now suddenly they're 'family'?"
She was livid. I could feel it through the phone.
"Un-freaking-believable. They show up NOW? Playing the victim card like they give a damn?"
"Maybe the hospital called. Maybe guilt finally tapped them on the shoulder. Maybe they just wanna see the wreck they built."
Her voice went full blade. "If I was there—I'd drag 'em out by the collar. They don't get to act like they care now. Not after leaving you broken."
I said nothing. Didn't have the energy for anger.
"Are they still there?"
"Yeah."
"You want me to come? I'll tell my dad. I'll bring food. I'll post up outside your room like a bodyguard. Just say it."
"No." I shook my head just a little. "Just... stay on the line."
"I got you. I'm not going nowhere."
Her voice—strong now. Like armor.
I looked at the door. The handle twitched. Not open yet. But soon.
I took a breath that stabbed. But I was still breathing.
"Mish..." I said, soft.
"Yeah?"
"I'll call you later."
Her voice cracked. "Okay... just promise you will."
"I promise."
Call ended.
Silence.
Handle moved again.
I closed my eyes.
Still Shivani.
Still breathing.
Still broken.
But not gone.

The door creaked open with a hesitant hand.
Ayaan stepped inside the dim hospital room, the sharp scent of antiseptic stinging his senses. His sneakers made no sound against the linoleum floor, but somehow, every step echoed loudly in his chest. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a dull grey light that blanketed everything with a weary hush.
There she was—vani his vani.
Lying there in that white hospital bed, tangled in sheets too big for her shrunken frame. The soft hum of machines kept a dull rhythm in the background, but she seemed untouched by it all. Her gaze was fixed on the ceiling, eyes blank, face unreadable. Her long hair was unkempt, strands sticking to the bandage near her temple. One arm lay over her stomach, the other hung slightly off the bed, IV tube trailing from it like an anchor.
Ayaan's breath caught.
She looked like a ghost of the girl he remembered.
His eyes flicked to the tray on the side table—half-covered in foil, contents untouched. Soup with a solid layer on top, bread turned stiff like cardboard, and a banana blackening at the tips. A silent declaration of her refusal to live.
He cleared his throat softly. "You didn't eat anything?"
No response. Not a blink. Not a turn of the head. Her expression remained the same—numb, distant.
He stepped further in, holding the warm container in both hands like it was fragile.
"I brought you something," he said quietly, trying not to sound too hopeful. "Thought maybe… you'd be hungry."
Still nothing.
He took a seat on the stool beside her, carefully placing the container on the overbed table. With a shaky hand, he peeled off the lid. The warm, familiar scent of spices—tomato, cream, butter, and paneer—rose into the air, rich and nostalgic.
"Paneer butter masala," he said, forcing a smile. "Your favorite."
Her eyes flicked toward him at last. Just for a second.
"You used to love this," he continued, a trace of warmth slipping into his voice. "Remember? You wouldn't even let us have a bite. Always finished the whole thing like it was made just for you and glare at anyone who came near it."
He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling. "We used to tease you—'Shivani ke haathon se paneer ka bachaav possible nahi hai.'
A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, hopeful. "You remember?"
He paused. "It was hard finding good paneer here in New York… but I did. Just for you."
She slowly turned her head toward him now. Her eyes, dull but sharp at the same time, met his.
"That was a long time ago," she said, her voice flat as glass. "I'm allergic now."
Ayaan blinked. His heart thudded once, too loud.
"…What?"
She stared at the food, not him. "Found out two years ago. It gives me rashes. My throat swells up."
Silence.
Then she looked at him again. Her lips curled into a smile—but it was bitter, dry, cracked like desert sand.
"But how would you know that?" she said, voice calm but cold. "You never checked. Never asked. You didn't care."
Her words struck like a slap, quiet but brutal. His mouth opened, but the words crumbled before reaching his lips.
"I…" he swallowed, his throat thick. "I didn't know. I didn't mean to—"
She tilted her head, brows slightly raised, mocking. "Exactly. You didn't know."
His hands went limp on his lap. The container sat between them like an awkward offering, rejected without touch.
