I hadn't meant for it to happen like that.
Not in a hospital room.
Not with Vihaan still weak, bruised, and barely able to keep his eyes open.
And definitely not with his family standing three feet away.
But emotions have a way of slipping out when your heart's been breaking for too long.
And when I lost control — when the words spilled from my mouth, raw and unfiltered —
I didn't just give myself away.
I gave us away.
Vihaan's mother had been holding his hand.
His father stood stiffly by the wall.
Arjun and Riya were silent, clearly sensing the shift in the room.
And Vihaan?
Still pale, still lying in that bed like he might fall asleep again any second.
I wasn't thinking.
I was hurting.
"You think you're allowed to disappear and we'll all just... move on?" I snapped.
"You think none of this matters? That no one would care?"
My voice cracked. I didn't care.
"I thought I lost you, Vihaan. I thought that was it."
And then I said it.
The thing I never planned to say aloud.
The thing I'd only ever whispered to myself in quiet places, in shadows.
"I love you, you idiot."
The room went still.
I mean truly still.
Like the machines themselves paused, as if to give space to what I had just said.
Vihaan's eyes widened — not in shock, but in something softer.
Something deeper.
But his parents?
They froze.
His mother's hand slipped off his.
His father straightened slowly, like he was processing what he'd just heard, unsure if he should believe it.
I knew.
The second it left my mouth — I knew.
"What did you say?"
Her voice wasn't angry. Not yet.
But it was tight. Measured. Careful.
I met her eyes, heart pounding.
"I said I love your son," I said quietly.
Then glanced at Vihaan.
"Not like a friend. Not like a brother."
And then, lower —
"But you probably figured that out the second I yelled at him like I owned his damn heart."
No one breathed.
Riya looked between all of us, like she was debating if she should step in.
Arjun's jaw was locked tight.
Vihaan's father spoke next.
His voice was deep. Cold.
"I don't think this is the time for jokes, Mehul."
"I'm not joking," I said firmly. "I never have."
Vihaan's hand twitched against the sheets.
He looked like he wanted to say something — but he couldn't.
Not yet. Not in this moment.
Because the tension?
It wasn't for him to solve.
It was mine.
His mother shook her head slowly.
"No." Her voice cracked. "No, this can't be…"
She looked at Vihaan.
"Tell me this is just confusion. That you're... not that way."
Vihaan opened his mouth.
But I stepped forward.
"He doesn't owe you that."
Her eyes snapped to me.
"This isn't your place."
"I know," I said. "Believe me, I know."
I looked at Vihaan.
"But I won't let you ask him to lie about who he is."
Silence.
And in that silence —
I felt it.
The gap.
The unspoken judgment.
The way the room no longer felt like it had space for me.
"I've known for a long time," I said softly. "Before he did. Before he let himself know. And I waited. I waited because I thought when it came time to tell the truth, he'd have people who loved him enough to see him past it."
His mother's lip trembled.
His father turned away, jaw set.
Vihaan's voice was barely above a whisper.
"Ma…"
She blinked back tears, brushing a hand down his arm.
"I just want you safe," she said, barely holding herself together. "I don't care what... you think you feel. I just want you better."
"And after he's better?" I asked, quietly.
Her silence was the answer.
Arjun stepped forward, clearing his throat.
"Okay," he said, carefully. "Can we all... take a breath? Maybe not do this here? Vihaan just woke up."
"I'm fine," Vihaan murmured. "I want to talk—"
"No," his father interrupted, curt. "You need rest."
And that was it.
The conversation ended.
Not resolved — just shelved.
For later.
For a time when maybe they could pretend they didn't hear what they heard.
And I?
I felt it.
The shift.
The unspoken wall between them and me now.
They stayed by his bedside.
The whole night.
Not unkind.
Not cruel.
But cold.
Distant.
Polite.
Mehul the colleague. The friend. The guy from work.
Not Mehul the one who stayed up all night holding Vihaan's hand.
Not Mehul the one who whispered promises into the crook of his neck when he thought no one was listening.
Not Mehul who loved him.
I didn't sleep.
Riya sat beside me in the waiting lounge later that night, both of us too wired to close our eyes.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
"No," I said. "But I will be."
"You think they'll come around?"
I looked toward the room. Toward the thin outline of Vihaan's mother, still seated, still watching him sleep.
"They're parents," I said. "They love him. But I don't know if they'll ever love all of him."
She didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
Because we both knew.