Kaynaaz

The world blurs around me as I weave through the hospital corridors, the cold fluorescent lights almost too bright for my spinning head. My breaths come too fast, too shallow, and each one feels like it's scraping my chest raw.

Dad.

It had been more than 30 minutes since I had gotten Kanishk's call, and his broken voice had sent a shiver down my spine. All I could hear now was my brother's shaky voice as he said, "Kay, Dad just had a heart attack."

My phone had slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a crash so sharp it silenced the entire lecture hall. Every head had turned, their eyes locking on me as if I'd just been caught red-handed at a crime scene. Heat had rushed up my neck, and before the weight of their stares could pin me in place, I had snatched up my things and sprinted out of the room, my pulse thundering in my ears.

I finally skid to a stop in front of the ICU, my chest heaving, lungs burning for air. My gaze found my mother first, her eyes rimmed red, cheeks blotched, exhaustion etched into every line of her face. Beside her, my brother looked worse. His hair was mussed as if he'd just rolled out of bed, his shirt creased, and his eyes heavy with a sorrow that made my stomach twist.

Kanishk passes me a half-hearted smile before he walks closer to the room, where my father lies on his deathbed. I look around once again, noticing my sister's presence. It fills me up with a bitter feeling, a sort of dislike I'd never want to feel towards her, yet I can't help.

Placing a soft kiss on my mother's head, I pull a tissue from my bag and press it into her hand, along with a bottle of water. Then, drawing in a steadying breath, I move closer to Kanishk.

"Where's Didi?" I ask calmly, standing next to him as I stare at his side profile.

He only lets out a soft sigh before nodding toward the door. I nudge him aside with my hip and tiptoe to peek inside. Kyra sits beside our father, her shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on a blank stretch of wall as if it holds all the answers she can't find.

"Why is she in there alone?" I look back at my brother, raising an eyebrow in question.

"She won't let anyone else sit there with him. She wants to be the one to take care of him when he wakes up." He replies, voice low as he continues to stare into the room from behind me.

I tilt my head, frowning. "Why? He hates her."

Kanishk's expression shifts into something I can't read. His lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, he just stands there, the silence stretching until it feels heavy.

Kanishk exhales slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor before meeting mine again. "She thinks it's her fault he's in there." His voice is quiet, almost reluctant.

I look at him in confusion, "Why would she think that?"

"Because he had a heart attack while Kyra was fighting with him. He tried to say something, but she cut him off in anger, and then.. well.. he had the attack," He answers.

I just stare at him, dumbfounded, my heartbeat pounding so hard it feels like it's trying to break out of my chest. The words keep echoing in my head, each repetition sinking deeper, heavier. "She what?" My voice is sharper than I mean it to be, but the disbelief twisting in my gut leaves no room for softness.

The anger comes suddenly, sharp and uninvited, rushing up through me before I can stop it. I don't want to feel it, but it burns anyway. My jaw tightens, and my hands curl into fists at my sides.

Maybe if she'd just kept a tighter hold on her emotions, this wouldn't have happened. Maybe he wouldn't be lying in there with tubes and machines keeping him alive. The thought makes my stomach churn because I know I'm grasping for someone to blame, but right now, the blame feels safer than the helplessness clawing at my chest.

"It wasn't her fault, Kaynaaz. She's fighting her own demons, and she refuses to tell us. Don't blame her. The only person here to blame is Dad himself." Kanishk's gaze peels away from mine, his head shaking slowly, as if the matter is already settled.

A short, bitter scoff slips from me before I turn away. He can't be serious. It's always Kyra. Kyra fighting her battles, Kyra's tears that matter, Kyra this, Kyra that. She's been stealing Dad's attention with every mistake she makes. And yes, maybe what she gets in return is scolding, disappointment, negativity... but at least she gets something.

Meanwhile, the daughter who's followed every step laid out for her gets nothing but perfunctory words of "encouragement" and expensive gifts to make up for the lack of real affection.

And now? Now she has the audacity to lock everyone else out while she sits there, pretending she had nothing to do with this?

My jaw tightens until it aches. I glance at the door, the irritation in my veins boiling over, and before Kanishk or anyone else can stop me, I push it open and stride in. The sharp sound startles Kyra; she jumps in her seat and twists around, her expression shifting when she sees exactly who has ruined her quiet.

"Kay..." Her voice is low, almost broken, like it's been dragged through too many unspoken words.

My sister swipes at the tears slipping down her cheeks, erasing the evidence before her gaze drifts back to Dad.

"He'll be okay. He's stable," she says with a certainty that doesn't quite reach her eyes as if she'd been the one to treat him.

I glance at the monitor above her head, refusing to take her words at face value. But, thankfully, the numbers are steady, and he looks okay.

My gaze drifts to my father's resting body, and my heart gives a sharp, painful twist. My breaths come quicker as I step closer, every movement deliberate, like I'm afraid the air itself might shatter this fragile moment. He lies there so still, so calm, as if he's just sleeping and will wake up any second to tease me about my messy hair.

I stop at the edge of the hospital bed, my eyes tracing the familiar lines of his face. He looks... peaceful. Serene in a way I've never seen before, as though the chaos of the world hasn't touched him here.

When my gaze shifts back to Kyra, the calm inside me cracks. "I want to sit there with him," I say, my voice low but edged with steel.

Her chin lifts, and she shakes her head without hesitation. "No."

The word hangs between us.

"Excuse me?" My voice sharpens.

"I'm already here," she replies, her tone quieter but no less stubborn, as if her presence at his side is some unspoken right she refuses to surrender.

I blink at her, the refusal hitting me harder than I expected. My jaw tightens, and I give her a look that is nothing short of accusing. She meets my gaze for a moment before looking away, and the movement only fans the heat in my chest.

