"तेरी बाहों में हर दर्द भूल जाता हूँ,

तेरी नजरों में एक नई दुनिया पाता हूँ।

तेरा साथ पाकर ऐसा लगता है,

जैसे खुदा ने मुझे कुछ खास दे दिया।"

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Avyansh Pov

Papa placed a hand on my shoulder, his gaze steady, yet filled with the same quiet grief. "You have to be strong, Avyansh," he said softly. "For her, for all of us." His voice was steady, but I could sense the weight he was carrying beneath it.

I nodded, though inside I felt anything but strong.

"And your grandmother she's worried sick," he continued, mentioning Dadi. "She wanted to be here.

"How... how is she?" I asked about Maa trying to sound calm but feeling the words catch in my throat.

"She's managing. You know her, always trying to hold everyone together. But she wants to see Avantika as soon as she's stable."

My gaze shifted to the door of the ICU. She was still there, fighting her own battle, and I felt completely helpless. I didn't know what to do-my mind kept replaying every moment, every second where I wished I could've done something different.

Chote Papa placed a hand on my back, his tone gentle but firm. "Go home, change, and freshen up. You need a moment to regroup. We'll stay here with her, Avyansh."

For a moment, I considered it. My clothes were still stained, my face hollow from the lack of sleep, but leaving felt impossible. Yet, Papa's eyes held a silent reassurance.

"Alright," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Author Pov

Avyansh arrived home, feeling a weariness deeper than any physical fatigue he'd ever known. He stepped inside, and the house, usually echoing with silence, felt almost suffocating tonight.

His clothes were crumpled, and his face looked almost ghostly, his usual calm expression lost to exhaustion and something darker-a hollow ache he didn't know how to fill.

As he moved through the hall, his eyes scanned the familiar surroundings-paintings on the walls, expensive furniture, everything that should have felt like home.

But now, it was all empty. These walls couldn't offer the comfort he needed, not with the images of Avantika flashing through his mind, her fragile form lying in that hospital bed.

Without a word, without bothering to turn on the lights, he walked directly to his room. Each step felt heavy, as if his legs barely had the strength to carry him. He wanted nothing more than to escape, to shut himself off from everything-yet his mind refused to give him peace.

Reaching his room, he closed the door softly behind him and slumped against it, his head tipping back as he closed his eyes. Memories of their past flooded him, every cold remark he'd made, every moment he'd ignored her silent pleas, building up like walls around him.

He ran a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of his unshaven skin, the exhaustion seeping into his bones.

There was no one here to see him, no one to notice how broken he felt, no one to offer him comfort.

And in that moment, he realized that was exactly how Avantika must have felt all this time-alone, abandoned, her pain invisible to everyone around her, especially to him.

"Avantika..." he whispered to himself, the name leaving his lips like a confession, as if saying it might somehow lessen the weight on his heart. But it didn't.

Instead, the ache only deepened, knowing he was part of the reason she was lying on that hospital bed, clinging to life.

His fists clenched, a shiver running through him as guilt tore at him, relentless and unforgiving. It wasn't until his knuckles turned white that he relaxed his hands, dropping his head into them, wishing for an answer, for some way to make it right.

But there was nothing in the silence of his empty room-only the echo of his regrets.

Avyansh splashed cold water on his face, trying to wash away the exhaustion clinging to him. The icy touch jolted his senses, but it did nothing to clear the heaviness in his chest. He raised his head and looked at his reflection in the mirror-dark circles under his eyes, a face hardened by regret and guilt.

This wasn't the face of a man who had everything. Right now, he felt like he had nothing.

His gaze drifted beyond his reflection, catching sight of the bed behind him, a reminder of the last conversation they'd had in this very room.

It was a simple exchange, one that seemed insignificant at the time. But now, it replayed in his mind like a haunting melody he couldn't escape.

