Chapter 27

It was past midnight when I jolted awake, a sharp pain shooting through my abdomen. A strangled gasp left my lips as I clutched my belly, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.

"Anup..." I whispered, panic settling in.

Anup, who had been resting beside me, immediately woke up. His tired eyes widened as he saw my pale face contorted in pain. "Harshita? What's wrong?"

A fresh wave of pain hit, and I gripped his arm tightly. "I think... the baby... it's time."

Anup didn't hesitate. Weak as he was, he forced his body into motion. Ignoring the dizziness that often plagued him, he grabbed my shawl, wrapped it around my shoulders, and helped me stand.

"Hold on, I'm taking you to the hospital," he said, his voice steady despite the fear gripping his heart.

The journey to the hospital felt like an eternity. I clung to his hand in the car, my nails digging into his skin with every contraction. Anup kept whispering soothing words, his own body betraying him with exhaustion, but he refused to show weakness. I needed him.

By the time we reached the hospital, doctors and nurses rushed me into the maternity ward. Anup was left outside the delivery room, his legs weak, his breathing unsteady. He wanted to be strong, but the fear of losing me—losing our child—was too much.

Everything hurt.

My body felt like it was splitting open, torn between unbearable pain and the terrifying, beautiful promise of new life. The fluorescent lights above blurred as sweat trickled into my eyes. I could barely breathe, let alone think. Voices echoed — doctors, nurses — but none of them anchored me.

Only he did.

Anup.

He was right there, holding my hand like it was a lifeline — his lifeline. I could feel the tremble in his fingers, but his voice stayed steady, low, full of quiet strength.

"You're doing amazing, sunshine. I'm right here."

I wanted to scream at him. To cry. To collapse.

"I can't," I gasped, tears mingling with sweat. "It hurts too much, Anup..."

"You can," he said, and the way he looked at me... it was like I was made of stardust, not pain. "You've come this far. Just a little more. We're so close."

Another contraction crashed through me, and this time I screamed — not in fear, but fury. Strength. The kind of strength I didn't know I had until I felt his forehead rest against mine, both of them holding on for dear life.

"One more push!" the doctor called out.

I pushed and then—The world went still. A moment later, a sound shattered it — shrill, beautiful, piercing. A baby's cry. My baby's cry. I collapsed back against the bed, sobbing. Everything blurred except the sound of my child — real, alive, here. My chest heaved as I turned my head and looked at Anup.I would never forget the look on his face.

"Congratulations, sir," The nurse said with a warm smile. "It's a healthy baby boy."

He wasn't smiling. He was crying — silently, reverently, like he had just witnessed a miracle. His eyes, always kind, were wide with awe. Disbelief. Love.

The nurse placed the baby — small, slippery, wailing — onto my chest. The moment our skin touched, something shifted inside me. A calm, primal wave of peace and terror. I cradled him with shaking arms, feeling the warmth, the fragility, the weight of this tiny soul and then Anup leaned in. He didn't say a word at first. He just reached out, his fingertips grazing the baby's back, and his voice broke as he whispered:

"He's perfect."

"He's here," Anup whispered, his voice filled with reverence.

I nodded, my own tears falling. "Yes... he's here."

Anup pressed a trembling kiss to the baby's forehead. He had feared he wouldn't make it to this moment. But fate had given him this gift—to hold his son, to witness this miracle. Anup sat beside me, his gaze fixed on the tiny life cradled in my arms. Our baby boy—so small, so fragile, yet carrying the weight of my entire world. His little fingers curled and uncurled, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

I looked at Anup, exhaustion still heavy in my eyes, but a soft smile played on my lips. "What should we name him?" I whispered.

Anup swallowed hard, his fingers gently brushing against the baby's soft cheek. A thousand names had crossed our minds these past few days.

"Prem," he whispered, his voice filled with quiet emotion.

I blinked, my lips parting slightly. "Prem?"

Anup nodded, his eyes never leaving our son. "Because he is love, Harshita. Our love. Not just ours, but the love that held us together through everything. The love that gave us hope when there was none." He looked at me then, his voice breaking. "The love that will live on, even after I'm gone."

