The corridors of City General Hospital smelled faintly of disinfectant and wilted carnations. For the first time in three days, there was no wail, no collapsing grief in either family. Instead, the waiting room carried the cautious hum of relief. Dennis was alive. The wedding, though postponed, had not been erased from their future.
Ann sat quietly, her hands folded tightly on her lap, as her mother whispered beside her, "The doctor said… three months. We'll wait three months, and then the wedding can take place."
Three months. The words sounded both impossibly far and achingly close. For Ann, time had become a fragile thread. Every second stretched like an eternity, but every minute Dennis breathed was a gift.
She pressed her palms together, whispering under her breath, "Three months… or thirty years… I'll wait."
Ann's POV
I had feared I would lose him forever. Those first hours after the accident felt like the sky had caved in. And yet now, even with monitors surrounding him, even with his body still, I felt alive again—because he was.
When the doctor walked in with his folder, both families rose at once. I clutched my dupatta in nervous fists. His face was calm, professional, but not unkind.
"Dennis is stable," he began, his voice measured. "But you must understand something clearly. The accident triggered a thrombotic stroke. Initially, there was mild weakness, but over the past hours, it has progressed into hemiplegia."
My heart stumbled at the word. "Hemiplegia?"
He nodded. "Paralysis on one side of the body. His right side has lost motor strength almost entirely. Movement will be extremely limited. With therapy, he may regain some function, but it will take months, possibly longer."
I swallowed hard. My fingers itched to reach for Dennis, as if my touch alone could coax life back into his muscles.
The doctor continued, "Speech has been affected slightly—he may experience slurring, but thankfully, his language comprehension is intact. He can think, understand, and speak. That's… a blessing."
Blessing. The word felt foreign in this sterile corridor, but I clung to it. My Dennis could still speak to me. His voice hadn't been stolen.
"There is also the risk of swelling, of complications," the doctor added, looking at each of us in turn. "The next weeks are crucial. He will need rest, rehabilitation, and constant support. The wedding must wait until he is stronger, but life has not ended for him. Or for you."
I nodded quickly, not caring about ceremonies or garlands. Life. That was all that mattered.
Dennis's POV
I could hear them long before I opened my eyes. The murmurs, the shifting of chairs, Ann's sharp little inhale whenever the doctor spoke. It was strange—my body felt like a foreign country, half of it silent and unreachable, yet my mind was alive, chasing the sound of her.
I tried to move my right hand. Nothing. A hollowness spread through me, colder than pain. I willed it again, and still the same dreadful stillness. Panic rose like fire. Then I heard Ann's voice—soft, steady, fighting tears.
"Dennis… I'm here. I'm not leaving."
Her words wrapped around me, pulling me back from the cliff of despair.
When my eyelids finally lifted, her face was the first thing I saw. Blurred by tears, yes, but radiant in a way I had never needed more.
"Ann…" My voice was broken, rough like gravel. But her gasp was pure joy.
"You're talking," she whispered, clutching my good hand to her lips. "Oh, Dennis, you're talking…"
Her relief washed over me. I tried to smile, but half my face betrayed me. It sagged, heavy and uncooperative. Her eyes widened for a moment, but then—oh, my Ann—she kissed the corner of my slack mouth as though it were whole.
"You're alive. That's all I need."
Alive. The word hurt and healed all at once.
Ann's POV
When he spoke my name, it was like a candle lit in the dark. Broken, trembling, but there. His right arm lay useless, his smile lopsided, his body a fragile echo of itself. But I saw only his eyes—alive, searching, still filled with the same love that had carried me through every stolen glance and every whispered dream.
"I'm… sorry," he mumbled, slurred.
"No," I shook my head fiercely. "Don't you dare say sorry. You fought your way back to me. That's everything."
Tears slipped down my cheeks, but for the first time in days, they weren't only grief—they were gratitude, fierce and aching.
Dennis's POV
Sorry. That was all I could think. Sorry for being broken, sorry for delaying her joy, sorry for the body that had failed.
But Ann—my impossible, stubborn Ann—saw none of that. She pressed her forehead to mine, whispering, "We'll still have our wedding. Three months, six months, I don't care. I'll marry you in a hospital gown if I have to."
A laugh slipped from me, shaky, half-choked, but real. "Hospital… mandap?" I croaked.
She laughed too, through her tears, and for a fleeting second the machines, the paralysis, the heaviness—all of it disappeared. It was just us again.
The families lingered behind, their relief tinged with sorrow. Dennis's mother wiped her eyes, murmuring prayers. Ann's father spoke quietly to the doctor, already asking about rehabilitation centers, physiotherapists, diets. Jacob leaned against the wall, his eyes never leaving his brother, guilt etched into every line of his face.
But Ann barely noticed any of it. She was curled in the chair beside Dennis, holding his hand as if letting go would undo everything.
Ann's POV
That night, I refused to leave. Nurses came and went, adjusting drips, checking monitors. But I stayed, whispering stories into Dennis's ear, brushing back his hair, reminding him of every dream we still had.
"Remember the cottage by the lake you promised me? We'll go there. I don't care if you can't walk, I'll carry you myself."
His fingers twitched in mine, the faintest response. My heart leapt.
"You hear me?" I smiled through my tears. "You and me. Always."
Dennis's POV
Her voice kept me tethered. Each word was a rope pulling me out of despair. I wanted to tell her I was terrified. I wanted to tell her I hated the weight of half a body that no longer obeyed. But when I tried to speak, my words came broken, jumbled, humiliating.
Still, she leaned close, listening as though I spoke poetry. Every slurred syllable she caught, treasured, repeated back to me with a smile.
"I love you too," she whispered when my mouth barely managed the shape of it.
And for the first time since the accident, I believed maybe life—this new, fractured life—was still worth living.
The hours bled into dawn. Families took turns resting, but Ann never moved. When the doctor returned for morning rounds, he found her still there, her hand laced with Dennis's, her head resting against the side of the bed.
He smiled faintly. "You're stronger than most patients, Dennis. But the journey is long. Hemiplegia recovery is slow. Speech will improve, but the right side… it may never return fully."
Dennis's eyes flickered to Ann's. She squeezed his hand immediately.
"We'll take slow," she said firmly. "We'll take whatever comes."