The hospital room was dim, wrapped in the golden hush of an evening sun that poured in slantwise through the blinds, painting the walls in sleepy amber. Machines blinked steadily in rhythm with her breath — shallow, faint, but steady now.
Dev sat by the window, notebook open on his lap. He hadn't written much. The pages were filled with sketches — lines that didn't mean anything, arrows that led nowhere. His pen moved, but his gaze never strayed far from the bed.
From her.
Then — the smallest stir.
The twitch of a finger. The flicker of lashes. A breath that trembled like a soul slipping back into its shell.
He didn't leap. He rose slowly, as if afraid the moment would vanish if he moved too fast. But inside, his heart thundered like a monsoon tide breaking against his ribs.
She blinked — once. Then again.
"Hiya?" His voice fractured. Disbelieving. A prayer shaped as a whisper.
She turned her head, slowly, painfully — like gravity still held her in some dream. Their eyes met.
And then… a smile. Sleepy. Pale. But unmistakably hers.
"You… stayed?" she murmured, her voice thin as thread.
Dev swallowed, throat raw. He pulled the chair closer, settling beside her. His fingers found hers, trembling with a quiet reverence — not possession, not apology, just the ache of holding something precious and breakable.
"You scared everyone," he said, the words carrying too much beneath their simplicity.
Hiya blinked, her lashes fluttering like moth wings.
"I… don't remember much."
"You don't need to," he replied softly. "Just rest now."
She didn't ask why his eyes were bloodshot, or why one side of her pillow was still damp. She didn't need to. Some grief, some tenderness, didn't require naming.
"Was it serious?" she asked.
His lips parted — and closed again. Then, with effort, he whispered,
"You were almost gone."
Hiya didn't cry. She only nodded, slowly. As if her soul already knew.
A silence bloomed — not awkward, but sacred. A space where neither guilt nor forgiveness tried to speak. Just being was enough.
Then her gaze fell on the diary near her pillow. Its edge slightly frayed, familiar.
"Did you…" Her voice trailed off.
Dev looked away. He didn't answer.
She didn't push. But her cheeks flushed — warmth blooming beneath pale skin. A knowing passed between them like breath in cold air — invisible, but felt.
He stood abruptly, reaching for a thermos.
"Riddhi made soup. I kept it warm for you."
Hiya nodded, weakly. She let him feed her, her hands too unsteady to lift the spoon properly. When it slipped, Dev caught her fingers without hesitation — his palm warm, grounding.
"Eat slowly," he murmured, almost scolding. "You're not going back to college yet."
"But—"
"I'll manage it." His voice firm. Then gentler, eyes softening, "Just get better."
Afterward, he helped tuck her blanket higher. His hand brushed her shoulder, feather-light. She tilted her head up — her eyes clearer now, studying him. There was something in them.
Not love.
Not yet.
But a question.
A pull.
A fragile flame asking not to be extinguished.
He didn't answer with words.
Instead, he leaned in, slow and unsure, and gently tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. His fingertips grazed her cheek.
She stilled — not from fear, but from the sudden ache of his closeness. Her skin tingled where he'd touched her, the air between them humming like a held breath.
His lips hovered near her jaw.
But he didn't kiss her.
Didn't confess.
Only whispered,
"Don't faint again. I don't like how that feels."
Then straightened — and walked away.
She lay there, stunned. The ghost of his fingers still brushed her skin, the hush of his breath lingering like the echo of a half-finished sentence.
Her heart refused to settle. It danced wildly beneath her ribs — not from illness, but from hope.
Outside, Dev leaned against the corridor wall, eyes shut. He could still feel her warmth on his fingertips.
And the terrifying truth he couldn't yet say aloud settled like a vow inside him:
He wasn't ready to confess.
But he was ready to stay.