Almost, But Never Together
Hospitals have a strange sameness.
The smell of antiseptic.
The muted footsteps.
The quiet hope hanging between life and uncertainty.
Ananya was admitted to a larger hospital in the city for further treatment. Her parents stayed strong, careful not to let fear leak into their voices. Relatives visited, offering prayers and fruits and reassurances that sounded practiced.
She listened politely.
Most days, she sat near the window of her ward, watching strangers pass by—each one carrying their own silent story.
One afternoon, as a nurse wheeled her for a scan, Ananya passed through a long corridor.
At the far end, another patient was being guided slowly by an attendant.
For a second—just one impossible second—her heart reacted before her mind could.
The posture.
The stillness.
The way his hand rested on the railing.
She turned her head.
The corridor curved.
He was gone.
In another wing of the same hospital, Arjun waited outside a consultation room, holding reports in his hands. His parents sat beside him, whispering prayers.
As a stretcher passed by, a maroon dupatta slipped slightly off the side.
His eyes followed it.
Something tightened inside his chest—not pain, not breathlessness.
Recognition.
He stood up instinctively.
But the doors closed.
The moment passed.
He sat back down.
Strange, he thought. Why did that feel familiar?
Neither of them knew they were breathing the same air that day.
Neither knew how close silence had brought them.
That night, Ananya felt unusually tired. She asked her mother to sit beside her and simply held her hand.
“Amma,” she said softly, “have you ever loved someone without telling them?”
Her mother smiled gently, thinking it was weakness speaking.
“Many loves are silent, kanna. They still matter.”
Ananya closed her eyes.
In another room, Arjun asked his father a question he had never dared before.
“Appa… do you think some things stay with us even if they never happen?”
His father thought for a moment.
“Yes,” he said. “Those are usually the things that shape us most.”
Arjun nodded.
Both of them slept that night with an unfamiliar calm.
As if their hearts knew something their minds did not.
As if silence—having taught them how to love—was now preparing to teach them how to leave.
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