15. UNWELL
AAROHI:
For a long time, I floated. Not awake. Not asleep. Just... drifting. A soft, heavy darkness wrapped around me like a blanket soaked in warm water.
I tried to breathe, but each breath felt slow, sticky, like pulling air through honey. Somewhere far away, I heard faint noises. A door opening. Footsteps. A voice.
Deep. Low. Unmistakable. His. But it felt like sound underwater, blurred, distant, unreachable. I wanted to open my eyes. But they were glued shut.
My body didn't feel like mine. It felt heavy, stone heavy. Too heavy to lift. Then, slowly... painfully... I felt my fingers move. Just a twitch. Then another.
My lashes fluttered. Light stabbed into my skull. Sharp. Blinding. I winced. A soft gasp left someone near me, not him. A woman.
"Baby... Aarohi... you're waking up..." His mother. Her voice trembled with relief. I forced my eyes fully open, blinking through the haze. The room spun at first, walls tilting, ceiling blurring.
But then everything settled. The bed beneath me. The IV attached to my wrist. The faint medicinal smell. The soft lighting. And him.
Sitting in the chair beside the bed. Still in his work clothes. Sleeves rolled. Tie loosened. Hair disheveled like he hadn't slept. His elbows rested on his knees, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the floor.
Unmoving. Unreadable. But definitely there. Watching. Waiting. I swallowed. A mistake.
Pain shot through my throat, sharp and burning, making tears prick my eyes. I tried to inhale, but the movement made my temple throb. My head hurt. A dull, heavy ache spreading from the left side.
I lifted my hand weakly to touch it. A soft "no, no" came from his mother, and she gently caught my wrist. "Don't touch it, sweetheart. You... you hit your head. But you're fine now."
Fine. The word didn't fit the pounding in my skull or the dryness in my mouth or the way my chest trembled every time I tried to breathe. But I nodded, barely.
His mother squeezed my cold fingers. "I'll call the doctor. She said you might wake today." She rushed out. The door closed. And suddenly, it was just us.
A tension I could feel on my skin settled in the room. He didn't move at first. Didn't even lift his head. I looked at him. Waiting. Unsure. Fear curling inside me like a fist tightening.
Finally, he inhaled. Slow. Controlled. Then he raised his eyes. They locked onto mine immediately, dark, sharp, unreadable. But not empty.
Something else flickered there. Something I couldn't name. His gaze dragged from my eyes to the bandage on my temple, down to the IV in my wrist, then back to my face.
A slow, cold exhale left him. "You're awake," he said. Not soft. Not gentle. A statement. Plain. Flat.
But his voice sounded different. Less steady. Less in control. I tried to answer. My throat seized. Burned. No sound came out.
He watched the struggle. Watched me flinch. Watched me try again. His jaw tightened once, sharp, almost imperceptible. My breath shook.
I curled slightly on the bed, clutching the blanket, trying to ground myself. He stood. The movement startled me. He took one step toward the bed.
I stiffened automatically. His eyes narrowed, not in anger, in recognition. He saw it. My flinch. My fear.
And for a fraction of a second, barely long enough to catch, his expression cracked. Only a little. Only for a heartbeat. But it cracked.
He stopped walking. Didn't take another step. "Don't move," he muttered, more to himself than to me. His hands slid into his pockets, as if he didn't trust them near me.
The silence stretched. Thick. Unbalanced. Painful. My throat burned with the urge to ask about my mother, about what happened, about how long I'd been unconscious.
But I couldn't form words. Not even whispers. My eyes filled with tears again, silent, uncontrollable. He watched one fall down my cheek and land on the sheet.
He didn't look away. Didn't snap. Didn't command. Didn't order. Just stood there. Breathing hard.
Something dark and complicated moved behind his eyes, something he didn't know how to express and I didn't know how to read. Finally, he said the last thing I expected.
"The doctor will be here in ten minutes."
Then, after a pause long enough to hurt, his voice dropped lower. "You should not have fainted." It wasn't blame. It wasn't concern.
It was something in between, twisted, conflicted, tense. And the worst part? He didn't sound like he was talking to me. He sounded like he was talking to himself.