Tears welled up in my eyes. I held our son closer, pressing a kiss to his tiny forehead. "Prem," I murmured. "It's perfect."

Anup smiled through his tears, resting his forehead against mine. "He will always remind you of love, Harshita. Of everything we shared."

I sniffled, nodding. "And of you."

Anup exhaled shakily, placing a trembling hand over both of them. "Yes... of me."

As the night deepened, and the world outside remained still, a quiet promise settled between them. Prem—a name that carried all the love in the world.

After two year since prem is born,

It's been almost two and a half years since we got married. I still wake up and reach out just to make sure he's real. That this life, this love, isn't something I dreamed up in a moment of weakness.

Every day with Anup feels like a gift I never thought I'd receive — a quiet miracle wrapped in morning coffee, shared smiles, and the soft weight of his hand in mine as we drift to sleep. They told us he had months. Maybe six, if we were lucky.But here he is. Still here. Defying timelines. Breaking statistics. Laughing in the face of every cruel prognosis life threw at us.

I remember the day the doctor told us — the sterile coldness of that room, the pity in his eyes, the weight that landed on Anup's shoulders like a death sentence. But what I remember most vividly... is Anup reaching out for my hand first. Not in fear, not to be comforted — but to comfort me.

Today as the soft evening light filtered through the curtains, I sat on the edge of the bed, gently playing with prem. The room was quiet, except for prem's non stop chatter and the occasional chirp from outside the window. Anup had just stepped out to bring prem some water, always attentive, always thoughtful.

I looked down at my son, then around the room—our room,our home—and a quiet smile spread across my face. How did I get so lucky? I thought.

I remembered the heartbreak. The betrayal had shattered me. Vedant—someone I had trusted blindly—had walked away when I needed him the most, leaving behind nothing but a hollow ache and a thousand unanswered questions. It wasn't just the end of a relationship; it was the collapse of a dream I had built in silence.

Back then, I couldn't imagine ever trusting someone again. Love had started to feel like a cruel illusion. But then, there was Anup.

He didn't ask for my heart. He just sat beside me in the quiet. He held my hand when I cried, not asking me to be strong—just letting me be. He never spoke ill of the man who left me. He didn't need to. His presence alone was a balm, a quiet reminder that not everyone walks away when things fall apart.

He stayed. When I was at my lowest, Anup didn't offer promises—he offered presence. And somehow, through the stillness, I began to heal.

Now, years later, here I was, with my son. Married to the man who never once asked me to change, to hurry, to forget. A man who taught me that love isn't always loud or dramatic—sometimes, it's just someone refusing to let go of your hand when the world is trying to pull you under.

Since marrying him, I'd discovered a love that didn't just hold my hand—it held me together. I now understood what my father must've felt when he married my mother—the peace in coming home to someone who makes the world feel right, even when everything else feels wrong.

I looked over at a photo on the nightstand—an old one of my parents on their wedding day. My father was smiling at my mother with the same kind of quiet admiration Anup gave me every single day. So this is what love truly is, I thought. Not perfect, not loud. But steady. Sacred. A soft place to fall.

I looked over at Anup, who had settled beside me, playing with prem. I squeezed his hand. He looked at me, eyebrows raised.

"You saved me," I said quietly. "And I hope one day Prem grows up to love like you do."

Anup smiled, kissed my forehead, and said, "He already will. He has your heart, and our story."

I looked up at him, the weight of his words wrapping around me like a warm blanket. Something about the way he said our story made my chest tighten. It was gentle. Certain. Real. I blinked, my throat suddenly dry, my heart thudding like it wanted to speak for me.

"Anup," I said softly, almost afraid to break the moment.

He looked at me, curious.

I reached for his hand and laced my fingers through his, my grip trembling. "Can I say something?"

"Always."

I took a breath, steadying herself. "I've been holding this in for so long. Maybe I was scared... maybe I didn't know if I deserved something so kind. But tonight—watching you hold our son, hearing your words—I just... I can't stay silent anymore."

