Whispers of Fate

𝗍𝗐𝗈

✼

Anisha's POV

✼

In the dimly lit room, soft golden patterns painted the walls as sunlight filtered through the curtains. Clutching the framed photograph tightly against my chest, I felt the cool glass against my trembling fingers, tears uncontrollably streaming down my face. Sahil's smiling face stared back at me, a bittersweet reminder of the love we had shared and the grief still clutching my heart.

Today marked what would have been our fourth wedding anniversary, but instead, it was Sahil's second death anniversary.

Five years ago, on this very date, I became his wife, and two years ago, his widow.

Sahil and I had crossed paths when I was just 21, during our college years. He was in the final stretch of his two-year master's degree, while I was wrapping up my three-year bachelor's degree. Introduced by a mutual friend, we felt a spark from the moment we first met.

Four years into our relationship, we decided to take the plunge and get married. Our love was an all-encompassing force, painting our lives with joy, compassion, and affection. Days passed by in the blink of an eye, and a year after our wedding, we welcomed our daughter, Maisha, into the world.

Our life together was a beautiful necklace, the three of us like pearls, tightly woven. But then, on this very day, two years ago, everything crumbled. The pearls scattered, and our once-harmonious life came crashing down.

I remember that day vividly. Sahil's close childhood friend had returned after two years from USA. He, along with all his friends, was going for a lunch they had hosted in honor of their dear friend's arrival.

"Anisha!" I heard my husband's voice as I boiled milk for Maisha in the kitchen.

I rushed out of the kitchen to see my husband tying his shoelaces.

"When will you be back?" I asked him.

"Soon, baby. Stay ready for our special date tonight," he winked and planted a peck on my lips.

"Chalo, main jaa raha hoon," He said. ("Okay, I am going.")

"Sahil! Kitni baar kaha hai main jaa raha hoon nahi, bolo main jaakar aa raha hoon," I snapped at him.
("How many times have I told you not to say I'm going, instead say I'm going and coming back?")

He laughed and kissed Maisha, who was sitting and playing on the floor, "Okay, okay, bye, jaan!"

He went away, as he had said, but didn't return as I had asked.

In the evening, he did return, but as a mere lifeless body, shrouded in the cold, white hospital sheets.

Just two hours after he left, I had managed to put Maisha to sleep with great effort, when my phone rang. Thinking it was a call from a friend or family to wish us on our anniversary, I rushed to pick it up, little did I know that it would change everything completely.

Sahil had met with a fatal accident on the outskirts of the city as he was returning. His car had collided with another vehicle. He was alive at the scene, but all hospitals were far away, and by the time he was brought to the hospital, he had already taken his last breath.

Life never remained the same after that devastating moment. The loss of Sahil left a void that seemed impossible to fill. Our home, once filled with laughter and love, now echoes with silence and sorrow. Every corner, every memory, is a painful reminder of what we have lost.