YOU AND ME

Ayush

It’s been three days since we buried our daughter.

The house feels emptier than it ever has before. The life, the noise, the happiness—it’s all been swallowed by silence. Today, we’re holding a small ceremony, a farewell for the baby we never got to know, and everyone is dressed in white. The scent of incense lingers in the air as prayers are murmured around me, but I can’t focus. All I can see is Amina.

She’s sitting in the corner, her body wrapped in her mother’s arms, staring off into nothing. Her face is pale, her eyes hollow. It’s like the light has gone out of her, the fire that once defined her extinguished in the worst way possible. Every breath she takes seems to ache.

And as if her pain isn’t enough, the murmurs start.

“It’s her fault,” one of the women whispers, her voice harsh and cold. “She’s cursed. She should never have been brought into this family.”

I feel my body tense, my fists clenching at my sides. I want to say something, to stop it before it gets worse, but the words stick in my throat.

“She brings darkness with her wherever she goes,” another one chimes in. “Ever since she came into this house, nothing but bad things have happened. She’s bad luck. I knew it.”

The words are like poison in the air, each one sinking deeper and deeper into me. How can they say this? How can they speak about her like this—after everything she’s been through?

Amina doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t even react. She just sits there, lost in her own grief, her body trembling as her mother holds her tighter.

Then, my mother speaks.

“I knew it,” she says, her voice full of bitterness, rising above the rest. “I don’t know why I ever forgave you, Amina. Every instinct I had told me not to. I should have listened. You’re evil. You’ve always been evil. And now look at what you’ve done. Our baby is gone because of you.”

My heart pounds in my chest as I stare at her. How can she be so cruel? How can she put all of this on Amina?

“You bring death to this house,” she continues. “Every baby that’s died—every loss we’ve had—it’s all because of you. You’re cursed. You should never have been part of this family. We should have never let you in.”

I can’t take it anymore.

“Enough!” I shout, stepping forward. Everyone turns to look at me, but I don’t care. “How dare you speak to her like that? She just lost her child. Our child. And you’re blaming her? You think this is her fault?”

“Ayush, you don’t understand—” my mother starts, but I cut her off.

“No,” I snap. “You don’t understand. Amina has done nothing but love this family, and you treat her like this? You act like she’s the reason for all your problems? She’s not the one who’s cursed—you are, for blaming her for something she had no control over.”

Amina still doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t move. She just stares blankly ahead, like she can’t even hear what’s happening around her.

And then she starts to laugh.

It’s a soft, broken sound at first. But it grows louder, sharper, until it fills the room, echoing off the walls. Everyone stares at her, confused, horrified. She pulls herself out of her mother’s arms and walks up the stairs, her laughter haunting the air as it fades.

I follow her with my eyes, fear clutching at my heart.

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Later that Night

The house is quiet now. Everyone is asleep, or at least pretending to be. I’m lying beside Amina, but she hasn’t spoken a word since the ceremony. She just lays there, her back to me, her body stiff and distant.

Then, I hear it.

A soft melody, floating through the air. A lullaby.

My heart pounds. It’s the lullaby Grandma used to sing to us as kids—the one she sang to every child in the house. But she’s been gone for years. And the sound…it’s coming from the baby’s room.

I sit up, glancing at the empty spot beside me. Amina isn’t there.

I rush out of bed, following the sound down the hallway. My hands are shaking, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts. Everyone else is awake now too, emerging from their rooms, their faces pale with confusion.

The lullaby gets louder as we approach the baby’s room. When I open the door, my heart sinks.

Amina is sitting on the floor, cradling a doll in her arms, singing the lullaby softly to it, as if it’s her child.

“Amina…” I whisper, stepping closer. “Amina, that’s not—”

“It’s our baby,” she interrupts, her voice soft and loving, her eyes fixed on the doll. “She’s sleeping, Ayush. Don’t wake her.”

My throat tightens, tears burning at the back of my eyes. “Amina, that’s not our baby. It’s a doll. Please…come back to bed.”

She looks up at me, her expression shifting from calm to fury in an instant. “Don’t you dare say that,” she hisses, clutching the doll tighter to her chest. “This is my baby. Our baby. Don’t take her from me.”

“Amina, please—”

Before I can finish, she slaps me, hard. The sting of it shocks me, but what hurts more is the look in her eyes—wild, desperate, broken.

“She’s mine!” she screams, standing up, still holding the doll. She stumbles to the crib, ripping the large portrait of us off the wall—the one we had hung there, full of hope for our future. She smashes it against the floor, glass shattering everywhere.

Tears stream down her face as she grabs everything in the room—the baby’s clothes, the toys, the decorations—and throws them to the ground. “I can’t give you anything, Ayush!” she cries, her voice raw with pain. “I can’t give you a child! I can’t give you what you want!”

“Amina, stop—please—” My voice cracks as I watch her, helpless, as she destroys everything we had built together, everything we had hoped for.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she sobs, collapsing to the floor, her hands shaking as she cradles the doll. “What am I supposed to do, Ayush? I can’t give you what you need. I’m broken. I’m useless.”

I fall to the ground beside her, pulling her into my arms as she shakes with grief. “You’re not useless, Amina. You’re not. I love you. I love you more than anything.”

But she doesn’t hear me. She doesn’t respond. She just keeps crying, holding the doll as if it’s our baby, as if it’s the only thing keeping her from completely falling apart.

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Two Weeks Later

Amina hasn’t spoken since that night.

She just lies in bed, curled up, staring at the wall. She doesn’t eat, she doesn’t cry, she doesn’t smile. It’s like she’s not even here anymore. She’s disappeared into herself, lost in a grief so deep that I can’t reach her.

I sit by her side, every day, holding her hand, whispering to her, trying to bring her back. But nothing I do makes a difference. She’s gone, and I don’t know how to bring her back.

And it kills me.

I don’t know what to do anymore.

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