156

The silence in Alexander’s hospital room was thick, as though even the machines dared not beep too loudly. Yalda sat curled beside him on the edge of the bed, her fingers gently clasped in his. After the storm of emotion that had crashed over both of them when she first entered, things had quieted. 

Her eyes were still swollen from crying, and she could feel the rawness in her throat, but the heaviness in her chest hadn’t lifted.

She glanced at Alexander, who lay still, his grey eyes slightly open, watching her with that unreadable gaze she’d once known so well. His color was pale, his features hollow, but he was still him. Still the man who meant so much to her.

After a moment, Yalda shifted, rubbing at her face and blinking back the wave of tears already threatening again.

"I want to know," she said softly, breaking the silence. "Tell me the truth, Alexander. About your health. Please."

He looked away.

"Yalda..."

"Please," she insisted, voice cracking. "Don’t shut me out. Not now."

He was quiet for a long while. She could see the hesitation in his eyes, the tightness in his jaw. But then he sighed, as if letting go of something he’d been holding onto for too long.

"It’s bad," he said finally. "Worse than what Carl may have told you. The treatments... didn’t help. Not the way we’d hoped."

Her heart stilled.

"What do you mean?" she whispered.

He looked at her again. And this time, he didn’t look away.

"I have about a month left," he said, voice low. "If I’m lucky."

It was like the room had tilted. Yalda stared at him, blinking rapidly, trying to make sense of the words, as if she hadn’t heard them correctly. A month. No, that couldn’t be right. That couldn’t be real.

"No," she said, her voice barely a breath. "No, that’s not... you’re lying. You’re joking. You can't make such jokes."

But he didn’t smile. He didn’t laugh. He wasn't joking.

"Yalda..."

"Stop saying my name like that," she choked. "Like you’re saying goodbye. I just got here. You can’t....no. This isn’t fair."

She began to cry again, a fresh torrent that spilled down her cheeks without shame. Her hands trembled as she reached for his, grasping them tightly, clinging like he was already slipping away.

He reached up with some effort and brushed his thumb gently against her cheek. "Don’t cry. Please don’t cry."

"How can I not?" she wept. "How am I supposed to sit here and pretend this isn’t happening? You were always so strong. You always fixed everything. And now..."

He closed his eyes, wincing slightly. "I’m tired, Yalda. I’ve been fighting for so long. I didn’t want you to see me like this. Weak. Fading."

"Don’t you dare call yourself weak," she snapped through her tears. "You’re still you. You’re still the man who held me when I was broken, who stayed beside me through everything. You’re still... you’re still everything to me."

She stood suddenly, unable to contain the energy burning under her skin. Her body was shaking, her breathing uneven.

"There has to be something or omeone, some specialist...." She turned and stormed toward the door.

"Yalda!"

But she was already out in the hallway, her eyes scanning wildly for a doctor, a nurse or anyone who could give her hope.

Carl appeared then, he was leaning against the wall, watching her with a solemn, tired gaze that mirrored Alexander’s.

"Ms. Yalda," he said gently, stepping into her path.

"Carl, please," she gasped. "There must be something we can do. We can’t just let him—"

"There’s nothing," Carl said softly, but firmly. "The doctors have done all they can. He’s known this for a while. And now you do too."

Her chest heaved. She pressed her hands to her face.

"I can’t just sit there and wait for him to die. I can’t."

"No one’s asking you to," Carl said. "But what he needs most now isn’t false hope or frantic searching. He needs you. He needs the peace of having you near. That’s all that matters."

Yalda shook her head, but her shoulders sagged. Her body was overwhelmed, grief curling through her limbs like a heavy fog.

Carl stepped closer, resting a hand gently on her shoulder. "Go back in, Ms. Yalda. Be with him. However long he has, let him spend it with the person he cares about most. Don’t waste this time."

She closed her eyes, breathing through the ache that threatened to break her in two.

But Carl was right. There was no miracle waiting around the corner. No secret cure. Only this moment. Only now. She nodded slowly, her lips trembling. "Okay."

He gave her a small, sad smile and stepped aside.

Yalda walked back toward the hospital room, each step heavier than the last. Her hands were cold. Her heart ached. But her resolve was set.

If Alexander only had a month left, she’d make sure it mattered. And when she reached the door, her hand paused on the handle. She took a shaky breath. Then pushed it open.

She stepped quietly into the room, the door clicking softly shut behind her. She stood for a moment, unsure if her legs would carry her any further.

Alexander turned his head slowly toward her. His eyes found hers, and though his body was weakened, something in his gaze remained strong. Familiar. Grounding.

Yalda approached the bed silently, her steps tentative. She sank into the chair beside him, not trusting her voice, her heart already quivering from what she knew, from what she was trying so hard to accept.

She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. The only sound in the room was the quiet hum of machines and her heavy breathing. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks. She didn’t even bother to wipe them away.

Alexander shifted, wincing slightly as he lifted his hand toward her. He patted the space beside him on the bed.

"Come here," he said, voice raspy and deep.

Yalda hesitated only a moment before rising. She gently climbed onto the bed, curling herself carefully beside him. He made space for her, his arm sliding around her like it had a thousand times before, as though it belonged there. She rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady, slow beat of his heart. It was a sound that once lulled her to sleep, a rhythm that had once defined safety for her.

His fingers moved to her hair which was now free from the bun, combing through the strands with infinite tenderness. The simple motion unraveled her. Her breath caught in her throat as another wave of tears threatened.

"I missed this," she whispered.

"Me too."

There was silence for a while. Not awkward, not uncertain, just full. Full of all the words they hadn’t said, full of all the things that now suddenly mattered more than anything else.

Then he spoke, voice low and filled with a tremble she rarely heard from him.

"Yalda... I’m sorry."

She didn’t respond right away. Her body tensed against his, unsure of where he was going, unsure if she was ready for it.

"I’m sorry for everything," he continued. "For pushing you away. For hurting you. For making you get rid of the baby..."

She flinched.

"I was scared," he said. "So damn scared. Of being vulnerable. Of needing someone the way I needed you. And when you got pregnant... it terrified me. Not because I didn’t want it. But because it made everything real. Too real."

His hand stilled in her hair.

"I hated myself after. For asking that of you. For not being strong enough to face it with you."

Yalda closed her eyes tightly. She had buried that pain so deep it barely surfaced anymore. But now, hearing him say it, hearing him finally acknowledge it, the wound cracked open all over again. And yet...

"I forgive you ," she murmured.

He turned slightly to look down at her. "You do?"

She nodded, swallowing the knot in her throat. "I hated you for a while. For breaking me like that. But deep down, I knew you were hurting too. I just couldn’t see it back then."

He pulled her closer.

"I've always loved you. I never stopped loving you, Yalda. Even when I tried to pretend I had. Even when I convinced myself you were better off without me."

Her chest ached too much. She pressed her face against his chest, letting herself be held. Letting herself feel.

"You broke me," she said softly. "But I still love you. I don’t think I ever stopped either."

They stayed like that, tangled together, a tangle of past and present, of pain and healing. For once, there were no more lies, no more walls. Just them, and whatever time they had left.

And in that moment, that was enough.

She tilted her head up and brushed her lips gently against his jaw, a quiet promise.