She's late.

Almost an hour late, to be exact. He stares restlessly at the clock above the door of their bedroom. They both have late nights these days. She has her sitar rehearsals and he has his overtime. He needs it if he wants that promotion to push through. And he needs that promotion to push through. Especially now.

She told him she was going to be late tonight. She told him not to wait up. But still, he worries. He wonders why she refused to just let him wait for her at the theater. He would feel so much better if he could just walk her home because it's dangerous, isn't it, for a young woman to walk home alone at midnight? The long needle of the clock seem to move at lightning speed and it's already ten minutes past twelve. Where the hell is she?

He wouldn't be this bad about this if she would just answer her damn phone. He's been calling and calling for the past hour and she's not picking up. Laksh has half a mind to just walk out on to the streets and call her name. Maybe the rehearsal is running late. Ragini has a tendency to get carried away when it comes to this. It's her big break, she tells him. This is the role that's going to make her. So it would be typical of her to stay back late and forget to tell him. Right? Not this late though.

Where the hell is she?

.

He falls asleep with the phone clutched tightly in his fist.

.

It's two a.m. and the call that comes through pierces his gentle breathing and jolts him back to life.

"bachha?" he asks immediately when he picks up, not bothering to even check the caller i.d.. "Where the hell are you?"

"Mr. Laksh Maheshwari?" He frowns and looks blearily at the clock. 2.03. Where the hell is she? And who the hell is this?

"Yes?"

"I'm calling from the hospital. Are you acquainted with Ragini Gadodiya ?"

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Stab wounds, the nurse says. Stab wounds. Critical condition. Trauma unit.

Oh God.

.

He stares at his phone in a daze and notices five missed calls from Ragini.

12.15.

12.20.

12.35.

1240.

1.15.

He missed her by five minutes. He fucking fell asleep and missed her by five fucking minutes.

He shoots up off their bed and shrugs on his coat. He leaves the house in his pajamas.

.

Twenty minutes later, he's at the hospital. He's out of breath because he ran the whole way and people are looking at him like he's crazy. He can't really blame them. If he was sitting quietly on those plastic chairs and some weird guy started yelling his head off about his wife, he'd be freaked too.

.

He's holding on to her purse. The man who found her handed it over. Laksh would've thanked him, but all he could see is that small red stain at the edge and Oh God, that's Raginis blood. He drops onto the hard plastic seat, purse in hand, and the man leaves without a word.

.

This isn't supposed to happen. He's not supposed to be here. He should be at home. They should be at home, in bed. Asleep. Making love. Doing nothing. Whatever. This isn't what's supposed to happen.

He tries hard to remember the last time he saw her. He can't. He can't remember what happened this morning. He can't remember what he said to her, can't remember what she said to him. His mind draws a total blank. Did he tell her he loves her? Did she tell him she loves him? Did they kiss? Did they fight? He can't remember.

A hand grips his shoulder and he jumps. He hears voices. He looks up. A nurse is looking at him, alarmed.

"Sir," she says. At least he thinks that's what she's saying. He can't hear her. There's a ringing in his ear and it's loud and it echoes around his mind and all he can see is Ragini.

Ragini smiling.

Ragini crying.

Ragini sleeping.

Ragini , on the ground, in a puddle of her own blood.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.

He feels the woman's hand making soothing circles against his back. But it doesn't work. He can't be soothed, he feels like the rest of the world fell away.

.

It's four in the morning. It's been two hours. It's been a hundred years, taken away from his life. He grips her purse tighter. He grips it tight enough that he can feel his fingernails dig into his palm through the fabric.

.

He remembers two days ago. He remembers the feel of her body as she leaned against him on the couch, the way she cried at the end Love Story, just like the last ten times they watched it together. He remembers laughing at the way she wipes her eyes just like a little child and the way she looks up at him, eyes rimmed red, her expression certain. He remembers her leaning forward, remembers the feel of her breath mingling with his.

"Let's do it." He remembers that.

"What?" he had whispered, one hand finding its way to rest on her waist.

