The ICU lights flickered softly, their glow washing the sterile walls in muted gold. Machines hummed a quiet rhythm of life — a rhythm Dev found himself unconsciously syncing his breath to, as if tethered to it.
Hiya lay motionless.
Her cheeks had lost their color, her lips were dry and cracked, and the innocence she always carried now looked unbearably fragile, like a glass doll left in a world too rough for softness. Dev hadn't moved from his place in the corner of the room for hours. Even his mother's soft murmurs urging him to rest had faded into the static of his guilt.
How could he sleep, when the last thing she might remember of him... was that slap?
It had been a moment — one twisted in anger, pride, and poison.
He had walked into the courtyard that afternoon, only to see her laughing. A boy from their class had tugged at her hand — innocent, teasing. But in Dev's eyes, fury had blurred the truth. He'd shouted. Accused. Spat venom she didn't deserve.
And then, for the first time, she had shouted back — eyes wide, wet with betrayal, voice trembling not with fear, but heartbreak.
The slap came next. Not just a burst of rage, but the shattering of something sacred — her trust, his restraint.
And now… she lay silent. As if even pain had abandoned her.
Dev stood abruptly, pacing like a caged animal, restless and haunted. His fingers brushed against the corner of her bag resting on the table. Something caught his eye.
The zipper was slightly open. A leather-bound edge peeked out.
A diary.
He froze.
His conscience screamed — it was hers. Her private world. But hadn't he already crossed every line the night he broke her spirit?
With shaking hands, he pulled it free.
The first page was innocent — scribbles, doodled stars and hearts, little Bengali verses scrawled in boredom or joy. But as he flipped further, the tone darkened.
"I think I like him. But I don't know if I'm allowed to."
"He never really looks at me. Or when he does… he looks through me."
"I told Riddhi Didi I was fine. But I'm not. Every time he ignores me, I break a little more."
Dev's throat closed up.
Page after page—her silent screams inked in gentle, rounded handwriting. Her confusion, her aching hope, her heartbreak when he called her ugly.
"Why did he say that? I know I'm not thin like city girls. But I'm not ugly… am I?"
He shut the diary as if it burned.
Guilt crushed his chest. He had broken a girl who only ever wanted to be seen. Not for how she looked, not for where she came from — but simply for who she was.
He sat beside her, unable to bear the weight anymore.
Gently, his fingers brushed hers. Her skin was warm, but unmoving. Like a candle with no flame.
"Hiya…" his voice cracked, a raw whisper drowned in remorse. "You were never ugly. Never invisible. I was blind. I was… ashamed of how I felt, and I took it out on you."
Words failed him.
He bowed his head and pressed a kiss to her knuckles — tender, reverent, trembling.
"Just wake up once," he pleaded. "Let me say it right… even once."
But she didn't stir.
Only the machines responded — soft beeps echoing the fragile heartbeat of a girl who had loved without asking for anything… and suffered without ever saying a word.