YOU AND ME

Ayush

---

The moment I step aside to speak with one of the hotel staff, an unsettling feeling grabs hold of me, like my heart is trying to warn me. It’s that kind of feeling when you just know something’s wrong. Something’s deeply wrong. I can’t shake it off. The conversation fades into the background, and I turn to the worker.

“Excuse me,” I say abruptly. “I need to go. I need to check on my wife.” My chest tightens as I add, “I have a bad feeling.”

The hotel worker nods. “Of course, sir. Go ahead.”

I rush out, each step heavier than the last. As I approach the bridge, dread crawls up my spine. That’s when I see her—Amina, my Amina—falling. Her body plunges into the river. It happens too fast, too suddenly. There’s no one else on the bridge, just me, witnessing the horror unfold.

“Amina!” I scream, my voice tearing through the air.

I lunge toward the edge, but people suddenly appear, pulling me back. Where did they come from? Hands grip my arms, stopping me from getting to her. The water below is swallowing her up, and I can’t reach her.

“Let me go!” I roar, thrashing against them, my mind spinning in panic. “If any of you try to stop me again, I swear, I’ll kill you all!”

The threat drips with cold, raw fury, and they let go. Without another word, I leap into the river after her, the cold water engulfing me as I dive deep, desperately searching for her.

---

The hospital is cold. I sit beside Amina’s bed, her body small and fragile under the blankets. She’s awake but silent, her face wet with tears that fall endlessly. She doesn’t make a sound; it’s as if she’s too broken to cry out. The loss is written all over her. Our baby—gone.

A nurse comes in, checking her vitals. She looks at me with concern. “I think she needs space,” the nurse suggests softly. “It’s best if you give her some time alone.”

Alone? No. She doesn’t understand. Amina doesn’t need to be alone. I know her. I know what she needs.

Without a word, I climb into the hospital bed beside her, wrapping my arms around her shaking body. That’s when she lets go, truly lets go, and the sobs come, deep and heart-wrenching. I hold her as tight as I can, wishing I could take her pain, take our pain, and make it disappear.

---

When we return home, the air feels thick with unspoken grief. The house is filled with family, waiting, hopeful for good news. But when they see us walk through the door, their expressions shift, realization settling over them like a heavy blanket. The joy they expected is replaced by confusion and sorrow.

Raj is the first to react. He rushes to Amina, wrapping his arms around her as if he can protect her from the world. Amina’s body stiffens at first, but then she breaks, her tears flowing freely again. Raj holds her, and I feel my own tears burning at the back of my eyes.

Amina’s face is pale, almost lifeless. I look at her, then at Raj holding her, and that’s when it hits me. I can’t hold it back anymore. The tears spill over, and before I know it, both Amina and I are crying, unable to keep the devastation inside any longer.

Amina’s parents arrive soon after, coming all the way from Africa. Her mother holds her close, whispering words of comfort, but I can see the strain in Amina’s eyes. She’s trying to be strong, trying to tell herself she’s okay. But she’s not.

“I’m fine,” she says one morning. “Please, don’t cry for me. I’m fine.”

But her voice wavers. Her hands tremble. She’s not fine, and I know it.