Chapter 1 - The Broken Halo
“Because we were divorced, Arjun,” she repeated, her voice trembling slightly under the sterile fluorescent lighting of the hospital corridor. “You signed the papers. I packed my boxes. You were finally free from the heavy silence of our empty apartment. You were supposed to start over without carrying my ghost.”
I stared at her, my fingers gripping hers so hard that my knuckles turned pale white. Free? She thought I felt free? For the last sixty days, every corner of my living room had screamed her name. Every time I opened the pantry and saw her favorite chamomile tea, my lungs seized up. I had believed our marriage died because we had failed each other after losing our second child. I believed she had grown numb to my presence, that she couldn't stand looking at a husband who reminded her of tiny nurseries that remained forever locked.
“A piece of paper doesn’t erase seven years of my life, Maya,” I said, my voice cracking as people rushed past us. “Who brought you here today? Where is your sister? Where is your mother?”
Maya pulled her hand back, tucking both palms tightly beneath her hospital blanket. Her eyes darted away, refusing to hold my gaze. “I took a cab. Priya doesn’t know yet. She’s in the middle of her final medical exams in London. And my mother… my mother’s heart couldn’t take this, Arjun. You know how fragile she is.”
“So you came here completely alone?” My voice rose an octave, sharp with anger and agony. “You’re taking chemotherapy drugs that make your veins burn, sitting in an open corridor on a plastic chair, because you didn’t want to inconvenience anyone?”
“I didn’t want to be a burden!” she snapped back, a sudden flash of the fierce woman I had married breaking through her hollow exhaustion. But the outburst cost her. She began to cough—a harsh, dry, rattling sound that shook her entire slender frame. The IV tube tugged violently at the back of her bruised hand.
Instinctively, I moved closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and rubbing her back just like I used to when panic attacks struck her in the dead of winter. Her body felt impossibly light, like a sparrow carved from fragile glass. Through the thin cotton of her gown, I could feel the sharp ridges of her spine.
A nurse rounded the corner carrying a chart, her eyebrows drawing together in immediate concern as she spotted us. “Mrs. Kapoor? What are you doing out here? Your nausea medication isn’t finished yet, and Dr. Bennett is waiting to review your blood counts before the second round.”
Maya tried to sit upright, wiping a stray tear with the heel of her hand. “I’m sorry, Nurse Sarah. The room felt suffocating. I just needed to walk.”
“You shouldn’t be walking alone when your hemoglobin is at seven,” the nurse scolded gently, before turning her sharp eyes on me. “Are you her family?”
The question hung between us like a suspended blade. Maya’s lips parted, ready to utter the cold legal reality: He’s my ex-husband.
Before the syllable could leave her tongue, I stood up and squared my shoulders. “I’m her husband. I’m staying with her.”
Maya’s eyes widened in disbelief, but she didn’t have the energy to argue as Nurse Sarah wheeled the IV stand toward Room 314. I took the handles of Maya’s wheelchair and guided her into the room, closing the door firmly against the cold world outside. As she lay back against the stiff pillows, closing her eyes in sheer defeat, my gaze landed on a thick beige medical folder resting on the bedside table.
May you like
On the cover, written in black marker, was Maya’s full maiden name. But underneath it was a handwritten date from four months ago—two full months before she had handed me the divorce papers and told me she didn’t love me anymore.
My breath caught in my throat. The timeline was completely wrong.
