It had been too long since I last set foot in the hospital, a place I once frequented without hesitation. After the mistake I made, I felt an invisible barrier between Saru and me; it was as if she didn't want to see me again. Yet, as the days passed, the weight of uncertainty became unbearable. I couldn't just sit at home, lost in my thoughts about her.
So, I decided it was time to face my fears. I geared up, hopped on my bike, and felt the cool wind against my face as I rode towards the hospital. I needed to see her, to understand how she was truly doing. With each turn of the wheels, a mix of hope and anxiety surged through me—I was finally going to confront the reality of her condition, and perhaps, my own regrets.
As I arrived at the hospital, a sense of urgency fueled my steps toward the reception desk. "I'm here to see a patient named Saru," I said, my heart racing. The receptionist began sifting through the records, and my anticipation built. But then, her words hit me like a cold splash of water: "I'm sorry, sir, but Saru has taken a one-day discharge from the hospital." I stood there, stunned, grappling with the unexpected news.
My first instinct was to find her.
Why did she leave?
The question hammered in my head as I ran to the parking lot. My breath came out in short, uneven gasps, echoing in the empty night. I fumbled with my keys, hands shaking, before yanking my bike free and swinging my leg over the seat.
Where would she go?
I replayed our last conversation, every word, every look. Had I missed a sign? A hint? The engine roared to life, far too loud in the silence, and I shot out of the parking lot, the cold air slapping my face as I sped into the street.
Her house. She had to be there.
I reached her neighborhood faster than I should have, cutting through traffic, ignoring the angry horns around me. Her house stood there, dark and still. No lights in the windows. No shadow moving behind the curtains.
My heart sank.
I jumped off the bike and rang the bell once. Twice. Three times. No answer. The yard was quiet, the kind of quiet that presses on your ears. I pulled out my phone and called her.
One ring.
Two rings.
Three.
"Pick up," I whispered.
The call went to voicemail.
I tried again. And again. Each time, the same hollow silence, the same recorded voice I didn't want to hear. With every failed call, a new wave of panic rose in my chest, heavier and tighter, until it felt hard to breathe.
Where are you?
I paced in front of her gate, mind racing, trying to stitch together every memory I had of her.
When she was upset, where did she go?
Then a thought hit me so suddenly I stopped moving.
The library. My fingers tightened around the phone. Without wasting another second, I ran back to my bike, the fear in my chest sharpening into a single, desperate hope.
Please be there.
I started the engine and drove toward the library, faster than before, the streets blurring around me as if the whole city was fading, leaving only one place that mattered.
I parked my bike and rushed into the library, my footsteps echoing off the quiet walls. I took the stairs two at a time, barely breathing, and burst onto the third floor.
There she was.
"Saru!" I called.
She turned.
Her eyes were full of tears, her cheeks flushed pink, her lips dry and trembling. In her hands were the letters I had written to her, the pages crumpled slightly where her fingers clutched them.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then she ran toward me and threw her arms around me, hugging me so tightly it almost knocked the air from my lungs.
"I'm sorry, Harsh," she choked out. "I love you. Please don't leave me."
I froze when her body pressed against mine, every muscle locked in place—
—but my heart felt warm.
Warmer than it had been in a long time.