Only if it's You

Eight

It had been almost a week since that evening that she'd ignored him, and she had no idea how long she could possibly go on avoiding him. Yes, she overlooked him every time she went downstairs, but only she knew that it was just on the outside. She'd kept a tab on every movement of his, every damn move.

He woke up at seven, sharp, then he'd freshen up and drink a glass of fruit juice. He'd hit the gym for an hour or so and would make a beeline for the bathroom when he returned. He had a shower daily; she could hear the water drizzle over him. He'd puff when he came out of the shower, like the activity had exhausted him, and it made her laugh.

He'd get himself a cup of coffee and flip through the newspaper for a while. She could clearly hear the flutter of pages. After all she'd stand at the railing of the second floor corridor with a coffee mug in hand and see him all she wanted. After he'd finished turning, he'd switch on the TV and surf through all the channels, and as always, find nothing.

He wasn't completely wrong about her having headphones plugged in round the clock. Yes, she'd wear them, but only to deceive him. He had no clue that she never played anything in them. She'd just walk with them on when she went downstairs. He'd call her once, twice, say that he owed her an explanation, then stop. She could hear every damn word he said, but holding herself firm, she'd pretend like she hadn't heard anything at all.

She frequented the first floor a bit too much, and it wasn't to make things worse for him, but to make things better for her.

She'd asked for alone time and he'd diligently obeyed her. He'd stopped bringing green-tea to her in the mornings, stopped calling her for lunch, stopped coming to her room to tell her to rest, stopped checking if she was following it. She was missing all of it. She'd see him from the corridor, but he never noticed her there. She'd only come downstairs to hear him all she desired. To see him at eye-level, tired of the continuous top view she got.

Then when he'd left for work, she'd come downstairs eat something and watch TV for a while.

Sometimes she'd cry thinking about the misery she'd put him in. She knew him inside-out. She knew he had no one here. She was the one he wanted to have, to be with, to call his. He'd been so nice to her, and what had she done?

***

She sat beside him cupping his hand in both of hers. The doctor had said he'd been unconscious for a while now, and that she'd no clue when he'd wake up.

She took his hand to her forehead and cried for a long time. She couldn't explain how guilt-ridden she was. She wanted to apologize for being so rude to him. She wanted to hug him, hard, talk to him, sit with him, laugh with him, eat with him. Be with him, most importantly, just be with him.

Her world had collapsed. She could feel the fragments, the pieces. Everything suddenly ceased to exist.

"What've you done? Couldn't you have waited for me to catch up? Waited for me to reach where you were. Yes. I was being a stubborn bitch. I know. And, I really hate myself for that, but does that mean you'd do this? It's not you, Aron, it never was. It's me. Wake up, Aron. Wake up. I want to apologize, wake up." She couldn't stop weeping. She'd taken him for granted, and she'd do anything to make up for it.

She was still crying when she felt his hands move in hers. She ran to call the doctor and waited outside till she was done with checking him.

She walked in and saw him lying on that bed, with a gauze around his head. The face that usually had her gawking was now pale. Mustering all the strength left in her body, she stood on the legs that had already gone weak. He turned his head to look at her. Those gorgeous hazel eyes had gone weary with shadows under them. She was verklempt.