CHAPTER 15: WHEN SHE WOKE

CHAPTER 15: WHEN SHE WOKE

Arjun's Point of View

The days following the accident blurred into each other.

The sterile smell of antiseptic, the rhythmic beeping of machines, the muffled voices of doctors and nurses—it was all I knew.

I didn't leave Pia's side. Not for a second.

After the doctor told me she had lost the baby, I had stumbled into a fog of disbelief. How could this happen? We were planning names just days ago. We were dreaming of a nursery, of tiny fingers wrapped around ours.

And now... nothing.

Pia lay unconscious, her face bruised, pale and quiet, like a painting drained of color. A thin bandage covered the side of her head, and I couldn't even bring myself to touch it. She looked so fragile, like a whisper away from vanishing.

Four days. Four long days she lay there, unmoving.

I hadn't cried—not really. I couldn't. I was scared that if I let it out, I wouldn't be able to put myself back together.

Her mother and father came as soon as they heard. My father—a neurosurgeon—examined her scans with grim silence. Her mother kept a trembling hand on Pia's forehead every time she came in.

My mother, Rhea, who had always been so composed, broke down the moment she saw Pia. She'd known this girl as her daughter, not just her daughter-in-law.

They all tried to talk to me, to get me to eat, to sleep.

But I stayed.

I watched every rise and fall of Pia's chest. I held her hand when no one was looking. I whispered to her when the nights got too quiet.

"I'm right here, Pia," I'd murmur. "I need you to come back to me."

I didn't know what to expect when she woke up. Would she remember anything? Would she be the same?

And then, on the morning of the fifth day, something shifted.

Her fingers twitched.

I leaned forward, heart pounding. "Pia?"

A slight movement in her lips. Her eyes fluttered—slow, heavy, like trying to push through thick water.

"Pia!" I called out louder. The nurse rushed in, followed closely by her parents and mine.

Pia blinked again, and this time her eyes opened—unfocused, lost, then suddenly alert.

She looked around the room, confused, groggy.

Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "Arjun...?"

I stepped closer, grasping her hand gently. "I'm here. I'm right here."

She blinked again, her breathing quickening. Her hand instinctively moved to her stomach.

That's when the silence cracked.

Her eyes widened, the color drained from her face.

She looked at me, then at her mother. "Where—?" she choked, her voice broken. "Where's the baby?"

No one answered. Everyone froze.

Pia sat up abruptly, panic setting in. "Arjun? Where's my baby?!"

I couldn't speak. My throat closed.

Her father stepped forward. "Pia, listen to me—"

"No! No, tell me!" Her voice was rising, cracking. She looked at all of us, trembling. "Someone answer me!"

Her mother took her hand, tears streaming down her face. "Sweetheart… there was an accident. You were hit… it was severe. The doctors tried… but—"

"No," Pia whispered.

She turned to me, eyes pleading. "Arjun, please... tell me they're lying. Tell me our baby is okay."

My lips parted, but nothing came out.

I shook my head slowly, painfully. "I'm sorry… Pia."

She stared at me for a second. Just stared.

And then she screamed.

The kind of scream that shakes walls. That tears through your soul and leaves it bleeding.

She screamed again, pulling the sheets, thrashing her arms. "No! No, no, no! I was just talking to them! I was just—"

The nurses rushed in to hold her down. She was shaking so violently that the IV stand tipped over.

Her mother sobbed openly. Her father held her mother back, trying to keep her from collapsing.

I stood there, unable to move.

Watching the love of my life fall apart in front of me.

My mother gently touched my arm. "Arjun… say something. Please."

I stepped forward. "Pia…"

Her eyes snapped to mine—wild, filled with betrayal and unbearable pain. "How did this happen?! You said I'd be okay! You said everything would be okay!"

"It was an accident," I whispered. "Someone… someone hit your car. The doctors tried—"

"Stop!" she cried. "I don't want your explanations. I want my baby back!"

She broke down into sobs, curling into herself. Her body shook with the weight of her grief.

I wanted to go to her, to wrap her in my arms. But I couldn't move. I didn't deserve to touch her in that moment.

The nurse sedated her gently, enough to calm the tremors.

Her eyes fluttered as sleep pulled her under again, this time not from trauma—but heartbreak.

I sat down by her side, my hands trembling.

Everyone had left the room, giving us space.

I placed my hand over hers, brushing her knuckles softly.

"I'm so sorry, Pia," I whispered.

Tears slid silently down my cheeks.

I kissed her hand.

She didn't stir.

And for the first time in days, I let myself cry.

Not for me. Not for the revenge. Not even for the baby.

But for her.

For what she'd lost.

And what I could never give back.