"Let's get married," she had said.

"We are getting married."

"I don't want to wait another five months. Let's just do it. Let's do it now. Tomorrow morning."

"Are you asking me to elope with you?" he had asked, his voice slightly amused. He remembers her not cracking a smile, remembers the way she kissed him, deep and tender.

"Yes." He remembers not sleeping, staying up all night, asking her time and again if she really wanted to, if she was absolutely sure. He remembers the way she smiled every single time, the way she pulled his body against her own to shut him up.

They were married by ten the next morning, the first couple to arrive, having waited in front of the building an hour before any living soul appeared.

.

He has a bad feeling. Why is he having a bad feeling? He feels his heart constricting and he feels the burn that has been simmering in his retinas finally spill over like hot lava down his cheeks. He thinks he could possibly go insane at any second and suddenly he sees those double doors open and he sees a man come out.

He shoots out of his seat.

From the corner of his eyes he sees the rest of the people in the waiting area sitting up, alert. He knows he's the last person to arrive, that everybody else has been here possibly hours before him. But he doesn't care. He doesn't give a fuck about them and whoever they are waiting for because Raginis in there, his wife's in there and this is killing him. He sees the man stop at the nurse, sees them whispering before their eyes swivel towards him. Immediately, he walks in large strides and walks over to them.

"What happened?" he demands in a weak voice that doesn't sound like his.

"Mr. Maheshwari?"

"What happened? Is she okay? Is Ragini okay?" His voice trembles and he realizes that it's his whole body that's shaking profusely, refusing to stand still. The doctor lays a hand on his shoulder and he fights the urge to shrug it off.

"She's stable," the man in the blue scrubs says and he sags against the nurse's station in relief. "The surgery was successful. She needed a lot of blood and we had some complications with the transfusion but she's fine now."

He grips the hand on his shoulder in gratitude as he tries to even out his erratic breathing. Steve looks up and the doctor's face is blurry through the tears that are pooling in his eyes.

"Thank you," he says, his voice hoarse and broken and he makes out a smile on the face before him.

Thank you.

.

She's not awake. But that's okay. That's fine. Because she's alive. His stomach clenches at the first sight of her because she's so tiny and she's so fragile and there are wires everywhere and there's a stitch somewhere underneath that gown to sew up a wound that will haunt him for the rest of his fucking life. The nurse had handed him everything she had on in a clear, sealed plastic.

Everything is here.

The necklace Sanskar had given her, a simple silver chain that she still wears with that tiny arrow that always rests just in between her collarbone. He sees her engagement ring, the most expensive ring he could afford at the time, at the bottom, the minuscule trail of stones glinting against the light as he holds the clear plastic up.

Everything is here. Except her clothes. They didn't give him her clothes.

He sits carefully on the chair on the right side of her bed and takes her hand. He fumbles with the ziplock, and takes out the ring, because that finger looks so barren, so empty without it. Gently, he slips it back on, because she's going to freak out when she wakes up, if that ring isn't on her finger.

He holds on to her hand like a lifeline, forcing his fingers through hers, finding comfort in the way her ring nudges so familiarly into his skin. He leans forwards, drops his head on the bed, and the steady beeping of the machine, the sound that signifies her heart, lulls him into a restless sleep.

.

He calls the office two hours after he was supposed to and tells them he's not coming in. He won't be coming in for days, weeks, months. However long it takes to get her back on her feet once she wakes up.

She's still unconscious. He pretends she's just asleep and it works.

Sometimes.

.

Four days.

It's been four days and she's still lying there, eyes closed, the constant beeping of the monitor the only sign of life. He's left the hospital once to grab his clothes. He grabbed hers too, a few of her favourite movies and some ballet music for good measure. He's camped out on the cot next to her bed and her father come early in the morning and leave late at night.

He plays her music on her IPhone and slips the headphones carefully over her ears.

He says good morning when he wakes up and kisses her cheeks and tells her I love you.

He says good night and kisses her cheek and tells her I love you before he goes to sleep.

