The morning light slipped through the narrow blinds of City General Hospital, filling the waiting room with a soft glow that felt almost merciful. After a night of chaos and heartbreak, the air seemed lighter. The worst had passed. Dennis was alive. He was breathing. That, in itself, was enough to bring a kind of relief no words could capture.
Ann sat on one of the cushioned chairs near the corridor, her dupatta slipping loosely from her shoulders, her hair tangled from hours of restless waiting. Her mother pressed a cup of tea into her hands, and for the first time since the call about the accident, she felt her lungs expand. The doctor had said Dennis was stable, though critical. That word—stable—had carried her through the long night like a fragile candle in the dark.
Dennis's parents were there too, pale and worn out but calmer now, whispering their gratitude that their son had survived. Even Jacob, who had hardly spoken since the accident, let out a shaky laugh when the doctor assured them that if Dennis responded well to treatment, their wedding could still take place within three months. Three months—such a small price for life.
The families clung to that hope. The postponed wedding became a promise instead of a tragedy. Laughter flickered at the edges of the silence, and Ann's mother even said softly, "Three months later, the mandap (pavilion) will shine brighter. God has given us another chance."
Ann smiled faintly at those words. She wanted to believe them. She wanted to let herself picture the flower garlands, the music, the sindoor pressed into her hairline by Dennis's trembling hand. She wanted to see him in his sherwani, eyes shining, voice steady as he vowed to love her forever.
But her heart still clenched when she thought of him lying in that bed, tubes snaking into his body, machines doing the work his own strength could not. She held her tea close, whispering silently: Just live, Dennis. That's all I ask. Just live.
Later that morning, the families were gathered in a small consultation room. The air smelled of antiseptic and faintly of coffee, the kind that brewed endlessly in hospital vending machines. The doctor entered, his white coat brushing against the doorframe. He carried a clipboard, but his eyes were kind, though serious.
"First, I want you all to know," he began, "Dennis survived a very dangerous accident. The fact that he's alive today is nothing short of grace. But you must also understand his current condition."
Ann leaned forward, her hands gripping the edge of the table. Every word mattered now, each one a stone laid on the fragile bridge of her hope.
The doctor adjusted his glasses. "Dennis has suffered what we call a thrombotic stroke. It happens when a blood clot forms in one of the arteries of the brain, cutting off circulation. Right now, his brain is fighting to survive. He's stable, yes—but the hours ahead are crucial."
A hush fell over the room. Ann's mother held her breath. Dennis's father looked down at the floor, his jaw tightening.
The doctor continued, speaking with deliberate calm. "At first, you may notice mild weakness in one side of his body. But as swelling increases, this can progress into complete hemiplegia—paralysis of half the body. If the infarct is large, he may lose consciousness. Our focus is to reduce the swelling, dissolve the clot, and prevent any further damage."
Ann felt the ground shift beneath her. Hemiplegia. Paralysis. The words sounded alien, as if they belonged to someone else's story, not hers, not Dennis's.
"But he will recover, won't he?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
The doctor sighed gently. "Recovery is possible, but it will take time—months, maybe longer. Therapy, medication, and patience. He may regain much of his strength, but we cannot predict how fully. You must prepare yourselves for both hope and challenge."
Her heart tightened. Challenge—she could live with that. As long as Dennis lived, she could bear anything.
Dennis's mother wiped her eyes with her sari's pallu. "Doctor, what about the wedding? Will he…"
The doctor paused, then gave a measured smile. "If his condition remains stable, if therapy begins in time, then yes—you could think about resuming the wedding in a few months. But first, his recovery must be your only focus."
A collective sigh escaped the room. For a brief moment, relief blossomed again, fragile but real.
Ann's father placed a hand on Dennis's father's shoulder. "Three months is nothing," he said gently. "What matters is that he is still with us."
Ann nodded, her eyes brimming. Still with us. That phrase wrapped around her like a blanket.
Back in the ICU, Ann sat by Dennis's side, her fingers brushing lightly over his bandaged hand. His skin felt cool, his face pale against the white pillow. Machines beeped steadily, their rhythm both haunting and reassuring.
"Do you hear that, Dennis?" she whispered, leaning close to his ear. "They said we can still marry. Maybe not in three days, but in three months. That's fine, love. I'll wait a lifetime if I must."
Her tears slipped silently, falling on his hand. She bent closer, resting her head against the mattress. "I'll marry you in a wheelchair if I have to. I'll marry you even if you can't say the vows. You don't have to walk or talk for me to love you. Just stay. Just breathe."
She thought she felt a faint twitch in his fingers, the smallest flutter of life. Her breath caught. Was it real, or only her desperate imagination?
"Dennis?" she whispered, clutching his hand tighter. But he didn't stir again. His chest rose and fell, slow, shallow, but steady. That was enough for now.
The day blurred into evening. Families took turns sitting with Ann, urging her to eat, to rest, but she refused to leave his side.
Jacob arrived with fresh clothes for her, his face drawn with exhaustion. He sat quietly for a long time, watching his friend through the glass window. "You know, Ann," he said at last, "Dennis always told me he was afraid of losing you. He used to say, 'If anything happens to me, she won't forgive me.'"
Ann smiled faintly, tears glistening in her eyes. "He hasn't lost me. He never will."
Jacob nodded, his throat tight. "Then he'll fight his way back. For you."
Ann turned back to Dennis, stroking his arm. "Yes. For us."
That night, the doctor returned to check on him. He studied the monitors, examined Dennis carefully, and then turned to Ann with the same grave kindness.
"The next forty-eight hours are crucial," he said softly. "If the swelling increases, his condition may worsen. You may see weakness in his arm or leg, or he may drift into deeper unconsciousness. We'll do everything possible, but I need you to be prepared."
Ann swallowed hard. Prepared. The word tasted bitter. How could anyone prepare for losing the man who was meant to be their forever?
She nodded anyway. "I'll be here," she said firmly. "No matter what happens."
The doctor placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder before leaving.
Ann leaned close to Dennis once more, her tears soaking the bedsheet. "You hear that, love? You've got to fight. The world still needs to see our wedding. I still need to dance with you, even if you just stand there and hold my hand. Please, Dennis. Don't let go."
Outside, the hospital lights flickered against the night sky, steady and unyielding. Inside, Ann held on, her heart tethered to the fragile rise and fall of Dennis's breath, clinging to hope even as shadows gathered at the edges of her world.
The future was uncertain. But the love she carried—unyielding, relentless—would not falter.
And as the night deepened, she whispered into the silence, her voice breaking but firm:
"Three months, three years, or a lifetime—I will wait. Just come back to me, Dennis."