It was past midnight.
The room was silent, but Anika could not sleep.
She lay on the narrow bed, staring at the cracked ceiling, her eyes dry and burning. Every time she closed them, Vikram's words returned—sharp, cruel, alive. They crawled into her ears, wrapped around her chest, and squeezed until breathing itself felt painful. No matter how hard she tried, she could not push them away.
Her mind replayed everything again and again.
His voice.
His smile.
His certainty.
Anika turned to her side, pressing her palm against her chest as if that could calm the storm inside her. She whispered to herself, Forget it. Just forget it. But memories did not listen. They never did.
Suddenly, a thin cry cut through the silence.
Anika jolted upright.
The baby.
She rushed to the small mattress beside her bed. Her three-year-old son was crying restlessly, his tiny body twisting, his forehead damp with sweat. The moment she touched him, her heart dropped.
He was burning.
"Oh God…" she whispered, panic flooding her veins.
She lifted him into her arms, pressing her cheek to his forehead again and again, hoping she was wrong. But the heat was real. Too real. His breathing was uneven, his lips dry, his cry weak and strained.
"I'm here," she murmured, rocking him gently. "Amma is here."
She wiped his sweat, changed his clothes, sponged his body carefully with cool water, just like she had done before during fevers. Her movements were gentle, meticulous, almost desperate. She checked the thermometer again and again, praying for the number to fall.
It didn't.
Minutes turned into hours. The fever refused to settle. Her son whimpered in her arms, exhausted, helpless.
Fear crept into her bones.
By dawn, Anika could no longer wait.
She wrapped him in a shawl, grabbed her bag, and rushed to the nearby government hospital. Her legs trembled as she walked through the quiet streets, the world still asleep while her own life felt like it was collapsing.
The doctors admitted the child immediately. They gave medicines, fluids, and monitored him closely. By morning, his temperature lowered slightly. Anika finally breathed, resting her head against the hospital wall, her eyes burning from sleeplessness.
But her relief did not last long.
The next morning, his condition worsened again.
His breathing became labored. His body turned weak. Machines beeped softly around him, each sound slicing through Anika's heart.
The doctors ordered tests. Blood tests. Scans. More tests.
Anika stood outside the ward, clutching her hands together, nails digging into her skin. She prayed silently, tears soaking into her dupatta.
When the results came, the doctor explained gently that the baby had low immunity since birth. They treated him accordingly. Antibiotics. Supportive care. Monitoring.
Two days passed.
Nothing improved.
On Monday, Anika applied for leave from the university. Two days. She did not know if that would be enough, but right now, nothing else mattered.
On Tuesday morning, a nurse called her name.
"Miss Anika. Doctor wants to see you."
Her heart sank.
She followed the nurse into the doctor's office. Inside, a middle-aged woman sat behind the desk. Her face was calm, professional, unreadable. She was the attending doctor.
Anika sat opposite her.
She hadn't slept since that night. Her face was pale, her eyes sunken, her body thin and fragile. She looked like someone who had already lost half her life.
The moment the door closed, Anika spoke, her voice hoarse.
"How's my baby? How is he?"
The doctor looked at her carefully. "Miss Anika?"
Anika nodded.
"Are you the sister of the child?"
Anika shook her head. "He's my baby."
Her voice was rough, almost broken.
The doctor frowned slightly. "Miss Anika, I'm not joking here. Please answer seriously."
"I'm not joking," Anika said softly.
"How old are you?"
"Eighteen."
The doctor's brows knitted together. "Eighteen? So… you gave birth when you were fifteen?"
Anika nodded slowly.
The room fell silent.
"Where is the father of the child?" the doctor asked.
Anika looked down. She said nothing.
"Do you have the birth certificate for the child?"
She shook her head again.
It wasn't that she didn't want to apply for it. To get the certificate, she had to return to her village, bring witnesses, prove her marriage, prove her pregnancy. But she could not guarantee anyone would help her. She was afraid of doors being shut in her face. Afraid of questions. Afraid of humiliation. So she had waited.
The doctor's tone hardened. "Miss Anika, do you know what condition your baby is in?"
Anika's body shivered. She forced herself to breathe.
"What… what's wrong with my baby?" she asked, her voice trembling.
The doctor sighed. "The baby's condition is not optimistic. He is suffering from congenital heart disease."
The words hit Anika like a blow.
Her world spun.
"Congenital… heart… disease…" she repeated slowly, a tear slipping down her cheek.
She looked at the doctor desperately, hoping she had heard wrong. Hoping this was a misunderstanding.
But the doctor continued.
"We have stabilized his condition for now."
"For… for now?" Anika whispered.
"Yes," the doctor nodded. "We can stabilize him only for three months. He must undergo surgery within this period. The sooner, the better the results."
Anika lifted her tear-filled eyes. "Surgery… will my baby be fine after surgery?"
"We are sixty percent confident," the doctor said honestly.
"Only… sixty percent?" Anika broke down.
"Yes. It is a risky operation. And this is a government hospital. We have rules. You are only eighteen. This child was conceived before your legal age. We need consent from the baby's father and proper documentation to avoid future legal issues."
"But… my baby can't wait," Anika cried.
"You still have three months," the doctor said gently. "Prepare the documents. Or you may shift him to a private hospital. But that will require a lot of money."
Anika couldn't speak anymore.
Tears streamed down her face, silently soaking into her clothes.
Three months.
Documents. Consent. Money.
All she had was a fragile child fighting for his life—and a heart breaking into pieces with every breath she took.