•𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐔𝐧𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐖𝐢𝐝𝐨𝐰!•

33. Time

A D H W I T

A month later, her recovery was a testament to her resilience and strength. The bruises on her body had faded to faint marks, and her wounds, though still healing, no longer looked as angry and raw. She was finding her way back to herself, slowly but surely.

Her voice, once reduced to whispers, was now growing stronger. Though still raspy, she could form sentences, and each word she spoke felt like a victory.

"Good morning," she said softly one day as I entered the room, her voice fragile but steady. Hearing her speak again was a relief I couldn’t put into words.

"Good morning," I replied, sitting by her side with a smile. "How are you feeling today?"

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes warm with gratitude. "Better," she murmured. "A little stronger."

Dhruv had been instrumental in guiding her through vocal exercises, encouraging her to use her voice gently to avoid strain. He would sit beside her, holding flashcards with simple phrases for her to repeat.

"Say, ‘I’m healing,’" Dhruv instructed one morning, his tone patient and kind.

"I’m... healing," she repeated, her voice breaking slightly but filled with determination.

"Perfect," he said with a proud smile. "We’re making real progress."

Her legs, though still weak, were also showing signs of improvement. Physiotherapy sessions were grueling, but she faced them head-on. Dhruv and I would help her lift her legs, encouraging her to stretch and flex the recovering muscles.

"You’re doing great," I told her during one session. Her face was flushed with effort, but she managed a faint smile.

"It hurts," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I know," I said, taking her hand. "But look how far you’ve come. One day at a time, right?"

She nodded, her determination shining through the pain.

Evenings had become our favorite time. We’d sit together by the window, the soft glow of the setting sun casting warmth over the room. She’d rest her head against the pillow, and I’d talk about anything and everything—stories from work, funny memories, even silly anecdotes just to see her smile.

"Tell me more about that," she said one evening, her voice still faint but filled with curiosity.

"About what?" I asked, leaning closer.

"That time... you got stuck in the elevator," she replied, a hint of a laugh in her tone.

I chuckled, recounting the story in dramatic detail, and her soft laughter filled the room—a sound I’d missed more than anything.

Dhruv was right when he said her recovery wasn’t just physical. Each word she spoke, each step she tried to take, was a step toward healing not just her body but her spirit. And I was honored to be by her side through it all.

She wasn’t just surviving anymore. She was living.

Three months had passed, and the changes in her were more profound than I could have imagined. Her legs, once immobilized, now moved with a newfound strength. With each step, she gained more confidence, and with each passing day, she became more herself again. The process had been slow, but the progress was undeniable.

There were moments when she’d stumble, and I’d be right there to catch her, holding her steady until her balance returned. "I’ve got you," I’d whisper each time, my heart racing in the same way it did the first time she let me help her. Her trust in me was something that felt both fragile and precious.