arindalee

In the heart of a bustling city, I ran through sterile hospital corridors. The news had reached me— news that made your chest tighten and made you jump at the person who was occupying your thoughts, even when you wished that person didn't.

His room was a serene haven, bathed in the pale glow of fluorescent lights. And there he was, leaning against the patient's bed, tracing the memories with his eyes.

The moment he sensed my presence, he turned around, and our gazes collided. His expression is a canvas of emotions—regret, longing, and something unsaid.

“I told you not to get hurt,” I scolded, my anger covering my worry. He shifted and lowered his legs, and the vulnerability in his eyes pierced me.

“Why do you have to worry me?” I raised my voice, frustration bubbling up. His response was a cool breeze—cold and distant. “Do not worry about me. Do not care about me.”

My anger flared. “What did you do until your knee got worse? Until you had to be hospitalized?” My words caused a storm of worry and confusion.

His voice, when heard, sounded fragile. “I didn't even know I was hurt, because you weren't there.” His confession hung in the air, raw and unfiltered. “Not being with you hurts more than anything. Because...” He stuttered, silence swallowing his unfinished confession.

And then, as if the universe had conspired to mend our fractured souls, he rose. His steps were deliberate, closing the distance between us. His arms enveloped me—a sanctuary of warmth and memories. Tears spilled, and I buried my face in his shoulder, finding solace in the familiar contours of his body.

This shoulder, once distant, now holds my pain. Our hug was a silent plea—a bridge across time and pain. And as we hugged, I realized that sometimes, love is a gallery of whispers, etched in our hearts long after the color fades.