He remembered her standing by the wardrobe, rifling through her clothes, searching for something to wear. Her movements had been quiet, her presence soft, yet he could feel her hesitation. She'd glanced over her shoulder, meeting his gaze with those questioning eyes.

"Apko kuch chahiye?" she had asked, her voice gentle, almost uncertain.

He'd denied it.

Then, as she continued searching through her wardrobe, she paused, looking back at him again, her face hesitant. "Aap kyu nahi ja rahe? Abhi bhi dard hai?"

He'd told her no, that he was fine. But she'd asked with such care, such softness. Now, that moment seemed like a gift he'd thrown away without a second thought. He wished he could reach back, grasp those few words, make them matter.

Avyansh ran a hand through his hair, frustration and regret clawing at him. "I should've gone with you, Mishti . You wanted me there... I should have known." His voice was a whisper, a confession to the empty room.

"I wish..." He felt his throat tighten, the words feeling heavy, almost stuck. "I wish I'd gone with you that day. I wish I hadn't let work come first. Maybe... maybe things wouldn't be like this."

His voice broke as he said it, the weight of his regret filling the room.

Avyansh stepped back from the mirror, his mind weighed down by memories and regrets. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his clothes and decided to see his mother and others feeling a sudden need for her quiet strength.

He walked down the hallway, pausing in front of his parents' room, and raised his hand to knock.

"Sir," a maid said softly, "Ma'am is in Devika Ma'am's room."

He nodded, turning towards Devika's room instead. As he approached, he could hear muffled voices and a familiar quiet sobbing.

He hadn't even crossed the threshold when he heard a soft, trembling voice call out, "Bhai!"

Devika's eyes lit up with relief, and in an instant, she was in his arms, clinging to him like she was holding onto a lifeline. He wrapped his arms around her, feeling the dampness of her tears soak into his shirt.

"Bhai... I was so scared," she managed, her voice choked and broken with emotion. "I thought-" She stopped, unable to continue, hiccupping as her words dissolved into soft cries.

He gently stroked her back, his voice a comforting murmur. "Shh... Ab toh hum sab yahi hai na, ab kyun ro rahi ho?" he soothed, pulling back to look at her.

It was then that he noticed the faint, bruised outline on her cheek, the ugly remnants of a slap that hadn't yet faded, and the small, healing cut on her lip. Pain and anger twisted inside him.

Devika managed a weak, sad smile, trying to ease his worry. "Bhabhi... how is she?" she asked hesitantly, searching his eyes for any hint of hope. "Papa said she hurt her head and shoulder..."

Avyansh's expression remained unreadable, his face giving nothing away. The truth of Avantika's condition weighed heavily on him, a secret too painful to reveal just yet.

He couldn't bring himself to shatter their fragile hope by telling them how critical her condition really was.

"She's... resting," he managed, his voice calm, masking the fear that clawed at him from within.

Just then, he heard a familiar voice from behind him. "Avy," Anjali called softly. She stood just a few steps away, her face pale with worry.

He walked over to her, wrapping her in a quiet, gentle hug. The strength he'd kept up until now seemed to waver, and for a moment, he allowed himself to lean into her. "I'm sorry, choti ma," he whispered, voice low but burdened with guilt.

"I should have gone with you all. I should have been there."

Anjali looked up at him, her own face shadowed with sadness. She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, sensing the turmoil he was struggling to hold back.

"Avyansh... koi bhi nahi samajh sakta tha ke aisa kuch ho jayega. Don't blame yourself," she whispered, her voice full of quiet compassion.

Avyansh closed his eyes for a moment, drawing strength from her presence. "I just..." He took a shaky breath. "I need all of you to be okay."

Anjali held his gaze, her own eyes softening. She didn't speak, but in that silence, Avyansh felt a semblance of peace, however fragile, settle within him.

Avyansh looked at his mother, her face a mask of pain and disappointment. Slowly, he moved closer and sat beside her, holding her hand in an attempt to bridge the distance that had grown between them.

