The vivid reds in wedding symbols of celebration , Happiness and Joy . But what will happen if the same red colour change into the colour of blood betrayal and the symphony of despair.
Meera sweet little innocent girl end up being the pawn in the d...
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The ventilator's beeping slices through the silence like a razor. Too sharp. Too real. Too cruel.
I stand in the cold corridor, numb. I don't even realise I'm shivering until I look down and see my fingers trembling. Blood. It's under my nails. On my palms. Drying like cracked crimson paint.
His blood.
Arjun's.
The air smells like antiseptic and something metallic-something that makes my stomach churn. My back is pressed against the cold wall, as if it's the only thing holding me up. I try to breathe, but each inhale scrapes through my chest like sandpaper. It's like my lungs have forgotten how to work without him.
Doctors and nurses rush in and out through the double doors of the operation theatre. They're shouting things I don't understand. Or maybe I do, and I'm just refusing to process it.
"BP dropping!" "Scalpel!" "Keep him stable, dammit!"
Stable. That word used to mean something simple-unmoving. Safe. Now, it's a battlefield term. A line between life and death.
I feel Ma just a few feet away, curled in on herself on the plastic chair. Her face is hidden in her saree pallu, shoulders quivering silently. That silence screams louder than any sob.
Chaachi paces like a trapped animal. Her bangles clang with every step. Her voice breaks when she finally turns to me.
"Woh theek ho jaayega na, Meera? Bol na! Kuch toh bol!"
I can't answer. I can't lie. Because I don't know. I. Don't. Know.
My knees buckle, and before I realise it, I'm on the floor. The world goes blurry. I can't tell if it's the tears or just everything spinning out of control.
I press my forehead to the cold tiles, fingers clenched so tight my nails dig into my palm.
"Please," I whisper. "Please, please, please."
I don't know who I'm begging. God. The universe. Arjun. Myself.
The memory plays behind my eyes-like a cruel joke. His voice before the surgery. "Don't cry, okay? I'll always find my way back to you."
He had smiled. That stupid, arrogant, beautiful smile. Even with blood on his shirt, even with pain etched across his face, he had smiled. And I had believed him. Like a fool.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, but it's useless. The tears keep coming. My throat feels raw. My chest feels crushed under the weight of everything.
I love him.
That's not just a word. Not a confession. Not a cute line from a film. It's a truth that has built itself inside me, bone by bone, breath by breath.
I love him like the earth loves the rain after a drought. Like silence loves music. Like chaos loves peace.
