Rag e Jaan hai wo

Chapter 19: Rag e Jaan ti wo

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The sting of antiseptic lingered in the air, sharper than the dull pain pulsing through Ayaan's shoulder.

Bandaged. Bruised. Breathing.
Still.

The tent was quiet. The low hum of the fan, the occasional shuffle of boots outside, the distant radio static from base command — all familiar now. All fading against the only thought echoing in his head:

"Woh theek hai na?"

He'd asked Zaryab before they even cleaned the wound properly. He didn't care about the mission report. Or the stitches. Or the two nights he'd spent out in the open with shrapnel in his arm.

All he wanted... was to know Zara was okay.

That she hadn't broken the way he had, in the silence between his last look and the jeep pulling away.

Flashback – The Mission

The village had been under threat. Children, elders, women — all scared, all unarmed.

Ayaan had volunteered without hesitation.

His CO told him to fall back. But Ayaan saw the enemy moving in from a ridge, the sniper already in position.
He didn't think. He ran. Pulled the villager out of the way. Took the hit. Fired back.

Blood soaked his sleeve, but he kept going — because there was still a little girl crying behind the well. And there was still Zara's voice in his head: "Tum jaante ho na farq padta hai..."

Even though she hadn't said it aloud.

He knew.

Ayaan stared at the ceiling of the medical room.

The painkillers were starting to wear off. He didn't mind. Pain reminded him he was alive. That he was lucky. That he still had time.

Time to go back.

Time to say the things she never let him say... but he always meant.

A knock, then the flap lifted.

Zaryab entered with a quiet smile and a slight shake of his head. "Only you could survive a bullet, a sandstorm, and your own stubbornness in one week."

Ayaan gave a tired smirk. "What's the update?"

"HQ's clearing you for return in 48 hours. Medical clearance should come through in the morning."

Ayaan's eyes narrowed. "And Zara?"

Zaryab's expression softened.

"She's okay," he said. "Scared. Not eating properly. But... okay."

Ayaan closed his eyes briefly.

Then Zaryab added, voice gentler, "She wants to see you."

Ayaan's eyes opened again, sharper this time. "Here?"

"I brought her with me," Zaryab said. "But... she didn't want to come in until you were resting."

Ayaan's chest stilled.

"She's outside?"

Zaryab nodded, already turning. "She just asked if she could sit beside you for a few minutes while you sleep."

Ayaan gave a ghost of a smile.

"She forgets," he murmured.

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Zara stepped in quietly, her dupatta pulled tight around her. Her face was tired, eyes swollen — but even like this, she looked more like home than anything else he'd known in months.

She didn't speak.

She simply pulled the chair beside the bed and sat, folding her hands in her lap.

Her eyes moved to his bandaged shoulder, then to the IV line in his hand. Her throat bobbed.

"Tumhein chot lagi... aur main saans lena bhool gi ti."

She didn't say it aloud. But it throbbed in her silence.

Ayaan didn't move.

Didn't speak.

But he was awake.

A soldier never truly sleeps — especially not when his heartbeat enters the room.

He could feel her there.

Every breath she held.
Every glance she risked.
Every prayer tangled in her lashes.

Because she wasn't just his wife.
She was his rag-e-jaan — the melody his soul had memorised long before his heart admitted it.

Kaise na mehsoos hota uski aamad ka...
Jab har dua mein sirf uska naam tha?

She sat for a long time.
And he let her.
Even in silence... it was the first time they were close without war between them.

And maybe, just maybe... that was enough for now.

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💌 Author's Note – Husna (On The Floor Crying)

Okay. Let me breathe.

This chapter... wasn't written. It bled out of me.
Ayaan's pain. Zara's realisation. That moment when she enters, and he stays still — not because he's weak, but because her presence is stronger than medicine.

Also:
I'm never recovering from "Rag-e-Jaan". Ever. 😭

We're not far now. Soon, the silence will break. The love will speak.

But first — let them heal. Together.
Quietly.

— Husna, emotionally shredded but clinging to hope 🥹💔