"Maa, gussa hain aap?" he asked softly, his voice tinged with vulnerability.

For a moment, she just stared at him, her expression unreadable. Then, without a word, she stood up and walked out of the room, leaving him in a swirl of emotions.

"Maasas, I'm sorry! I couldn't come earlier; I tried," he called after her, his heart pounding. He chased after her, but Pakhi stopped in her tracks, turning sharply to face him.

"What have I taught you, Avyansh?" she asked, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and heartbreak. In a swift motion, she slapped him hard across the face, the sting shocking him into silence.

"Yahi sikhaya hai maine?" she continued, her voice breaking. "That you will lie to me now?"

He flinched at her words, a deep ache settling in his chest. "Maa, I-"

"Avantika meri bachi," she cried, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "How could you all lie like that to us? Huh?" Tears slipped down her cheeks as she clutched her shirt, the fabric crumpling under her grip. The sight of her grief was like a knife twisting in his gut.

Avyansh stepped closer, his heart heavy. "I'm sorry, Maa. I didn't want to worry you all," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

"But you did worry us, Avyansh!" she exclaimed, her voice cracking under the weight of her sorrow. "You worried us to death! I've been here, waiting, praying... and all this time, you knew the truth!"

"I couldn't-" he started, but she interrupted, shaking her head in despair.

"You couldn't what? You couldn't face me? You thought lying would protect me? Protect us?" She took a shaky breath, struggling to maintain her composure.

"All I wanted was to be with my daughter, to know she was safe. And now-" Her words caught in her throat as she succumbed to silent tears, the weight of her heartbreak too much to bear.

Avyansh felt his heart clench as he watched his mother break down. He moved forward, wrapping his arms around her, trying to offer comfort as best as he could.

"Maa, please... I'm here now. I promise, I'll make it right. I'll be there for her," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

Pakhi leaned into him, her sobs muffled against his shoulder. "You don't understand, Avyansh. I can't lose her... not like this.she is our family my daughter now. She deserves so much more than what life has thrown at her."

"I know," he whispered, holding her tighter. "I know. But we have to believe she's going to pull through this. She's strong, just like you."

For a long moment, they stood there, wrapped in each other's grief and fear.

Avyansh felt the depth of his mother's love and pain. It was a love that carried the weight of generations, of struggles and sacrifices, and he couldn't help but feel a flicker of resolve ignite within him.

"We'll get through this together, Maa," he promised softly. "I swear I won't leave her side."

Timeskip

"Dadi maa abhi bhi so rahi hai?" Avyansh asked as he stood by the door, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Her blood pressure got low," Anjali replied, her tone clipped. "She didn't eat anything while we weren't here. What do you expect her to do? Run like a super dadi?" There was a hint of frustration in her voice, the worry for their grandmother spilling over into her words.

Avyansh sighed, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He stood up, glancing at his mother, who had been silently watching them, her expression a mixture of anxiety and exhaustion. "I'm leaving then," he said, determination lacing his voice.

"Eat something," Pakhi urged, her maternal instincts kicking in despite the chaos surrounding them.

"I've already eaten, Maa," Avyansh lied, not wanting to add to her worry. The truth was, he could barely stomach the thought of food with everything that was happening.

"Rest, okay?" she said, her voice softer now, laden with concern.

He nodded, forcing a small smile, and made his way out of the room. As he stepped into the dimly lit corridor, the reality of their situation weighed heavily on his heart.

He had always been the strong one, the protector, but today, he felt anything but strong. The hospital, the fear, the uncertainty-it all loomed over him like a storm cloud threatening to break.

With every step he took toward the exit, he could hear the muffled sounds of the hospital-the beeping of machines, the hushed conversations of nurses, and the faint cries of patients.

It was a symphony of suffering that echoed in his mind, a reminder of how fragile life truly was.

Outside, the air was crisp, and he took a deep breath, trying to ground himself. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow across the sky, but he felt no warmth inside.

