Days passed.
Hiya still slept, cocooned in a silence so profound it felt sacred. Outside, the world spun on — indifferent, loud, alive. But for Dev, time had collapsed into this single room, this single heartbeat, this stillness that consumed everything he once thought mattered.
The hospital became his temple. Hope flickered like the wick of a dying candle, while regret echoed louder than any apology he could shape into words.
Each morning, he brought her fresh flowers — lilies today, white and fragile like her breath. Her diary, now a sacred scripture, rested in his bag. He had read it all.
And with every word, he unraveled.
The entries became heavier as they neared the day she collapsed. Her innocence turned ink-stained pain.
"Mira said Dev hates village girls. She said he told others I was cheap."
"Is that what I am to him? Someone who came to ruin his perfect life?"
"I won't cry. I promised myself. I won't cry."
But Dev cried. Alone. Silently. Again and again.
He hadn't returned to college. His research lay forgotten. He hadn't replied to friends or family. The only thing that mattered now was this girl — this chubby, fair-skinned whirlwind of sweetness who had barged into his life and made everything feel different… real.
He spent each night at her bedside, watching her chest rise and fall. Even that gentle rhythm — so easy to overlook in a person — was now more precious than his own breath. He lived through her silences. He prayed through them.
One quiet evening, her grandmother entered, carrying a small bowl of boiled rice water. She placed it gently beside Hiya's untouched meal tray.
"When your mother was sick as a child," she said softly, "this always helped."
Dev nodded. His throat was too tight for words. He hadn't eaten in days either.
She lingered, studying him with tired eyes. "Riddhi has been crying," she murmured. "Your Baba… he hasn't spoken to you since that day." A sigh. "But the one who needs your words the most... is lying right here."
She left quietly, like a prayer whispered into dusk.
Dev took Hiya's hand again, brushing his thumb over her cool skin.
"I didn't know," he whispered. "I didn't see you… not really. Not until I shattered you."
His voice faltered.
"I used to think love was just fiction. Just chemical and temporary. But you—"
He breathed in shakily.
"You made me feel it. Even when I ran from it. Especially then."
That night, as he rested his head beside her arm, his phone buzzed again. Dozens of texts from Mira. He didn't open a single one.
Instead, he reached into his bag, pulled out the diary — her diary — and turned to the last blank page.
And wrote.
I don't know when I fell in love with you, Hiya.
Maybe it was the first time you stuffed your cheeks with food to catch my car.
Maybe it was the day you looked at me like I was someone who mattered.
Or maybe it was every time you smiled, even when no one noticed you were hurting.
But I didn't know how to accept love. I had spent too long pretending I didn't need it.
If you ever read this… just know I'm not asking you to forgive me.
I only want one chance. Just one. To make you smile again.
He closed the diary softly, like tucking a confession under a pillow, and placed it back in her bag — where it belonged.
Then, as if the universe had held its breath with him, something happened.
So faint. So gentle.
Her fingers moved.
Just a twitch. Just a whisper.
But it was enough to make his heart stop — and start again.