She tapped the file and said,
“Some of your levels are fluctuating more than before. Nothing alarming. But not ideal.”
Fluctuating.
That word felt like walking on a rope with no safety net.
“Hum thoda aur monitor karenge,” she added.
(We’ll monitor a little more.)
Monitor.
Observe.
Wait.
See.
If hope was a plant, mine was living without sunlight.
I nodded because there was nothing else to do.
When I stepped out, the corridor suddenly felt too long, the crowd too loud.
My throat felt tight.
I wanted to sit somewhere and breathe, but strangely my legs kept walking.
Outside the hospital gate, a balloon seller was shouting prices.
Red balloons.
Heart-shaped.
Bright.
Stupidly cheerful.
One balloon slipped from his hand, flying upward.
I watched it rise until it disappeared into the grey sky.
A little girl laughed.
I didn’t.
Aarjak
When her message came “On my way home. Later talk.” my chest tightened.
Later talk.
Those words never meant good news.
My colleagues were arguing over the AC temperature, someone was laughing loudly at a meme, someone else was chewing loudly.
The world felt too normal for the panic in my chest.
I walked out and stood near the fire staircase. My hands were trembling. I couldn’t tell if it was anger or fear.
I called her twice. She didn’t answer.
On the third try, she picked up.
Her voice wasn’t crying.
But it wasn’t steady either.
“Bas ghar aa rahi hoon ” she said quietly.
(I’m just coming home.)
“Lavina ” I whispered, “kya hua?”
(What happened?)
A pause.
A breath.
Something breaking softly.
“Ghar pahunchu toh… baat karenge.”
(When I reach home… we’ll talk.)
I closed my eyes and leaned against the wall.
The last thing we needed was more uncertainty.
But uncertainty was all we ever got.
Lavina
When I reached home, I didn’t switch on the lights. The room felt safer in shadows.
I sat near the window, staring at the clothesline outside shirts and dupattas fluttering in the evening breeze like they were whispering secrets to each other.
My fingers were still cold from the hospital.
A few minutes later, I heard footsteps on the stairs. He must’ve left the office early.
The door opened softly.
“Lavina?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
He walked to me slowly, like approaching a wounded animal.
“Kya bola doctor ne?”
(What did the doctor say?)
12. Something has changed
Start from the beginning
