YOU AND ME

Ayush

I’m standing in the kitchen, staring blankly at the empty plate I’ve prepared for Amina. It’s been a month since she last moved on her own. A month of watching her slip deeper into the darkness that consumes her, like a shadow I can’t pull her from. Every day is the same — I bathe her, I dress her, I try to feed her, but she won’t eat. The doctors started her on glucose drips just to keep her alive, but even that feels like it's barely enough.

I know she won’t eat, but I bring her food anyway. It feels like the only thing I can control in this house that’s spinning out of control. The clatter of silverware against the plate barely registers over the noise from the other room. My family’s at the dining table, but I can’t focus on their conversations. The weight of Amina’s silence is all I hear, all I feel.

Then, something cuts through the air. A sound I haven’t heard in this house for so long — the sound of a child crying.

I freeze.

I drop the plate and rush towards the door, following the sound. The others are already there, standing in shock, staring at the entrance. There, at the threshold, is a small girl, tears streaming down her face. She’s crying so loudly, so desperately, and none of us know what to do. My mind scrambles to make sense of it. A child? Here?

Then, something happens that takes my breath away. I see Amina.

She’s moving.

For the first time in weeks, she’s moving. Her body looks frail, like a ghost of who she was, but she’s walking towards the child. I feel a lump in my throat as I watch her kneel before the little girl. Her trembling hands reach out to wipe the child’s tears.

“Mom…” the girl sobs. My heart clenches.

Amina looks back at me, tears glistening in her eyes, and I know she’s thinking about our child, about the baby we lost. I nod at her, unsure of what to say, just thankful she’s awake, that she’s feeling something, anything.

The little girl sniffles, rubbing her eyes. “I’m Priyanka… I can’t find my mom.”

“We just moved in next door,” she adds, her voice small and scared. “I saw your gate was open, so I came inside.”

Amina’s hands tremble, but she keeps them on the girl’s shoulders, grounding her. “Have you eaten anything?” she asks gently.

The child shakes her head, and Amina takes her hand, slowly standing up. “Let’s call your parents. But first, let’s get you something to eat, okay?” Her voice is soft, careful, as if she’s afraid to break whatever fragile connection she’s made with the girl.

We lead Priyanka to the table, and Amina sits with her, feeding her some of the food I’d prepared. I watch in disbelief. It’s like life is flowing back into Amina, slowly, piece by piece. She’s no longer a shell, no longer the woman who stared blankly at the walls for weeks. She’s... present.

Priyanka’s parents eventually come to pick her up, apologizing profusely, but Amina insists it’s fine. She even smiles. Smiles. And for the first time in a long time, I see hope flickering in her eyes.

---

Fast-forward scenes

Days go by, and Priyanka becomes a regular visitor at our house. Her parents bring her over every day, saying how much she enjoys spending time with Amina. And in turn, Amina starts coming back to life.

I watch her with Priyanka, laughing, playing. She’s smiling again — not the full, radiant smile I used to know, but a smile nonetheless. It’s like the pieces of her soul that shattered are slowly coming back together, bit by bit. She cooks, she talks, she even jokes with Raj and Rohan, who come over to help lift the mood. They joke around, playing little pranks, teasing her about her cooking like they used to.

One day, Amina even starts a water fight with Priyanka in the garden, soaking me in the process, and I can’t help but laugh. God, how I’ve missed this. I’ve missed her.

---

Moments later

The family starts to breathe easier. The house feels lighter, filled with moments of laughter, jokes, and simple, happy memories. Priyanka’s presence becomes a balm for Amina’s wounds, and I see her heart slowly opening again.

But not everything is perfect. My mother, she still can’t stand the sight of Amina. Her words cut through the joy like daggers, making every happy moment just a little darker.

“She shouldn’t be here,” she says, spitting the words when she thinks I’m not listening. “I don’t care how much she smiles now, she’s bad luck. She brought death to this family. She brought pain.”

I want to defend Amina, I want to scream at my mother, but I know it’s no use. Amina hears her too, but she doesn’t care anymore. She’s too focused on Priyanka, too focused on rebuilding herself to let the hate get to her. I admire her for it.

I still stand by her, ready to shield her from anything, but I’m grateful that she’s found something to hold onto. Something that pulls her back from the edge.

And for now, that’s enough.