I looked him in the eyes, vulnerability shining through. "I love you, Anup."

He didn't move, but something shifted in his eyes—like a quiet storm settling.

"I think I've loved you from the moment you sat next to me on that bench and said nothing, just stayed,"I whispered. "When everything else in my life was falling apart, you were the only thing that stayed. And I didn't even see it then."

Tears slipped down my cheeks. "You showed me what love actually is. And now, every time I look at you, it's like... I finally understand what my father felt when he looked at my mother."

Anup's eyes were misty now too. He cupped my face gently, his thumb brushing my tears away.

"I love you," I repeated, steadier now. "Not just because you stayed... but because with you, I became someone I never thought I could be again. Whole. Happy. Safe."

For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then Anup leaned in, forehead resting against mine.

"I've loved you in every silence, in every small moment, in every time you didn't know how to love yourself. I was never waiting for you to say it... but hearing it now? It's everything."

We held each other then—no rush, no fear, just love finally spoken aloud and in that quiet night, with our son sleeping peacefully nearby, two hearts that had already been beating as one finally found our voice.

Anup held me close, tighter than before — like he was afraid I might vanish if he loosened his grip. The room was dim, quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the nightlight beside our sleeping son.I felt his heartbeat against my cheek, steady but heavy. There was something unspoken pressing between us, something lingering in the way I breathed me in like I was air.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said it.

"Now that you love me... I'm scared to die."

I pulled back just enough to see his face, his eyes searching mine with a kind of fragile truth I had never seen in him before.

"I know it sounds crazy," he continued, voice trembling. "But all this time, I was fine. I could take whatever life threw at me. I had nothing to lose. But now..." He paused, swallowing hard. "Now I have everything to lose."

I stared at him, my heart aching. "Anup..."

"You, Prem, this love we built from broken pieces... it's more than I ever thought I'd have. And it terrifies me," he confessed. "Because loving you, having this life—it makes me want to live forever. And I know I can't."

Tears blurred my vision. I reached up, cupping his face with both hands, my thumbs wiping away the tears that had started to fall from his eyes.

"Anup," I whispered, my voice trembling, "we all die someday. But not today. And not before we live this—all of this—together. For as long as we can."

He closed his eyes at my touch, leaning into my palms like he was grounding himself in my presence.

"You make me want to live better," he said softly. "Love harder. Stay longer."

"Then stay," I whispered, pressing my forehead to his. "Stay in every sunrise with me. Every messy morning. Every bedtime story with Prem. That's how we live forever... through the love we leave behind. And you, Anup... you're already a part of me. Even death can't take that away."

He kissed me then, slow and reverent, like I was the answer to a prayer he didn't even know he'd made.

My hands cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing away the tears neither of us had realized were falling. The kiss deepened, not in urgency, but in meaning. It was a promise — wordless and whole. His fingers slipped into my hair as he kissed me again, slower this time, lips moving with the kind of ache that only comes from loving someone completely.

When he pulled back to look at me, the starlight caught my face — soft, open, utterly his. "I'm here," he breathed. "In every way."

My eyes closed as I leaned into him, mybody molding against his like I had always been meant to find rest there. Anup got up and held my hands and i followed him without a word, we walked inside a different bedroom.

Inside, everything was quiet — moonlight slipping in through sheer curtains, the air scented with salt and jasmine. He laid me down gently, like something sacred. Our fingers never stopped searching for each other, even as our clothes slipped away, layer by layer — vulnerability not just of skin, but of soul.

Every touch was slow. Every kiss, a story. He kissed near my collarbone. I traced the lines of his back with reverence, whispering truths I could never say aloud. We didn't rush. There was no need. We made love like people who had known pain and chosen joy anyway. Like two halves that had wandered for too long and finally found their way home.

And when we lay tangled in each other after we our bodies connected to each other, my head tucked under his chin, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, it wasn't just a night.

It was healing.

It was hope.

But i knew this wouldn't last long. we were already living on our borrowed life.