The air in the room feels too tight, too heavy, like it's pressing against my ribs, daring me to explode. If I stay here another second, I'll say something I can't take back, something that will burn the fragile thread holding us together.

Without another word, I spin on my heel and shove the door open, the sharp crack of it hitting the wall cutting through the stale silence.

Voices rise behind me, Kanishk calling my name, Kyra saying something I can't make out, but I don't slow down. My pulse is a wild drumbeat in my ears, drowning out everything else. Each step is sharper than the last, my heels striking the cold floor in anger.

The sterile, chemical sting of the hospital air clings to my lungs, and the white walls blur into one endless hallway. I move faster, almost shoving past a nurse, my breaths ragged and uneven. My vision tunnels until all I can see is the way forward, away from them, away from my sister. Because if I stop, if I let them catch me, the words I'm holding back will spill, ugly and cruel, and I'm not sure I'd regret them.

Just before I can push through the hospital doors, a hand clamps around my wrist. The sudden pull knocks the air from my lungs, and before I can even protest, I'm yanked sideways, my feet scrambling to keep up with the force dragging me away from the corridor.

The next thing I know, my back brushes against a cool wall and the harsh brightness of the hallway is replaced by muted shadows. The air here smells faintly of antiseptic and faint cardboard, the cramped storage room lit only by a flickering bulb overhead. My gaze skims past shelves stacked with bandages, bottles, and boxes until it lands on the hand still wrapped around my wrist.

My eyes follow the line of that grip, past strong fingers and the tension in his forearm, up to the man standing in front of me.

Aayan.

Even in the dim light, his presence feels overwhelming, his height swallowing the space between us, his broad shoulders blocking out everything else. The storm still raging inside me shifts, my pulse quickening for reasons that have nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the way he's looking at me.

"Hey..." His voice is low, almost careful, but it still cuts through the static in my head. His gaze doesn't waver, holding mine as if he's trying to read every thought I'm not saying. "Where were you going?"

His thumb brushes once against my wrist, the warmth lingers, making it impossible to ignore him, no matter how much I want to storm past.

"Home," I say, my blood heating up by the second. The word comes out clipped, almost like I'm spitting it at him.

Aayan studies me, his gaze scanning my face before he steps closer. He reaches out, his fingers curling lightly under my chin, tilting my head up until I have no choice but to meet his eyes.

"He'll be okay, Kay," he says, voice low and steady. "It was just a minor heart attack."

The words hang between us, meant to console me, but they land like a blade. Just. The image of my father lying pale and still under those harsh hospital lights is clawing at my insides. Like my sister's sharp "I'm already here" didn't slice something open in me.

I scoff, the sound sharp and bitter. My disbelief flickers across my face before I slip out of his hold, taking a step back as if his touch burns. "A minor heart attack?" I echo, my voice shaking despite my best effort. "Do you even hear yourself?"

"Kay—" he starts, the words catching in his throat. "I didn't mean it like that—"

I shake my head, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "Just leave me alone," I cut in, my voice trembling but sharp enough to make him flinch. "I can't deal with you. I can't deal with anyone right now."

"Hey... don't run away." His voice softens, almost pleading. "Run away from anyone else if you have to, but not from me. Please." His eyes search mine, desperate, steady. "Let me make it okay."

I let out a bitter laugh that tastes like salt. "You can't make this okay, Aayan. No one can."

"Yes, I can," he says, stubbornness edging into his voice. "I can fix this, Kay. I'm not letting you go through this alone."

My gaze hardens, my voice dropping to a cold, bitter whisper. "I was going through it all alone when you left, so I think I'll be fine."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn't look away. "Let me in, Kay."

My stomach twists, my voice steady even as my hands shake. "Never again. I despise you."

Something flickers in his eyes—pain, frustration, something darker—before he closes the distance between us in two slow, deliberate steps. He's so close now, I can feel the heat radiating from him, the air thick with the weight of everything unspoken.

My pulse jumps in my throat, but I don't move back.

Aayan's gaze lingers on my face, and then the corner of his mouth lifts—just slightly. "Is that why your face is so flushed?"

"Fuck you," I bite out, my voice low and sharp. I tilt my chin up, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered. "If you think a little heat in my cheeks means you still have that kind of power over me, you're delusional."

His smirk fades into something steadier, more dangerous. "So you hate me, huh?"

"More than anything," I say without hesitation, though the words scrape against my throat.

"Let's change that."

Before I can respond, his hand is at my chin again, firmer this time, tilting my face up toward his. My breath catches, my pulse a frantic drum in my ears. Then his lips are on mine, warm, unyielding, pulling me into a kiss that feels less like an apology and more like a dare.

The taste of him is familiar, maddening, and the heat of his mouth steals the air from my lungs. My hands twitch at my sides, torn between shoving him away and holding him there. The sterile smell of the hospital, the ache in my chest, the image of my father in that bed, piece by piece, it all begins to blur.

For one reckless moment, there's no heart monitor beeping in the background, no sting from my sister's words—only the press of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble against my skin, and the dizzying pull of something I've tried so hard to bury.

For a heartbeat longer, I let myself savour the heat of his lips, the roughness that somehow still feels like home despite everything. The world tilts, and for once, the weight pressing on my chest loosens its grip.

But then I pull back, eyes blazing, voice sharp as broken glass. "Fuck you," I spit, my breath shaky but fierce.

Aayan's lips twitch into a knowing smirk. "Feeling better now?"

I glare at him, every part of me burning with a mix of frustration and something darker. "I think I hate you even more now."

Without waiting for his reply, I turn on my heel and leave, my steps hurried and uneven. My mind races, caught between relief and regret, anger and something I refuse to name.