As September drew to a close, a rare day off found Yugh at home. He spent the morning quietly, walking in the garden. When the sun grew high, he retreated indoors, did some light exercise, showered, and then, almost compulsively, retrieved Zahra's diary from the trunk. 📕
He lay on his bed and opened it. The pages fell to an entry from August of the previous year.
08 August 2023
A week ago, I was so happy because I found out I was pregnant. But yesterday evening, I asked Yugh if he wanted to be a father. I didn't tell him directly about the pregnancy; I wanted to gauge his reaction to the idea of us having a child first. My hopes were shattered. I had to... (the page was smudged, as if tear-stained)... get rid of my own child while it was still inside me. 🤰
Yugh's breath caught. The memory rushed back, Zahra's tentative question, his own dismissive, unprepared response about not being ready, his suggestion they "wait" or "deal with it later." He had never followed up, never asked what she decided. He'd buried the conversation under work. Now, he understood the smudged ink. He felt a wave of remorse so profound it was a physical ache. Did I fail her that badly? 😥
He forced himself to read on, turning to an October entry.
12 October 2023
"Today was the first time I spent the night with Zayan in a hotel room. After all these months of just talking, we needed to take our connection further. I know what I'm doing is wrong, but Yugh gives me no time. Even at night, he's off to the hospital for an emergency. When he is home, he's just playing video games. That's why I crave Zayan's warmth more and more. That's why I lied to Yugh, saying I was at a friend's house, just to be with Zayan. This was a night I spent with genuine happiness, for the first time in a long time." 📖
The words were a cold, precise dissection of his neglect. His chest tightened, a vise of guilt and painful clarity. His "emergencies", his dedication to saving strangers,had created a void in his own home. His escape into games had been a wall. Zayan hadn't just been an affair; he had been the warmth and attention Yugh had failed to provide.
He closed the diary, put it away, and lay back, staring at the ceiling. The ghosts were no longer just of betrayal; they were of his own contributions to the collapse. The question echoed, hollow and accusing in the silent room: "Did I push her away?" The professional who could mend broken bodies was now faced with the irreparable fractures in his own past, laid bare in a tear-smudged, handwritten ledger of his failures. 😓