Rain doesn’t fall that night. It attacks
sheets of water crash against the broken windshield, mixing with the blood on Amay’s hands. Thunder splits the sky, but he doesn’t hear it.
All he hears is her breathing.
Shallow.
Fading.
Anvi’s body lies limp in his lap on the soaked highway, her saree drenched, red spreading into darker red beneath her. Her fingers — the same fingers that used to push him away — now curl weakly into his shirt.
“Don’t,” he whispers. Not a plea. A command.
She had been running from him.
He still doesn’t know why.
One moment she was there — eyes wide, terrified of something he couldn’t see.
The next, her car had skidded in the rain.
The crash was violent.
Metal against concrete.
A pillar splitting headlights.
Silence after impact.
By the time he reached her, she was already bleeding.
By the time he carried her into his car, his hands were shaking for the first time in years.
The engine failed twice before starting.
The road was deserted.
No headlights.
No help.
Just rain and the sound of her pulse weakening beneath his fingers.
“Stay awake, Anvi,” he says against her forehead, his voice breaking for the first time in his life.
She tries to speak.
He leans closer.
But the rain swallows her words.
Hospital lights are too bright.
Doctors move too fast.
Then too slow.
Then still.
“We’re sorry.”
Two words.
Two words that dismantle a man who never lost anything he wanted.
Her body lies on the white hospital bed now — still, cold, distant.
The sindoor he once forced into her hairline has washed away.
Like none of it ever existed.
Amay stands there, drenched, blood on his sleeves, staring at the woman who was his everything.
He doesn’t cry.
He doesn’t move.
He just keeps thinking:
Why was she running from me?
From me.
As if I was the danger.
He had built his entire world around her.
And now the world stands intact.
Only she is gone.
And without her—
There is nothing left to conquer.
Nothing left to own.
Nothing left to live for.
Outside, the rain continues.
As if the sky knows something he doesn’t.
Six months.
One hundred and eighty-three days without her.
The world continued.
He didn’t.
Amay Mathur — the man who never missed a board meeting, never delayed a decision, never lost control — hasn’t stepped into his office since the night the rain took her.
The company runs.
Money flows.
Contracts close.
His signature is sent digitally.
But the man himself?
Vanished.
The house is dark now.
Curtains always drawn.
The room she once occupied remains untouched — her sarees still folded, her perfume still faint in the air, her coffee mug still on the shelf.
He sleeps on the floor sometimes.
Sometimes on her side of the bed.
Never peacefully.
He barely eats.
Food tastes like dust.
Water feels unnecessary.
He exists the way a building exists after a fire — structure intact, insides destroyed.
His phone rings less these days.
At first, friends called constantly.
Then daily.
Then weekly.
Now… silence.
Except Natasha.
His best friend.
She comes unannounced sometimes.
Stands at the door.
Looks at him.
And doesn’t recognize him.
His beard overgrown.
Eyes hollow.
Skin pale from never stepping into sunlight.
“Amay… this isn’t you,” she whispers once.
He almost laughs.
Because she’s right.
This isn’t him.
The man she knew died on that highway too.
He just wasn’t declared.
He doesn’t fear death anymore.
He waits for it.
Not dramatically.
Not desperately.
Just patiently.
As if it is an appointment that has been delayed.
Every night he lies awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering —
Will tonight be the night my heart simply stops?
He doesn’t pray.
He doesn’t beg.
He just waits.
Because the only thing worse than dying…
is living without her.
And yet —
One question keeps him alive.
Like a splinter he cannot remove.
Why was she running from me?
That night.
Her eyes weren’t angry.
They were afraid.
Not of him.
Of something.
Or someone.
And that thought —
That there was something he didn’t see…
Something he failed to protect her from…
It keeps his heart beating.
Not for hope.
For unfinished business.
Kareem has driven him for eight years.
He has seen Amay angry.
Victorious.
Ruthless.
Calm under pressure when markets crashed and deals collapsed.
But he has never seen him like this.
This version frightens him.
Kashi Maa, who has worked in the house long before Anvi entered it, now walks softly through corridors as if loud footsteps might shatter whatever fragile thread is keeping him alive.