As he made his way to his car, his mind was consumed with thoughts of Avantika-her fragile body lying in that hospital bed, the pain she must be feeling, and the guilt that gnawed at him for not being there when she needed him most.

He climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine, the hum of the car barely drowning out his thoughts. "Everything will be okay". He murmured to himself, a silent promise to her, to his family, and to himself.

As he drove away from the hospital, he knew he had to find a way to be the strength that Avantika needed.

Avyansh Pov

The hospital loomed just across the street, its harsh white lights flickering under the bright day but something pulled my attention sideways-to the silent presence of the dargah across the road.

In the stillness of the morning, its white dome seemed to glow softly, as if holding a peace I hadn't felt in days. There was something about its quiet strength that beckoned to me.

I had never been one to visit dargahs, or temples, for that matter. Religion had always felt distant, like something reserved for moments of celebration or tradition.

Yet, today, all of that was different. I wasn't here to ask for anything selfish, nor did I know how to pray in this place, but something deep inside me knew I needed to be here.

Maybe this was the one place that could help me voice the words I couldn't find anywhere else.

Slowly, I unfolded my handkerchief, folding it neatly before tying it around my head.

The moment I stepped inside, barefoot, leaving my shoes at the entrance, I felt the air shift around me.

It was as though I'd entered a different world, one where the silence held power and everyone seemed to understand why I was here, even if I didn't fully know myself.

People moved around me, heads bowed, hands lifted in prayer, faces etched with lines of worry, sadness, and hope.

I felt their presence, their acceptance of this place and of each other. They didn't question why a stranger had come or cast judgmental glances my way.

In that moment, it didn't matter that I didn't belong here by tradition. I was simply one among many, seeking comfort in the quiet.

I walked further inside, my gaze falling on a gathering of people surrounding a priest who was offering blessings.

His face was worn but serene, his gaze holding a wisdom beyond my understanding. I found myself drawn to him, though I didn't know what I wanted to say or if I had any words at all.

As I got closer, he noticed me and gave a small nod, as though he'd been waiting.

"Beta," he said softly, his voice a soothing balm, "alag sa lag raha hai tujhe dekh kar. Aaj tak yaha nahi aaya, par aaj khud se zyada duaon ka bojh le kar aya hai na?"

I nodded, unable to speak.

My heart felt too heavy, and my thoughts were clouded with images of Avantika-her fragile form lying still in that hospital bed, bruises and cuts marking her body like a map of pain.

Each mark held a story, one I hadn't bothered to listen to or understand, and now... now it was almost too late.

"Kya poochna hai?" he continued, his voice gentle and knowing. "Jo chaha tha, wo khoya hai? Ya jo khoya tha, uske wapas milne ki aas lekar aya hai?"

"Woh... woh hospital mein hai," I finally managed, my voice barely a whisper."She's fighting for her life, and it's my fault. Main... main uske saath nahi tha jab usse meri zaroorat thi."

The priest looked at me intently, his gaze softening. "Dil ka bojh lekar aaye ho. Aisa lagta hai jaise apne aap ko uss ke dard ka zimmedar maante ho."

He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Dua ek aisi cheez hai jo jazbaat ko zaroorat mein badal deti hai. Jo tumhari awaaz mein bolne ki himmat nahi hai, wo yaha par sirf dil se kahe toh sun liya jata hai."

Taking a deep breath, I lowered my head, closing my eyes. I'd come here without any formal prayer, no practiced words, just a broken heart full of regret and fear.

I saw her face in my mind, the gentleness that I'd taken for granted, the small, quiet moments that I'd brushed aside in favor of my own ambitions. And now... now, her life was slipping through my fingers, and I was powerless.

"Baba," I whispered, my voice choked

"I don't know how to pray. I don't even know if I deserve to ask anything for her... but please... she needs strength. She needs peace. She's suffered so much, and I... I didn't protect her. But if there's any way-any way at all to give her hope, please... give it to her."

