Forever His

Chapter 60: The Weight Of Silence

Shahmeer's POV:

The lights in this hospital are blinding, unnatural. They make everything feel raw, exposed. Every second feels like it's scraping against my skin, the clock's relentless ticking a cruel reminder that I'm powerless here. Me—Shahmeer Jafri—powerless. And all because of her.

Her blood was on my hands. Literally. I couldn't wash it off.

I stared down at my fingers, dried red caked into the creases, and all I could see was the moment she fell, the way her body crumpled like a lifeless doll. She jumped in front of me. For me. Why? Why would she do something so reckless, so... so stupid?

My chest was tight, suffocating. I couldn't think straight.

The double doors of the operation theatre stayed closed, and with every second that passed, I felt closer to losing it. I paced the hallway like a caged animal, my mind clawing at itself, desperate for an answer I didn't have. What if she didn't make it? What if—

No. I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms. She had to make it. She would.

I stormed toward the bathroom, needing to get away from the suffocating walls, the blinding lights. The second I was inside, I gripped the edge of the sink and stared at my reflection.

What I saw made me sick.

My face was pale, my jaw tight, my eyes hollow. There was blood smeared on my shirt—hers—and it made me want to rip the fabric from my body. I turned on the tap and splashed cold water on my face, hoping it would drown the images flashing in my mind. It didn't.

The worry in her eyes when she looked at me, the way she said my name like it was something worth saying. And then the sound of the gunshot, the way she fell, the blood soaking through her dress...

My fist collided with the mirror before I even realized what I was doing. The glass shattered, shards scattering across the sink, the floor. Pain radiated through my knuckles, but I didn't care.

I didn't want to look at myself. I couldn't.

You don't deserve to live, a voice whispered in the back of my mind. She got hurt because of you. This is your fault.

I pressed my forehead against the broken mirror, my breath ragged, my thoughts spiraling.

When I finally returned to the hallway, the doctor was stepping out of the operation theatre. My legs moved before my mind caught up, closing the distance between us in seconds.

"How is she?" My voice came out harsher than I intended, but I didn't care.

"She's stable," the doctor said, his tone calm, professional. I hated him for it. "The bullet has been removed from her arm. There's no major damage, but her blood pressur was dangerously high during surgery. We've also noted signs of severe anxiety. She'll need to be kept away from stress and given time to recover fully."

Stress. Anxiety. I wanted to laugh at the bitter irony. I was her stress. Her anxiety.

"She'll be unconscious for a while," the doctor continued. "We're moving her to a room now. You can see her soon."

I nodded stiffly, not trusting myself to speak.

When they wheeled her into the room, I followed silently, my footsteps heavy. She looked so small in that hospital bed, her face pale, her arm wrapped in pristine white bandages. The sight of her made something inside me crack.

I sank into the chair by her bedside, my elbows resting on my knees, my head in my hands. For a long time, I couldn't look at her. I couldn't face what I had done.