Rudraksh nods beside him, quieter, but just as certain.
Vedant doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, arms crossed, staring at the OT doors like if he looks hard enough, Aryan will walk out.
Radhika’s eyes are red. She doesn’t try to hide it. And that—more than anything—terrifies me. Because they know him. They’ve seen him hurt. And they’re still scared. I slowly pull away from aunty, wiping my face with trembling hands, trying to breathe, trying to think, trying to not completely fall apart in front of them.
I fail. Because my eyes drift. Down the hallway. To him. He’s standing at the far end, like he doesn’t belong here. Like he’s already halfway out. My father. The word feels foreign in my head.
Heavy.
Wrong.
Something hot and bitter rises in my chest, cutting through the fear, through the grief, through everything else.
Anger.
I stand up before I can think about it. “Ishika—” someone says behind me.
I don’t stop. My feet carry me toward him, each step heavier than the last, my heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with fear anymore.
He doesn’t move when I reach him. Doesn’t look at me. That makes it worse. “It’s all your fault.” My voice comes out shaking, but it doesn’t break. Not yet.
“You have never let me be happy,” I continue, the words spilling out faster now, years of confusion and pain crashing into this one moment. “And when I was—when I finally was—you took that away too.”
Nothing. He looks at me, his eyes filled with gilt, he physically flinches as if I have sliced him with a sword but he just stands there.
“Say something,” I snap, my voice rising, cracking under the weight of everything I’ve been holding in. “For once in your life, just—say something!”
But he doesn’t.
And I don’t know what hurts more—that he left me all those years ago, or that he’s standing in front of me now and still feels like someone I don’t know. My chest tightens, my vision blurring again. I hate this. I hate him. I hate that I don’t understand anything.
And I hate that none of it matters right now because the only thing that matters is—The door opens. Everything stops. A doctor steps out, pulling down his mask, eyes scanning the hallway. We all move at once. “What—how is he?” aunty asks, her voice barely holding steady.
I don’t say anything. I can’t. I just stand there, my entire body locked, waiting for words that will either break me completely or let me breathe again.
“He’s stable.” The words hit me like air after drowning. I inhale sharply, my knees almost giving out again.
“He will be fine,” the doctor continues, calm, measured. “The bullet missed any major organs. There was significant blood loss, but we managed it in time.”
Fine. He will be fine.
The words echo in my head, not quite settling yet, like my brain doesn’t trust them enough to accept them fully.
“It may take time for him to recover,” the doctor adds. “But he’s out of immediate danger.”
Aunty lets out a broken sob beside me. Radhika covers her mouth. Vedant exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. Siddhant closes his eyes briefly.
And me—I just stand there. Because the relief doesn’t come all at once. It crashes into me in waves.
Slow.
Overwhelming.
Unbearable in its own way.
“He should regain consciousness within seventy-two hours,” the doctor says.
Seventy-two hours. Three days. It feels like a lifetime. But it’s not forever.