The priest's hand tightened on my shoulder. "Beta, hum sirf apni zarooratein kehte hain, puri karne waale hum nahi hai. Par aaj tu jo apni zaroorat ko aise hi dua mein badal ke keh gaya hai, woh bhi ek ibadat hai. Allah tumhara bhala kare," he murmured, raising his hands in a gentle blessing.

The warmth of his blessing settled over me, filling the cold hollowness in my heart with a glimmer of hope, a fragile, hesitant feeling I hadn't allowed myself to believe in.

Silent tears continued to slide down my cheeks, unchecked. Around me, others noticed, their expressions understanding, as though they, too, had once come here with hearts burdened by pain.

As I looked around, I felt a strange sense of unity, a silent acknowledgment that I wasn't alone in my grief, my regret, or my desperate need for forgiveness.

Every person here was fighting their own battles, carrying their own silent sorrows, and yet, we were all together in this one sacred space, lifted by each other's prayers and hopes.

"Kabhi kabhi dua wo waqt dekhkr sunta hai" the priest added softly, as though sensing my turmoil.

Nodding, I closed my eyes again, letting his words settle within me. I was here, holding onto a single, desperate plea. Let her come back. Let her be safe. And if I could be granted just one chance, I would show her that she wasn't alone anymore.

The priest's words echoed in my mind, grounding me as I whispered silently, "I promise I'll do everything I can for her, but please... don't let this be the end."

With a small bow of gratitude to the priest, I slowly turned, leaving the warmth of his blessing, feeling it remain with me even as I stepped back into the cool dawn outside.

My heart was still heavy, but there was something different now, a flicker of hope that I hadn't carried in before. As I made my way toward the hospital, that fragile hope became my anchor. I would be there for her, no matter what it took.

Author Pov

As Avantika lay unconscious, the stillness around her contrasted sharply with the chaos that played out in her mind. Even as her body rested, her mind was assaulted by echoes of hurtful words from her teenage years-words that had carved deep scars, ones no doctor could heal.

"Can't you just do anything right? Why do you have to embarrass us every time?" Her father's voice was cold, piercing through her, making her feel smaller than ever.

"Look at you," her mother's tone dripped with disdain.

"Why can't you be more like Pratham's daughter? She scores full marks every time. And you? You're barely passing."

Her aunt's laughter followed, grating and mocking, "You're gaining weight, Avantika. Soon, you'll look like a cow, and no one will even want to look at you, let alone marry you."

The voice of her cousin, snickering, cut through, "Second rank again? I always get first, but I guess that's too hard for you, isn't it?"

Their laugh was filled with superiority, making her feel worthless, like she'd never measure up.

More voices joined in, a cruel symphony in her mind.

"Look at your face-so many pimples. How do you expect people to take you seriously when you look like... that?" one cousin sneered, his eyes filled with disgust.

And then came her mother's whisper again, low and biting. "Those dark circles... you look like you haven't slept in weeks. Who would want a girl who can't even take care of herself? You look sick, Avantika."

Her father's disappointment weighed heavy. "I don't know where we went wrong with you. We gave you everything, and yet you just disappoint us. Why can't you be like the other kids?"

Her aunt's voice was back, with that familiar mocking tone. "And those wrists of yours... what did you think, hurting yourself would make you look stronger? You're just weak, Avantika. Pathetic."

The words circled like vultures, each memory piercing deeper, bringing back the pain and loneliness she thought she'd buried.

The images flooded her, vivid and relentless. She was the girl standing alone, the one who could never be enough, no matter how hard she tried.

Every criticism, every harsh word, played over and over, louder than the machines that kept her alive.

The words clawed at her, laughing, mocking, as if to remind her that no matter how far she'd come, the past would always be there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to pull her back down.

And as the haunting voices continued their torment, one final whisper lingered, her mother's voice cold as ice."You'll never be good enough, Avantika. No one could ever love someone like you."

