When you smile

Chapter 37

Dev's P.O.V.

I follow Aman's lead, my own anxiety mounting as we navigate the labyrinthine corridors of the hospital. The waiting area we enter is a somber space, filled with rows of unforgiving plastic chairs, their uncomfortable contours a stark contrast to the emotions that have brought us here. A hush of anticipation hangs in the air, punctuated only by the hushed conversations of anxious families who, like us, await news of their loved ones. The atmosphere is heavy with worry, a collective sense of unease shared by all present.

Aman takes a seat, his fingers tapping anxiously on his knees like a quiet drumbeat of apprehension. I settle beside him, offering the kind of support that words can't adequately convey. In moments like these, where the weight of uncertainty hangs heavily in the air, mere presence becomes a source of solace. We sit in silence, our hearts echoing the anxious rhythms of our surroundings, both of us united in our shared hope for positive news about Aman's mother.

The minutes stretch into an eternity as we sit in the dimly lit waiting area, the hospital's bustling activity continuing around us like a distant symphony of life. I steal a glance at Aman, his eyes etched with concern, and he acknowledges the unspoken understanding that binds us in this moment of shared vulnerability.

Where's his father? He should have also received a call from the hospital, right? I turn to Aman, ready to ask him about his father, but something stops me. His eyes are rimmed with exhaustion. There's a weariness to his expression, a weight that seems to pull him down. I decide to hold my questions for now, understanding that this is not the right time to pry with some stupid questions of mine.

As we wait, the silence in the room becomes suffocating, oppressive even. I steal glances at the other people in the waiting area, their faces etched with worry, each lost in their own thoughts and anxieties. A young couple clutches each other's hands tightly, seeking comfort in their shared touch. An elderly woman sits alone, a picture frame clutched tightly in her weathered hands, her gaze fixated on a distant memory.

The rhythmic tick-tock of the clock on the wall becomes the soundtrack to our collective unease. It's as if time has slowed down, stretching the anticipation to unbearable lengths. I fidget in my seat, desperate for some distraction, some sign that everything will be alright.

Finally, a nurse approaches us, her face a delicate blend of concern and professional composure. Her badge reads "Nurse Roberts," and her soothing presence is a balm to our frayed nerves. "Are you here for Mrs. Shreya Shrivastav?" she asks, her voice a gentle yet serious melody that carries the gravity of the situation.

Aman nods, his voice barely a whisper. "Yes, she's my mother."

Nurse Roberts offers a reassuring smile, a flicker of warmth in the sea of uncertainty. "The doctor is with her right now. She's stable, but it appears she fainted due to sheer exhaustion and the overwhelming stress she's been under. While we can't definitively confirm low blood sugar just yet, it's entirely possible that not having eaten for a while contributed to her condition. We'll proceed with a battery of tests to gain a clearer understanding of her overall health," she explains with a blend of medical precision and empathy, her words resonating with us like the comforting touch of a healer.

Relief washes over Aman's face, though the depth of his concern for his mother remains evident. "Can I see her?" he asks, his voice quivering slightly, his words a plea for reassurance.

The nurse nods in understanding, her eyes reflecting her compassion. "Of course, she's conscious now. Room 203, just down the hall to your left. The doctor will be joining you shortly to explain her condition in more detail," she assures us, her professionalism a guiding light in this storm of uncertainty.