🪷✨️ ISHQ HIGH: Cause everyone deserves a sports romance.
Heer Thakur's life currently is all about one goal: "3 lakh rupees in three months."
Abhishek Sharma, the classic angry young man who insists everything goes according to his meticulous plans...
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2. Offer.
[A/N: Translations are available.]
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Komal Di was busy checking Mumma's vitals, her expression calm and focused, the way it always is when she's in doctor mode. There was a strange comfort in watching her work, knowing that we didn't have to worry about finding a specialist or waiting for someone to show up at the house. Di was right here, taking care of everything, making sure Mumma was okay.
Mumma lay on the bed, her face pale, looking smaller than usual. It was a sight that always made something twist in my chest-seeing her like this, so fragile.
She was awake now, but weak, her breaths shallow and her eyes barely open. I stood by the doorway, hands shoved deep in my pockets, watching helplessly.
It was always the same with her. We'd warn her, tell her to take care of herself, but she never listened.
"She's stable, but still needs rest," Komal Di said, her voice soft but authoritative as she glanced at me. I nodded, though I didn't really know what else to say.
I looked at Mumma again, and frustration started building up inside me.
How many times had we told her to stop being so careless with her health? Me, Di, even Papa had scolded her countless times, but Mumma... she was stubborn, always shrugging it off like it was nothing. And now, here we were again, after she'd fainted and scared the hell out of all of us.
I walked closer to the bed, standing beside her as Di finished up, packing away her stethoscope and writing something on her phone-probably notes about Mumma's condition.
"Mummy yaar, aap kabhi humari baat sunte kyu nahi ho?" I muttered under my breath, not expecting a response.
(Mummy why don’t you listen to us for once?)
She opened her eyes slightly, giving me a faint smile. "Arre, beta... it's nothing. I just got a little tired, that's all," she whispered, her voice weak.
A little tired? That's what she calls collapsing in the living room?
I clenched my fists, trying to keep my frustration in check. There was no point in arguing with her now, not when she looked like she could barely sit up. Why didn't she take herself seriously.