They both watch him the way people watch a flickering diya in strong wind.
Afraid it will go out any second.
He has lost weight.
His once sharp frame now looks fragile beneath loose shirts.
His skin is pale, almost translucent.
Dark circles carve shadows under lifeless eyes.
If someone who didn’t know him saw him now, they would not recognize him as Amay Mathur.
They would see a man who has already left — only his body delayed behind.
Kareem tried once.
“Sir… let’s go for a drive. Just ten minutes. Fresh air.”
No response.
Another time, he forced cheer into his voice.
“Long drive, sir? Like before?”
Amay didn’t even look at him.
Kashi Maa cooks his favorite dishes.
Paneer the way he likes.
Strong filter coffee.
Halwa she used to make on special days.
The trays return untouched.
Steam fading into cold silence.
Nothing interests him anymore.
Nothing except her.
He keeps their wedding album beside his bed.
Not the grand moments.
The small ones.
Their roka — Anvi smiling directly at the camera, shy but glowing, while he is not looking at the lens at all.
He is looking at her.
Their engagement — her laughter frozen mid-frame.
First Karwachauth — her face pale from fasting, stubborn and proud, while he stands behind her, gaze unreadable to others.
Now painfully clear to him.
Possession.
Love.
Fear of losing.
He watches those videos again and again.
Zooming into her smile.
Pausing at her eyes.
Rewinding the sound of her voice as if memorizing it is survival.
His own reflection in those videos feels like a stranger.
Alive.
Certain.
Whole.
His eyes now are dry.
As if tears have been exhausted.
As if his body has decided grief no longer deserves water.
He wakes up.
Takes a shower.
Drinks black coffee.
Locks himself inside his room.
And spends the day with ghosts.
Sometimes his body gives up before his will does.
He faints.
Collapses beside the bed or near the sofa.
Kashi Maa screams for Kareem.
The doctor comes.
IV drips.
Cold needles.
Temporary revival.
The doctor warns, “He cannot continue like this.”
But Amay doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t resist.
Doesn’t promise.
Because somewhere inside, he has already decided.
He is not trying to survive.
He is waiting to leave.
Determined.
As if death is not an accident —
But a reunion.
Tell me when you're ready for the turning point.
Because stories this dark always shift.
The question is —
Does the shift bring hope…
Or something even more devastating?
He does not want to die.
He wants to live.
But not in a world where she does not exist.
That is the difference.
And that difference is what is killing him slowly.
Time moves.
Clocks tick.
Markets rise and fall.
Seasons shift.
But for Amay, the night of the rain never ended.
He is suspended there.
Half of him still kneeling on that highway.
Half of him standing in a hospital corridor.
Breathing — but unfinished.
Sometimes, in the early hours of morning, he turns in his sleep and feels warmth beside him.
He doesn’t open his eyes immediately.
Because for a few seconds —
He can pretend.
He can pretend she is there.
Breathing softly.
Hair falling across her face.
One arm tucked beneath his.
Sometimes he even whispers her name.
And in that fragile space between sleep and waking, he swears he hears her shift.
But when he opens his eyes —
Cold sheets.
Empty space.
Silence so loud it hums.
He has started sleeping more.
Not because he is tired.
But because sleep is the only place she still exists.
Dreams are kinder than reality.
In dreams, she doesn’t bleed.
In dreams, she isn’t running from him.
In dreams, she looks at him the way she did before fear entered her eyes.
So he stays in bed longer.
Forcing himself back into unconsciousness.
Chasing her through memory.
Chasing her through shadows.
The real world feels like exile.
Food has no taste.
Sunlight feels offensive.
Conversations feel unnecessary.
But sleep —
Sleep is reunion.
And so he drifts between two worlds.
One where she is gone.
One where she is still his.
And each morning, waking up feels like losing her all over again.
He doesn’t want death.
He just doesn’t want this version of life.
And somewhere deep inside —
He knows if he lets go completely,
If he stops fighting even a little —
He might see her again.
Not in dreams.
But beyond them.
This is fragile.
This is dangerous.
Now the real question is:
Do the hallucinations stay dreams…
Or does one day she speak back?
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