The ambulance siren wailed through traffic.
Inside, she drifted between sound and silence.
Faces moved above her.
Hands pressed cloth against blood.
Someone asked questions.
Name.
Address.
Age.
She answered none.
Because the only thing she could still feel was Arjun’s hand holding hers for balance as the vehicle moved.
He had come with her.
Whether from guilt, kindness, or shock—she did not know.
To her dying heart, reasons no longer mattered.
She opened her eyes weakly.
He sat beside the stretcher, worried, unaware that he was fulfilling every impossible dream too late.
“Can you hear me?” he asked softly.
She blinked once.
“Stay awake.”
How strange, she thought dimly.
All these years she had stayed awake for him.
Now he asked the same of her.
At the hospital, doctors rushed her away.
Arjun gave details he barely knew.
“The girl from the neighborhood… I’ve seen her around…”
A stranger describing a life built around him.
Hours passed.
Her mother arrived broken by panic, crying through corridors, calling her childhood nickname between sobs.
The doctors tried.
The body tried.
But obsession had weakened what injury finished.
Near midnight, consciousness returned for a final moment.
Her mother held one hand.
Arjun stood a few feet away, silent and troubled.
She looked at him steadily.
No anger remained.
No jealousy.
No claim.
Only exhaustion… and something almost peaceful.
At last she understood.
He had never belonged to her.
He had never stolen anything.
She herself had offered her mind, health, years, and life to a dream that asked for none of it.
A tear slipped from the corner of her eye.
Not for losing him.
For losing herself.
With great effort, she turned toward her mother and whispered:
“Sorry.”
Then her gaze found Arjun once more.
He stepped closer, perhaps out of compassion.
Perhaps too late out of understanding.
She smiled faintly—the smallest smile of the entire story.
And breathed out.
This time, no breath returned.
Days later, the neighborhood spoke of tragedy.
“A young girl died after an accident.”
“She had been unwell for months.”
“Such a sad fate.”
No one knew the real funeral had begun years earlier.
Arjun attended quietly, standing at the back beside others. He asked her mother if he could help with expenses. She only nodded through tears.
When leaving, he paused near the doorway where her photograph rested with flowers.
For the first time, he learned her name.
He stood there longer than expected.
Then walked away into the life that was always his.
Her room was cleaned weeks later.
Inside a drawer they found notebooks filled with dates, timings, colours of shirts, scraps of paper, and one line written many times:
A glimpse is enough.
But glimpses are never enough.
That is how madness begins.
And sometimes—
How it ends.