Kabhi main, kabhi tum, kabhi yeh, kabhi voh

You'll Always Be My Home: Part 1

A/N: This is a new story that picks up from the second last episode (episode 33). Hope you all enjoy.

Mustafa: Lost In The Ashes of Time

The world had shrunk to a single room. A sterile, suffocating room where the beeping of machines kept time better than any clock. Every hollow beep rang like a heartbeat, every hollow beep mocked him. Mustafa sat there, numb and weightless, as though he had been torn from the world itself and left suspended in a space where nothing could touch him—except the woman lying in front of him. His Sharjeena. Still. Silent. Too still.

His hands trembled as they reached out to hers. Lifeless fingers rested against his palm—fingers that once curled instinctively around his in comfort, in love, in forgiveness. He held her hand tighter, as if the strength of his grip could somehow breathe life back into her. "Sharjeena," he whispered, the syllables cracking like glass, his voice as broken as the space between them. "Mujhse mat rootho. Please. Meri galti ki itni badi sazaa mat do mujhe."

The weight of his words hung in the air like a stone dropped into water—heavy, irreversible. She didn't respond. Her chest rose and fell, shallow and mechanical, as if her body was betraying her soul by holding on. And yet, Mustafa clung to that faint movement, his desperation rooted in its fragility.

Time didn't pass in minutes or hours; it passed in anguish, in waves of regret so fierce they threatened to drown him. Each beat of the clock was a reminder—she's still gone, she's still not here. The post-it-notes danced before his eyes one by one, in different colours, yellow, blue, green, fluttering like cruel ghosts whispering in his ear. Mustafa, tum nahi aaye. Main aaj akele hospital gayi.

I'm sorry, he said, the words tumbling from his lips in gasps, as though trying to outrun his shame. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

The guilt choked him, its claws wrapped tight around his throat. He bent his head, forehead pressing against the back of her cold hand, and whispered into the silence, "Kasam se, main tumhein bohot zyaada pyaar karta hoon." But love wasn't enough now, was it? Love hadn't been enough to keep her safe, to keep her warm, to keep her from falling into the cold, dark nothingness of that apartment.

He remembered another note. Maine aaj phir akele khaana khaaya. The memory of her disappointment, her loneliness, weighed on him like a boulder pressing against his chest. "I'm sorry, galati hui hai mujhse." he murmured to her unconscious form.

Another contraction of regret: Mustafa, tum naa badal rahe ho. Tumhaare paas meri shikhaayatein padhne ka bhi time nahi hai.

His voice broke as he said the words aloud, as if confessing his sins to her. "Main toh tumhaare mere bacchhe ke liye azaayishein dhoondhne nikla tha, tumse mohabbat kam thode ki thi maine." He squeezed her hand tighter. "Sharjeena, please, maafi ka ek mauka toh do."

He closed his eyes, the image searing itself into him once more. The loose extension cord. The darkened room. The unnatural quiet when he had stepped inside, calling her name and hearing nothing but his own echo. The sight of her crumpled body on the floor—her arms outstretched, her face peaceful in the worst way, her body failing to protect the life they had made together.

Mustafa gasped at the memory, the tears spilling hot and relentless down his cheeks. He bit his lip, trying to silence the sob threatening to erupt. The pain in his chest was a fire he couldn't put out. "Mujhe vahaan hona chahiye tha," he whispered hoarsely. "Mujhe tumhaare paas hona chahiye tha, Sharjeena. Maine tumhein akela chhorr diya." His voice broke, his anguish spilling into the sterile air, but she didn't move. She didn't answer.