He doesn't sleep though. Not really. He stares at the monitor mostly, his eyes tracing the lines of her heartbeat unblinkingly, his own heart moving in time with the beep.

.

It's day seven and he's nearing the end of his rope.

She's still sleeping.

.

He sees the doctor again. He was called in specifically. Laksh enters the office with trepidation. He stares at the name plate. Dr. Sahil Kirloskar. He feels the ringing in his head go crazy.

"Laksh ," Dr. Sahil begins.

.

They don't know what's wrong. The surgery went fine. There had been no complications. She just won't wake up. It's been seven days, Dr. Sahil continues. He sees no brain activity. Her organs are failing.

What's your decision, laksh?

.

He runs toward her room, practically barreling anything and anyone in his way. He stops at the door, leaning forwards on his knee to take a deep breath. He enters. They're alone. Just the two of them. Just him and Sleeping Beauty. Because she's the princess and he's supposed to be her prince.

"Wake up," he tells her, gripping each side of her small shoulders with his large hands.

"Wake up." He shakes her a little. Then a little harder.

"Bachha, wake up. Wake up." He takes a deep breath, leans forwards and presses his lips against hers urgently.

"Don't do this to me," he whispers, his breath quick and hard against her skin. He wonders if she can feel it.

Brain dead.

"Baby," he says again, pushing the doctor's words out of his head. "Baby please. Just wake up, alright? Just come back. Please." He feels the hysteria bubbling in the pit of his stomach and he knows he's shaking her harder every second. He shuts his eyes as a shuddering sob rips out of his body and he wonders vaguely how he's still standing.

Don't leave me.

Don't leave me.

Please.

"laksh." His eyes shoot open and he looks down with all the hope that's keeping him together. He feels a hand on his arm and turns. Swara. It's swara. She's looking at him and the heartbreak that's etched all over her features makes him feel like throwing up.

.

What's your decision, laksh?

.

It's day nine.

"I'm sorry," he whispers against her ear, his fingers grazing the side of her neck. His body is taut and frozen over hers. One inch either way and he's going to break.

"I'm sorry."

.

In the end her father, shekhar makes the choice for him.

It's two days later and anybody who can comes to say goodbye. He watches as swara kisses her forehead and turns away. When their friends come in, he leaves the room.

.

It's quiet. So fucking quiet. The beeps are gone.

Gently, he manoeuvres his body on to the bed, bending his long legs to fit the length. He slips one arm under her head and cradles it close to his chest, his other hand splayed over her heart, trying to find the steady rhythm he's memorized all these years.

It's like she's just sleeping.

The wall of hope he builds around his heart cracks.

"I love you," he says, his voice loud and strong. "You know that. I love you. So fucking much that it kills me. This is going to kill me bachha."

She says nothing, and by now he knows she'll never say anything.

"This isn't what's supposed to happen. You're supposed to get your big break. I'm supposed to get that promotion. We're supposed to move out of that shithole we're living in, remember? We're supposed to let our families think that we're getting married in five months. We're supposed to get our marriage license. We're supposed to wait a few years and then and we're supposed to have a family, have babies. Remember? This isn't supposed to happen this way. You're supposed to be old. We're supposed to be old. This was all your plan, so why are you leaving me bachha?"

He knows the tears can't stop, knows that it won't stop. Not for hours.

"I love you," he says again, hoarsely. He leans his forehead against hers and closes his eyes.

He waits.

.

He reaches their (his) apartment and walks numbly through everything until he reaches their (his) room. Laksh heads to the closet and as he opens them, is hit with the smell of Ragini Gadodiya, of his wife. Ragini Maheshwari.

They were supposed to register for their marriage license six days ago. Now he guesses that point is moot.

He grabs every article of clothing she owns and throws it on the bed. He slips his hand into the pocket of his jeans and curls his fingers around the cool metal. He makes a space in the middle of the bed, and lies down in a fetal position, the ring he had bought for her clenched tightly in his fist.

He allows himself to fall apart.