HIJR

T W O

【02.

A Piece of My Heart.】

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽ Inhal ☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

As the men begin to wheel the patient through the hospital doors, I instantly snap to attention. There’s no time to just stand around; I need to get moving. I make my way quickly toward the emergency ward, dodging around people and medical equipment. In moments like this, everything else blurs into the background — all that matters is reaching Maham.

As I rush towards the emergency room, I'm aware of the curious glances that follow me. Normally, I might be self-conscious, but not today. Today, there's no space for worrying about what others think.

The ward is deceptively quiet for now, a calm before the storm of activity that's sure to follow. Maham's voice carries from the desk where she's speaking with a nurse. Though I know every second counts, I can't help but pause for a moment to watch her.

From a distance, anyone would think Maham is holding up well. Her smiles appear sincere, her interaction lively. But her eyes betray her; they're clouded with a deep, unspoken weight. It's the kind of gaze that makes you want to look closer, then compels you to look away.

I push past the hesitation and approach the desk, politely interrupting the nurse. "Excuse me, can I have a moment with Maham, please?" I ask, needing to stand by her as we face whatever the day brings.

"What's going on? Why are you in such a hurry?" Maham asks, her eyes narrowing with concern.

I pause, searching for the right words. Finding the right words feels impossible—I know I have to tell her, but the weight of the news makes me hesitate. How do I explain that my urgency isn’t just about today but about avoiding a lifetime of regret for not acting sooner?

Taking her arms gently, I urge, “Maham, listen. You need to take a break. Can you step out of the hospital for a bit?”

Her brow furrows in confusion. “Why? Inhal, are you okay?” She’s more worried now, and I curse myself for adding to her stress.

I take a deep breath, knowing that what I'm about to say will hit hard. "There’s a patient coming in with a gunshot wound," I manage to say, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

The impact of my words hits immediately. Maham's face loses all color, her eyes widening as she tries to process the information. I watch as her breaths become shallow, her strong demeanor wavering.

Just then, the distant clatter of a stretcher grows louder, heading our way. My heart races with urgency.

"Maham, you need to go — now!" I practically push the words out, desperate to get her away before she sees too much.

I felt awful, truly like the worst friend ever. But enduring this fleeting guilt was better than letting Maham face the torment she'd suffer if she stayed.

Just six months ago, tragedy struck Maham directly. Her younger brother, Taha, died from a gunshot wound to his chest. I’ve never prodded her for the painful details; I only know what she has felt able to share with me.

Taha was nineteen, out enjoying an evening with friends — just a normal night, until it wasn’t. Suddenly, a group of men attacked his friends, and Taha, ever the protector, didn’t hesitate to jump in. His bravery cost him his life. By the time they got him to the hospital, it was too late; the bullet's damage to his heart, lungs, and major blood vessels was fatal.