"I thought about you," he whispered. "I swear I did. So many times I—"
"You thought?" Her voice was still soft. But her eyes blazed. "You thought about me. Did that keep me warm at night? Did your thoughts hug me when I was crying in the bathroom, or make sure I ate dinner alone?"
She sat up slightly, her face inches closer, her stare unflinching. "Did your thoughts check if I was breathing on the bathroom floor last week?"
Ayaan flinched.
He felt it then—the full weight of absence. Of eight years of silence. Missed birthdays. Ignored texts. Never asking. Never showing up.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice shaking. "I don't know what else to say."
"Then don't say anything," she snapped, though her voice never rose. It was sharp, cutting, but restrained. Controlled anger—the kind that's more dangerous than screams. "You don't get to just walk in with food and pretend it's all okay. You can't feed me a plate of childhood and expect me to smile."
Ayaan looked down at the floor. His fingers gripped the edge of the stool so hard, his knuckles turned white.
"I didn't come to pretend," he murmured. "I came because… I was scared. I heard what happened, Shivani. I had to see you. I had to talk to you."
"Talk?" she laughed quietly—an empty, hollow sound. "Now you want to talk."
He nodded, desperate. "Please. Tell me what happened. Why did you—why did you end up here? What pushed you to that point?"
She turned her head away.
He leaned closer. "Are you feeling better now? What did the doctors say? Are you—"
"Stop," she interrupted, eyes still fixed out the window now. "Just stop."
He fell silent.
After a moment, she spoke again, her voice so soft he barely heard it.
"I don't owe you answers."
"I'm not asking because I want to fix it," he said. "I'm asking because I care."
"No," she said calmly. "You're asking because you feel guilty."
His breath caught.
She turned back to him slowly, her face now entirely expressionless. "But guilt is yours to carry. I'm done explaining my pain to people who caused it."
A heavy silence pressed down on both of them.
Then, she asked, with chilling calm, "When are you leaving?"
He looked at her, unsure. "What?"
She blinked slowly. "Why don't you leave? You're good at that."
The words tore through him like a quiet explosion.
"Leave me like you all did. Eight years ago," she whispered. "I'm fine here. Alone."
He clenched his fists. "You call this fine?"
She didn't answer.
He stood up, emotion bubbling in his chest. "You're not okay. Look at you. In a hospital bed, hurting. Hiding. Refusing food. Don't lie to me, Shivani."
Finally, she turned again, her voice like snow. Cold. Quiet. Crushing.
"I'm not lying," she said. "I'm just done talking to strangers."
That last word—
Strangers.
It sucked the air out of the room.
Ayaan stood there, stunned. He couldn't even breathe right. Couldn't think. His eyes searched hers for something—anything—left of the girl he once knew. The one who smiled too much, who danced in the rain, who would chase him down for stealing the last piece of chocolate.
But that girl was gone.
And the woman before him was scarred. Changed. Hardened by the weight of abandonment and silence.
He had left a child behind.
And returned to find a storm.
"I'll go," he said finally, his voice hollow.
She didn't respond.
Ayaan stood, hands shaking as he adjusted the container, like it still mattered. His feet dragged toward the door, each step heavy, reluctant. But as he reached for the handle—
Her voice stopped him.
"Ayaan?"
He turned, breath caught in his chest.
"Next time," she said, eyes still on the ceiling, "don't bring memories."
He turned his face.
And left.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
And Shivani lay there, heart cracked wide open, hate curling through her chest like smoke.
And here it is… the longest chapter of this book yet – over 2000 words!
I know I'm late, and I truly apologize… but from now on, no more delays – I promise to update as per the schedule.
To those amazing readers who took the time to comment on the last chapters – thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Your words aren't just comments… they're the reason I keep going.
So please, don't be silent—drop a comment, show me you're there, and that my words are reaching someone.
Vote, follow, support—because every click fuels my passion.
I may be new to writing, inexperienced maybe…
But I'm pouring my heart and soul into every word.
Stay with me, walk this journey with me…
And I promise, I'll make it worth your time.
Much love,
To each and every reader out there.
I didn't edit this chapter so there can be some mistakes