GREEN GRAPES
I arranged the books on the shelves one by one, dusting them carefully, trying to bring some order into the mess around me, even though my mind itself felt far from organised, and as I inhaled the fine layer of dust, I sneezed suddenly, rubbing my nose with a small irritated sigh while glancing at the pile of books still scattered across the floor, silently reminding myself that I had a long way to go before this place looked decent again.
I wiped the sweat forming on my forehead and took off my glasses for a second, pressing my fingers against the bridge of my nose before putting them back on, and from the corner of my eyes, I noticed her sitting just a few feet away on the floor, scrolling through her phone like the world around her didn’t exist.
“You want me to help?” she asked casually.
I shook my head without even looking at her properly, continuing to arrange the books, because somehow, I had already gotten used to doing things on my own.
“Can you bring me a glass of water?” I asked instead.
She hummed in response and stood up, and I didn’t pay much attention at first, until she stumbled.
My head snapped toward her immediately.
She held onto the wall for support, her movements unsteady, her balance clearly off, and something about the way she stood there made my chest tighten in sudden unease.
“Are you okay?” I asked quickly, already walking toward her.
But she didn’t answer.
Her eyes— they were closed.
Her body swayed again.
And before I could even process what was happening, she stumbled backward.
I reached out instinctively, grabbing her wrist just in time before she collapsed completely, my grip tightening around her as panic surged through me.
“Viyana—”
Her body went limp in my hold.
My heart dropped.
I quickly lowered her to the floor, supporting her head carefully as I knelt beside her, my mind racing, my hands trembling despite myself.
“Oh my god…”
This was the second time.
The second time she had fainted like this.
“Viyana…” I called again, my voice softer now but laced with panic as I tapped her cheek gently, trying to bring her back, trying to get any kind of response.
But she didn’t move.
My throat went dry as fear crawled up my spine, my mind running through a hundred possibilities at once, none of them good.
“Hey… wake up,” I muttered, my voice unsteady now as I leaned closer, my hand hovering near her face, unsure what to do next but knowing one thing clearly—
Something was wrong.
And I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
I loosened her clothes slightly, my fingers careful, almost hesitant, and then I rushed to open the windows, letting the air in, hoping it would make this feel less suffocating than it already did.
My steps were quick, almost unsteady, as I hurried to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water, my mind racing ahead of me, my heartbeat refusing to slow down as I returned to her.
I knelt beside her again, and this time her eyes were slightly open.
Relief hit me instantly.
“Are you okay?” I asked, my voice softer now, the panic slowly loosening its grip as I saw her regain consciousness.
She didn’t answer immediately.
After a few quiet moments, she slowly pushed herself up, her movements weak, fragile, and I handed her the glass without a word, watching as she drank it slowly, her hands still slightly trembling, her face pale—completely drained of colour, like whatever life had been there moments ago had quietly slipped away.
I reached for her wrist without thinking, my fingers wrapping gently around it as I checked her pulse, my focus narrowing completely to her.
Then my hand moved to her cheek and her neck, hecking for fever.
But the moment my skin touched hers a strange sensation ran through me.
I ignored it.
“Are you okay?” I asked again, this time looking directly into her eyes.
She just stared back at me for a second before nodding faintly.
I stood up immediately and held my hand out to her.
“Get up. Let’s go to the hospital,” I said, my tone leaving no room for argument.
She looked at me.
Then at my hand.
And shook her head.
“I’m fine.”
I exhaled sharply, already losing patience.
“I don’t think you are fine, and don’t argue. Let’s go.”
After a moment of hesitation, she finally placed her hand in mine, and I helped her up, my grip firm, steady, not letting her stumble again.
“For how long has your body been like this?” I asked as I made her sit on the bed.
“For years,” she muttered.
My brows furrowed immediately.
“Have you been undergoing any treatment?”
She nodded.
“Do you have your medical reports with you?”
She pointed toward her suitcase lying on the floor.
I walked to it quickly, kneeling down as I opened it and began searching through her things until I found a blue file neatly tucked inside, filled with documents and reports.
I took it out and flipped through it briefly before grabbing one of my own files from the table and placing her reports inside it carefully.
“Come, let’s go,” I said again.
But she didn’t move.
I looked at her.
She just stared at me.
“See how I look… you want me to come out like this?” she asked.
I stared at her for a second before shaking my head.
“We are going to a hospital, not a party,” I muttered.
“Wait… at least let me comb my hair,” she said, running her fingers through it quickly, tying it into a high ponytail, adjusting her clothes before finally standing up.
We walked out of the house together, and I handed her the file before starting the bike, my mind still unsettled, my thoughts still circling around one thing—
This wasn’t normal.
And I needed to know what exactly was wrong with her.
I increased the speed of the bike without even realizing it, the engine roaring louder than usual as the wind hit against us, my mind far too restless to care about anything except reaching the hospital as quickly as possible.
We reached in what felt like seconds.
I stopped the bike abruptly, and we both got down without a word, walking straight inside, my steps quick, determined, while she followed beside me quietly, her presence suddenly too fragile for my comfort.
This was the only hospital I trusted for situations like this.
No appointments.
No waiting games.
We sat in the waiting area, the silence between us heavier than before, filled not with awkwardness but with something else—something uncertain, something unspoken—and I couldn’t help but glance at her again and again, checking if she was okay, if she looked like she might faint again.
Finally—
Our turn came.
The doctor called us in.
“Go,” I muttered to her, my voice low.
“You’re not coming?” she asked, her brows knitting slightly.
I just stood up and walked in with her.
The doctor went through her reports carefully, his expression serious, unreadable, flipping through each page with quiet focus as he checked her pulse and asked her a few basic questions—her age, her history, how often this had happened—his voice calm but precise.