In that darkness, where the voices of her past seemed to hold her captive, Avantika was left fighting, alone, against demons that refused to let her go.

The haunting words twisted within Avantika's unconscious mind, digging up wounds that had never fully healed. The echo of her father's command, sharp and unyielding, pulled her back into memories she had tried desperately to forget.

"You will marry him, and that's it." His words were like steel, binding her to a fate she didn't want, stripping her of any choice.

In the darkness of her dream, another figure emerged-her beloved Dadu, a man she had once adored and sought solace in. He sat in a dimly lit room, his back stooped and frail as he held a picture frame close. She moved toward him, feeling a glimmer of hope.

She called out, "Dadu..." But as he turned to look at her, his eyes held none of the warmth she remembered. Instead, they were filled with anger, cold and piercing.

"Because of you, my wife died." The words were a dagger, twisting with a force that took her breath away. "I wish she could have let you die instead."

Her heart shattered. "Dadu... aap bhi?" she whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief and desperation. Tears pooled in her eyes, her vision blurring as she struggled to breathe. "Yeh... yeh humari galti nahi thi, Dadu... please... trust me..."

But he just turned away, the disappointment etched deep in his face. She reached out, her hand trembling, only to see him fade further and further away.

Her breaths became ragged, her pulse quickened, her entire body tensed as the darkness surrounded her, suffocating her with guilt, shame, and a loneliness so profound that it seemed to swallow her whole.

The heart monitor beside her bed began to beep wildly, mirroring the fear and pain tearing through her mind as she sank deeper into the memories that wouldn't let her escape.

The nurse, noticing the sudden change, rushed to her side, her voice urgent as she called for the doctor.

But inside Avantika's mind, no one could reach her; she was alone, trapped with the relentless voices of her past that refused to let her go.

In her dream, Avantika ran frantically, lost within a maze of darkness that seemed endless. The echoes of accusations, the taunts, the harsh words, followed her like shadows she couldn't shake off.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she whispered, her voice breaking as she clutched her ears, trying to block out the voices that mocked and berated her.

But the words only grew louder, digging into her like knives, relentless and unforgiving.

As she stumbled, her gaze fell on a blade lying on the ground-a familiar yet cruel reminder of the pain she had once felt. In a haze, she reached for it, her hands trembling as she made small cuts on her wrists, watching the blood ooze.

The pain, the blood-it was once her escape. But now, nothing. She felt numb, empty, as if even the pain had abandoned her.

Outside this haunting prison in her mind, the real world was in chaos. Her heart monitor blared, each beat erratic, signaling her distress. The doctors rushed around her, their voices filled with urgency.

"Doctor, her pulse is dropping!" one of the nurses called out.

Avyansh stood outside the ICU, his heart racing as he watched through the glass, helpless and stricken with fear. He turned to the doctor, desperate for answers. "What happened?".

The doctor hesitated, meeting Avyansh's eyes with a mixture of sorrow and worry.

"Mr. Raghuvanshi... we're doing everything we can. But it's as if... as if she doesn't want to live. Her mind is... shutting down. She's not responding to anything we're trying. It's almost like she's given up."

Avyansh's hands tightened into fists, his knuckles white as he fought to steady himself. "No... no, she can't give up like this!"

His voice cracked, a raw plea that cut through the sterile air of the hospital. He leaned against the glass, his eyes locked on her fragile form lying amidst the machines, her body bruised and broken.

Inside the ICU, Avantika's breathing grew shallow, her body trembling even in her unconscious state. The doctors tried everything-adjusting the IV, increasing the oxygen, monitoring her vitals with tense, focused faces.

But her condition was slipping fast, as if she was caught in a battle that no medicine could reach, as if she was drifting somewhere they couldn't pull her back from.

"Fight, Avantika. Please, fight... Avyansh whispered through clenched teeth, his

voice breaking as he pressed his forehead

against the glass, watching her with a

desperation he'd never known before.

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Almost 5000 words 😉

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