The silence that followed his words felt heavier than the blanket across my legs. He stood there, still as stone. I lay there, too weak to move. Only the soft drip of the IV broke the quiet.
He didn't look at me again. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere on the floor, like everything about me was too much. Too messy. Too fragile. Too real.
He exhaled once, sharp and controlled. Then he turned away. Not dramatically. Not angrily. Just turned. As if leaving would fix something inside him.
My fingers twitched toward him, not to stop him, not to call him back, just a helpless instinct. He didn't see. His hand was already on the door handle when a soft knock came from the other side.
The door opened before he could reach it. The doctor stepped in, followed by his mother. His mother rushed toward me immediately, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding my wrist gently.
"Oh thank God... beta, you're awake," she breathed, her voice thick with relief. I tried to smile at her. It hurt.
The doctor approached me with the small penlight again. "Good," she said softly. "Let me check you." The room dimmed around the edges as she examined my pupils.
The light stung my eyes, making them water. "How is your head?" she asked. I opened my mouth. A rasp of air came out, nothing more.
Her face softened in immediate understanding. "Don't try to speak," she said. But even as she said it, her eyes flicked briefly, knowingly, toward him.
He stood near the window now, arms crossed, staring out like the glass held more importance than anyone here. The doctor noted that. Everyone did.
She turned back to me. "Your throat is still severely inflamed. Swelling hasn't gone down fully. It will take time." Time. The word sank into my chest.
Time meant days without speaking. Maybe weeks. Time meant no way to argue. No way to ask about my mother. No way to explain anything to anyone. Just silence.
I stared at my lap, tears blurring my vision. The doctor reached for my wrist, checking my pulse. "Yesterday your fever was extremely high. You were dehydrated, malnourished, and your throat was strained far beyond safe limits."
Her tone was gentle. But her words cut. His mother looked between the two of us, me pale and trembling, him rigid and silent.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, but the doctor beat her to it. "She's stable now. But weak," the doctor continued. "Very weak. She shouldn't be left alone. Not for long."
His posture stiffened. Barely. But enough. The doctor noticed. She hesitated before speaking again, careful, cautious.
"And..." She pressed her lips together. "...stress will worsen everything." My eyes lifted instinctively. His jaw clenched.
The doctor cleared her throat delicately. "She needs calm. A peaceful environment. No raised voices. No emotional pressure. No fear." The last word lingered longer than it should have.
His mother shifted uncomfortably beside me. But he didn't move. Didn't react. Didn't even blink.
He just kept staring out the window, as if silence was some shield he could hide behind. The doctor finished examining me, adjusted the IV, and squeezed my hand.
"You'll fully recover," she whispered. "But you must rest." I nodded. She stepped back, gathering her tools. His mother fussed with my blanket, brushing my hair off my forehead lovingly.
Only when the doctor had packed her bag and turned to leave did he finally move. He spoke. "Is she out of danger?" His voice was low, rough, like gravel rolling under a boot.
The doctor met his eyes. "Yes, if she follows my instructions." His gaze flicked to me then, brief, sharp, unreadable. Then back to the doctor.
"What about her throat?"
The doctor hesitated again. Her answer wasn't what he expected. "Her voice may return slowly... or suddenly... or not at all for a while." She paused.
"It depends on whether she's exposed to distress."
His jaw went tight. Too tight. The doctor gathered her things and left with his mother. The door closed. And again, it was just us.
He didn't approach me. Didn't speak. He just stood there for a long time, breathing hard, staring at the floor like it had betrayed him.
His tie dangled loose around his neck. His shirt sleeves were wrinkled. A faint shadow darkened his jaw. He looked nothing like the untouchable businessman the world worshipped.
He looked... cornered.
Finally, he inhaled sharply. A sound almost like frustration. Almost like anger. Almost like... no. Not concern. Not him.
He turned to leave without speaking. But at the doorway, just before stepping out, he stopped. Didn't look back. Didn't turn around.
He only said one thing. Very quietly. Almost like a warning. Almost like a confession.
"You don't faint. You don't break. You don't stop breathing again."
Then he walked out. Leaving the room colder than before. Leaving my heart beating too fast. Too unsure. Too afraid.
And for the first time since I woke up, I realized something. He wasn't angry at me. He was angry because of me.
And that was somehow worse.