She answered softly.
Without much detail.
After a few minutes, he looked up and asked her to step outside and wait.
My chest tightened instantly.
She glanced at me for a second before walking out, and the moment the door closed behind her, the silence inside the room became suffocating.
I sat there, my fingers tapping restlessly against the table, my thoughts racing ahead.
“Is anything serious, sir?” I asked, my voice lower than usual.
The doctor looked at me and then he nodded.
My chest tightened further as he went through her reports again, his eyes scanning each line with a kind of quiet seriousness that made it harder for me to breathe normally, as if every second of silence was only preparing me for something heavier.
“Seems like she has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” he muttered finally.
“She was undergoing treatment for a few years… but it looks like she stopped midway,” he continued, flipping a page casually as if this was just another case for him.
My brows pulled together, confusion mixing with something deeper, something more unsettling.
“Does she have… post-trauma?” I asked, my voice slightly uncertain, trying to piece together what he meant, even though the answer was already in front of me.
The doctor nodded lightly.
“Yes. And from the reports, it doesn’t look mild,” he said, his tone calm but direct. “She has triggers. Loud arguments, fear, emotional stress… those can push her into panic episodes.”
My mind flashed back instantly.
My dad shouting.
That day.
The way she held my shirt.
The way her hands trembled.
Something inside me dropped.
“And her body is very weak,” he added, his eyes finally lifting to meet mine. “That’s why she faints. It’s not just physical. It’s her mind reacting, and her body giving up under that pressure.”
I swallowed slowly.
“Is it serious?” I asked again, my voice quieter this time, the edge gone, replaced by something I didn’t even try to hide anymore.
“It can be,” he replied. “If she doesn’t continue treatment, if she keeps suppressing it, it will only get worse. She needs proper therapy again. Medication if required. And most importantly —”
He paused for a second.
“— a safe environment.
He wrote down a few prescriptions, the scratch of his pen against the paper sounding far louder than it should have, and then he looked up at me, his gaze steady, almost assessing.
“Her husband, right?” he asked.
I nodded.
“She didn’t tell you about her trauma?”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry as I looked away for a brief second before answering, “We’ve only been married for a few months… maybe she needs time.”
He studied me for a moment, as if weighing something, before nodding slightly.
“Don’t push her,” he said. “Let her open up when she feels safe enough. And make sure she eats properly… her blood levels are very low.”
I nodded silently, taking the prescription and her reports from him, muttering a quiet “thank you” before stepping out of the room.
As I walked out, my eyes found her, sitting there calmly.
As if she hadn’t just fainted.
She was sitting beside a pregnant woman, talking to her casually, even smiling faintly.
I stood there for a second, just looking at her. I exhaled slowly and walked toward her.
“Let’s go,” I muttered.
She stood up immediately, waving goodbye to the woman beside her with a small smile before walking next to me.
“She is younger than both of us but already pregnant with her second child,” she said lightly, even chuckling a little as we walked.
I didn’t respond.
Because my mind was still stuck inside that room.
My face remained blank, my silence stretching between us, heavy and unfamiliar.
“Am I dying or what?” she suddenly asked, narrowing her eyes at me.
I stopped as I turned to her and glared.
A sudden, sharp irritation rising inside me for no reason—or maybe for too many reasons at once.
Without saying anything, I turned and continued walking.
“Am I having cancer?” she asked again, her tone still casual, almost teasing, as if she was trying to pull a reaction out of me.
I didn’t answer.
I walked straight to the counter, bought the medicines, my jaw clenched, my silence louder than any words I could have said.
I took the medicines and turned to her, my gaze lingering on her face for a second longer than usual.
“You have PTSD?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
Her face lost its colour instantly.
Enough of an answer.
I looked away before I could read anything more from her expression, before I could see something I wasn’t ready to understand, and walked out of the hospital without waiting, knowing she would follow.
The silence between us stretched, heavier than before, pressing down on me in a way I couldn’t explain, and I didn’t understand why—
Why I felt this angry.
Why I felt irritated.
Why something inside my chest wouldn’t settle.
None of it made sense.
I reached the bike and sat on it, gripping the handle a little tighter than necessary, my jaw clenched as I waited for her to get on, and the moment she did, I started the engine, the sound breaking through the silence that had been suffocating us.
But my mind—
It didn’t quiet down.
Not even for a second.
Thoughts kept crashing into each other.
She might have stopped her therapy and medications after marrying me.
I exhaled sharply, trying to push it away, but it refused to leave.
What kind of trauma was it?
How bad was it… for it to stay with her like this?
Because nothing about her—nothing—made it obvious.
She didn’t look broken.
She didn’t look like someone carrying something heavy.
She laughed loudly.
She argued without hesitation.
She annoyed me without limits.
She looked… alive.
Full of life.
Too full, sometimes.
And yet—behind all that—
There was something else.
My grip on the handle tightened unconsciously as the bike sped forward, the wind hitting my face, but doing nothing to calm the storm inside me.
I slowed down the bike and pulled over near a small street vendor who was selling fruits under a dim light, the yellow bulb above his cart flickering slightly as the evening breeze passed through, carrying with it the faint scent of fresh fruits mixed with dust and the chaos of the street.
I got down without saying anything, my mind still crowded with thoughts that refused to settle, and walked toward the stall, my eyes scanning through the fruits carefully, as if choosing them required more attention than it actually did.
I picked up a few fruits, checking them absentmindedly, making sure they were fresh, my fingers moving automatically while my thoughts stayed somewhere else entirely.
Then she walked toward me and stood beside me, close enough for me to notice.
“I love those green grapes,” she muttered softly, her voice carrying that usual lightness.
I turned back to the vendor.
“That green grapes too.”