The alarm rang at 6:15 a.m., just as it did every day.
A pale orange light slipped through the edges of the curtain, landing in thin stripes across the bed. Outside, the world yawned into existence—the gentle rustle of early traffic, the chirp of morning birds, the hum of a city stretching itself awake.
He groaned softly, reaching for the alarm clock with the laziness of habit. His hand fumbled twice before he finally silenced it. Then, with a sigh, he rolled onto his back and blinked at the ceiling.
Beside him, she was already awake.
Amira lay still, her hands folded neatly over her stomach, her eyes following the soft, shifting light above. She had been awake for an hour—maybe more. The headache had started early this time. Not sharp, but a dull, familiar throb that pulsed behind her left eye like a warning bell. She hadn't wanted to wake him. He always looked so tired lately.
"Good morning," she whispered, turning her head toward him with a smile.
Rayan blinked, then smiled back faintly. "Morning, Mira."
His voice was hoarse with sleep. He rubbed his eyes, then sat up slowly. His movements were mechanical—routine-born. He stretched, cracking his shoulders, then stood and walked toward the bathroom without another word.
The faucet ran. She listened to the sound as she stared at the spot where he'd been lying.
Breakfast was a quiet affair.
Rayan, now dressed in a crisp white shirt and black slacks, scrolled through something on his tablet with one hand while spooning cereal into his mouth with the other. Amira sat across from him, her hair still damp from a shower, wearing a soft yellow sweater that hung a little loosely on her shoulders. She sipped tea, watching him between glances out the window.
"You've got meetings today?" she asked, her tone light, casual.
"Mmm." He didn't look up. "Yeah. Lab review in the morning, then a funding pitch. Might run late."
Amira nodded. "Should I keep dinner warm?"
He hesitated—only for a second—but then answered, "No need. I'll probably grab something on the way home. Don't wait up."
She smiled anyway, as if that didn't sting. "Okay."
There was a time when he'd tell her about his work with a kind of boyish excitement—when his eyes would light up talking about molecular binding techniques, synthetic neural pathways, or quantum stabilization. She didn't always understand it, but she loved listening. Now, he didn't talk much at all. His passion had narrowed to focus, and his focus had forgotten her.
And yet, she still waited for those rare moments when he'd lift his eyes and just... see her.
Today wasn't one of those days.
After he left—brief kiss on her forehead, a distracted "love you"—the apartment grew quiet. Amira stood in the doorway for a long moment after the door closed, her hand resting on the frame as if she could still feel the weight of him passing through.
She turned and looked around.
The place was neat. Clean. A small two-bedroom nestled on the fourth floor of a modest city apartment block. It wasn't extravagant, but it was theirs. She'd picked the curtains. He'd assembled the bookshelves (badly). Their wedding photo sat on the mantle—frozen joy in a golden frame. The edges of the photo had begun to curl.
Amira walked to the window and opened it. Cool air drifted in, brushing against her cheeks like a ghost. The sky was pale blue, soft and open. Somewhere below, life moved on.
She touched her temple as the throb began again.
The doctor had called it a "cerebral vascular instability"—a rare, progressive condition that could one day rupture a blood vessel in her brain without warning. The pain was a symptom. The real danger was silent.
"You need treatment. You need rest," the doctor had said.
But treatment meant hospitals, medications, maybe even surgery. And rest? How could she rest when he was slipping away?
She hadn't told Rayan.
What would be the point? He would worry. He would pause everything. He would blame himself. And she couldn't bear to be the reason he lost his dream.
So she smiled. She made tea. She folded his shirts. And she counted every moment he was home like it was borrowed time.
Around noon, she sat by the window with a sketchpad in her lap. Her fingers moved lazily, tracing the shape of a face she knew better than her own. Rayan's jawline, the curve of his nose, the slope of his brow when he was deep in thought. Her pencil paused. She shaded under his eyes—he looked tired.
She didn't know if it was fair to love someone this much. She didn't know if he even noticed anymore.
Sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, she wondered if he would cry if she died.
Not out of malice. Not from bitterness. But from a soft, aching sorrow she couldn't share with anyone.
At 3:27 p.m., she felt the wave of pain hit her sharply, like a clamp on her skull.
She gritted her teeth and sat down slowly, breathing through her nose. It passed after a few minutes, leaving a dull echo. She wiped sweat from her forehead and told herself it was just stress. Just a bad day.
By 5:00, she was asleep on the couch, wrapped in a throw blanket, the sketchpad still resting on her stomach. A soft breeze played with the corner of the page.
And the clock ticked on.
At 8:42 p.m., Rayan stood in the lab, staring blankly at a screen.
Equations blurred before his eyes. His mind should have been on the stabilization sequence, but it wasn't. It had been drifting more and more lately. Every now and then, he thought about the way Amira smiled when he brought her coffee. About how she didn't ask him to stay, but always looked like she wanted to.
A colleague tapped him on the shoulder. "You okay?"
He blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."
But he wasn't. He was tired. He was forgetting things. Not just formulas, but moments. And tonight… tonight, he felt like he needed to go home.
So he packed up early, for the first time in months.
At 9:23 p.m., he stepped into the apartment.
It was dark. Quiet.
"Amira?" he called, locking the door behind him.
No answer.
He frowned and walked toward the living room. The lamp was off. The sketchpad lay on the floor.
"Amira?"
Then he saw her.
Lying on her side near the edge of the couch, motionless. One arm outstretched. Her face pale. Lips slightly parted. The kind of stillness that makes the world stop.
"Amira!" he cried, rushing to her.
He knelt beside her, shaking her gently. "Hey! Hey, wake up—Amira, wake up!"
Nothing.
Her skin was cold. Her breathing shallow, barely there. Her pulse—faint, erratic.
He fumbled for his phone. Dialed emergency services with shaking hands.
"She's not responding—please, I need an ambulance, now!"
The operator gave him instructions, but he couldn't wait. He scooped her up, heart pounding, and bolted to the car downstairs.
Every red light was a curse. Every second felt like sand slipping through his fingers.
"Please," he whispered, glancing at her slumped in the passenger seat. "Please hold on."
The hospital's hallway lights were too white. Too bright.
They took her in immediately. He wasn't allowed to follow. He sat in the waiting room with her sketchpad still in his hands. Her drawing of him stared back.
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
Then the doctor came out, face grim.
"I'm sorry," he said.
And Rayan broke.
Right there in the hospital corridor, he collapsed against the wall and screamed. Not loud. Not dramatic. But deep—a soul wound tearing open.
He cried until he couldn't breathe. Until his throat burned. Until everything inside him collapsed into silence.
She was gone.
And he was too late.
To be continue...