UNENDING

14- Sceptic

-ASIYA-

The antiseptic smell of the hospital burns my nostrils as I lie in this sterile, cold bed. The beeping of the machines, the hushed whispers of the nurses, the fluorescent lights—all of it feels like a punishment. I hate hospitals more than anything in this world, and every minute here is an agonizing reminder of why I despise them so much.

I've been here for a few days now, but it feels like a lifetime. The days bleed into each other, an endless stream of monotony and despair. I haven't spoken since I woke up and don't want to. What is there to say? My silence is my refuge, my shield against the world that has taken everything from me.

Al-Qasim is here, as always. He has been taking care of me all by himself. He doesn't force me to speak. Instead, he asks me questions, and I nod or shake my head in response. He begs me to eat, but all he gets are a few bites. He reads to me to keep me entertained and plays movies on his iPad, trying his best to make me comfortable and to help me heal quickly.

As I watch him, I feel a deeper pain than any physical wound. He's doing all of this out of obligation, not love. He doesn't love me and never will. But he promised to be good to me and has kept that promise. It makes me feel wretched for wanting more, for longing for a love that will never be mine. I feel ungrateful.

Bilal has visited a couple of times. His visits are brief and filled with awkward silences. Jamila came, too. She put on an Oscar-worthy performance, pretending to be worried about me. She caressed my face, scolded me for being careless around the stairs, and even squeezed out a few tears. But when Al-Qasim wasn't looking, she threw me those wicked smiles—smiles that told me she enjoyed my suffering.

I can't bear to look at her. The memory of that day haunts me. If Jamila hadn't pushed me down the stairs, I would still have my baby. My beautiful baby. The one I will never hold. The one I will never see grow. The guilt is a heavy weight on my chest. I should have fought harder, should have stood up to her. If only I were brave enough to tell Al-Qasim the truth.

But I am a coward. The thought of telling him terrifies me. He has been kind to me, good to me. He wouldn't think of me as a monster, would he? He wouldn't blame me or hit me like my family would. But I can't be sure. I stare at him, lost in these thoughts, and he catches me looking. He gives me a small smile and walks over to the bed from the bench where he's been sitting.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly.

I nod and look away, unable to hold his gaze. He sits on the edge of the bed and asks if I want him to read to me again. I nod, and he picks up the book he was reading and settles back into the chair. His voice washes over me, and I wonder why he can't be mine—fully mine.

I notice the dark circles under his eyes and how his face has become gaunt. I feel a pang of guilt for putting him through this. I want to tell him to go home, that I can take care of myself, but the words stick in my throat. I am trapped in this silent prison of my own making.

I wish I could turn back time and undo the choices that led me here. I never wanted to end up in this place, feeling this way. But the loss of my baby, the overwhelming emptiness—it was too much to bear. The pain consumed me and pushed me to the edge. And now, I am left with this gaping void inside me, a hollow shell of who I once was.

Al-Qasim continues to read, his voice steady and calm. I watch him, wondering what he is thinking. Does he hate me for what I tried to do? Does he pity me? I can't tell. He has always been an enigma to me, a closed book. I used to think I could make him love me if I tried hard enough. But now, I know better. Love can't be forced. It can't be begged or borrowed.