Shadows Of The Stumps

Are You Walking Away?

As Arjun and Maithili sat talking, a faint whirr-click-whirr broke the silence.

Arjun looked up first, eyebrows lifting in recognition. There she was — Meera — inching down the hallway in her remote-controlled wheelchair, brow furrowed in fierce concentration. The thing was moving, yes, but it had a mind of its own, veering slightly left every few seconds, as though possessed by a drunk GPS.

He couldn't help the grin that crept onto his face.

"Noor," he called out warmly, voice breaking into a chuckle. "You're about to ram the ficus again."

Meera shot him a mock glare, then flicked a wrist dismissively. "Coming, bhai!" she declared grandly — though her voice carried the tired rasp of a body still not fully cooperating.

Maithili instinctively began to rise, ready to help, but Arjun gently held up a hand. "Let her."

And so they watched — the soldier-turned-stubborn-stuntwoman carefully maneuvering her ride like it was a tank under siege. She finally reached them, slightly breathless, hair messy but eyes bright. There was a spark in her that hadn't been there that morning.

"Hi Mithu!" she squealed, and then paused, squinting suspiciously at their seating arrangement. "Wait... is this the part where you two rent a small overpriced apartment together, cook noodles at 2 a.m., and argue about IKEA lamps?"

Arjun groaned, already sinking into the couch like he wanted to disappear. "Meera..."

Maithili just smirked. "Your brother can't even say 'I love you' without sounding like he's been punched in the stomach," she replied smoothly. "And you think we're renting apartments in his living room?"

Meera gasped. "Excuse me. Still your senior, Mithu. Zabaan sambhal ke. It's my brother you're casually dragging."

Arjun muttered something about divine punishment under his breath as both women dissolved into laughter.

But it didn't last long.

Mid-chuckle, Meera's shoulders dipped forward, a yawn catching her off-guard, and the strain of just reaching the couch seemed to settle like weight behind her eyes. Arjun was beside her in an instant, gently rubbing slow circles into her upper back.

"Gadhi," he whispered, with all the affection in the world. "Pura hall Olympic track bana diya tu ne."

Meera leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second. "Karma," she mumbled. "For the number of times I laughed at others tripping in bootcamp."

Maithili watched quietly, a soft ache blooming in her chest. Then, after a moment, she spoke.

"You know... you don't have to go, Meera. But you should."

Meera opened one eye slowly, instantly alert beneath the haze of fatigue.

"To Anamika's?" she asked. The lightness from moments ago visibly faded.

Maithili nodded. "You don't have to stand. Or talk. Or explain anything to anyone. But you do need to let her parents see you. Because no one else can show them what she was in those last moments. No one else was there."

"I wasn't with her when she—" Meera began, voice breaking.

"But she was with you, Meera," Maithili said firmly. "You said it yourself — she was still breathing when you passed out. That means she saw you survive. You think she didn't hold on because of that?"

The room went quiet again.

"I can't go empty-handed," Meera whispered.

"You're not," Arjun said gently, his arm still around her. "You'll go with your pain, your love, and her memory. And that's more than anyone else can give them."