monday. one week post-registry.
three days post-chemotherapy.
5:47 am. bathroom.
she threw up again. fourth time since midnight. nothing left to throw. just bile. body heaving anyway.
shubham held her hair—thinner now. handfuls coming out with every wash. pillow covered in strands every morning. neither mentioned it. both noticed.
when she finished. wiped mouth. tried to smile. "sorry."
"stop apologizing for cancer."
helped her back to bed. she weighed less every week. skin grayish now. dark circles permanent. beautiful anyway. dying anyway.
"you should go to work," she said. voice weak.
"later."
"shubham."
"later."
she slept. he watched. memorizing every breath. counting them like money he couldn't afford to lose.
azure consultancy. 10:34 am.
late. boss's email already waiting. "This behavior is unacceptable. We discussed this."
deleted it. sat at desk. documentation work. mindnumbing. entry level. humiliating.
marketing floor stayed quiet these days. gossip girls transferred departments last week. didn't say why. didn't need to. everyone knew a sixteen-year-old had ended their social standing with a smile.
but paid salary. needed salary. medical bills didn't care about ego.
couldn't focus. kept seeing her face. gray. exhausted. dying in real-time. hair in the drain. bile in the toilet. smile anyway.
phone buzzed. reshma.
can you come home. need you.
his heart stopped. dropped everything. grabbed bag.
rohan looked up. "bro where—"
"emergency. family."
ran.
boss yelled something. didn't hear. didn't care.
metro. longest twenty minutes of his life. monsoon crowd packed tight. sweat and rain mixing. that Delhi metro smell—wet metal and too many bodies and fear.
what if she collapsed. what if chemo complications. what if. what if.
their flat. 2:43 pm.
burst through door. "reshma!"
she sat on bed. perfectly fine. scrolling phone.
he stopped. breathing hard. "you okay."
"yeah. why."
"you texted emergency—"
"i said need you. not emergency." she looked up. "can you get medicines from pharmacy. ran out."
he stared. "that's it."
"yeah. prescription on table. also maybe snacks. spicy. craving."
blood boiling. "i left office. mid work. boss already hates me. i RAN here. thought you were dying. and you want. SNACKS."
"you don't have to yell."
"i'm not—" deep breath. control. "reshma i thought something happened."
"something did. ran out of medicine. need them."
"you couldn't call pharmacy delivery."
"wanted you to get it. specific brand."
"so you made me leave work. risk my job. because you wanted specific brand."
"it's not like that—"
"then what is it like." he was yelling now. couldn't stop. "because from here looks like you don't care. about my job. my stress. anything."
her eyes narrowed. "don't care. i have cancer. undergoing chemotherapy. losing my hair. throwing up six times a day. can barely stand. but yeah. i don't care about YOUR stress."
"that's not what i meant—"
"then what did you mean." she stood. wobbly. weak. furious. "that i'm burden. inconvenience. dying girl making your life difficult."
"i didn't say that—"
"you didn't have to. it's written all over your face every time you look at bills. every time boss calls. every time i ask for help."
"that's not fair—"
"FAIR?" she laughed. bitter. broken. "nothing fair about this. not cancer. not dying at twenty six. not ruining your life. not ANY of this."
"you're not ruining—"
"I AM." she grabbed medicine bottles. threw them. scattered everywhere. "look. expensive. endless. killing your savings. and for what. six months. half a year. then what. i die. you're broke. alone. destroyed. congratulations. married a corpse."
silence. heavy. destructive.
then quiet. too quiet.
"is that what you think," he said. voice flat. dead. "that i regret this. regret you."
"don't you."
"no." simple. honest. devastating. "but apparently you do."
"what."
"you regret choosing to stay. choosing treatment. choosing me. because if you didn't. you wouldn't keep trying to push me away."
"i'm not—"
"you ARE." louder now. "every day. every argument. you find excuse. burden. expense. inconvenience. anything to make me give up. well guess what. NOT HAPPENING. because i chose you. married you. legally bound. stamped. certified. done."
tears falling now. both of them. angry tears. scared tears. truth tears.
"you don't understand," she whispered.
"then EXPLAIN. make me understand. because from here looks like you're terrified of being loved. of mattering. of someone actually staying."
"i'm terrified of HURTING you."
"then STOP TRYING. stop pushing. stop testing. i'm not leaving. cancer doesn't scare me. death doesn't scare me. you know what scares me."
"what."
"wasting whatever time we have fighting instead of living." he grabbed her hands. "so you're sick. weak. dying. I KNOW. known since bridge. chose you anyway. so stop punishing yourself. stop punishing me. just. BE HERE. with me. whatever time left."
she was sobbing now. "i don't know how."
"then we figure it out. together. like everything else. but reshma." his voice breaking. "i can't fight you AND cancer. choose. are we team or are we strangers coexisting till you die."
brutal. honest. necessary.
she stared at him. really looked. seeing him. not illness. not bills. him.
"team," she whispered finally. barely audible.
"yeah?"
"yeah." louder. sure. "team. us. i'm sorry. i'm so sorry. keep pushing. keep testing. because everyone leaves eventually. family. ex. everyone. brain can't process you staying."
"i'm not everyone. i'm yours. stubborn. stupid. hopelessly in love yours."
she laughed. wet. choked. "you're an idiot."
"and you love it."
"yeah. i do."
he pulled her close. careful. gentle. she wrapped around him. desperate. clinging.
"fighting sucks," she mumbled into his chest.
"yeah."
"are we going to fight more."
"probably. we're both disasters."
"okay. but. we make up after."
"always."
they stood there. holding each other. post-fight exhaustion. post-truth relief.
"i'll get your medicines," he said finally. "specific brand. spicy snacks. anything else."
"ice cream. chocolate."
"deal."
evening. 7:34 pm.
he came back. bags full. medicines. snacks. ice cream.
she'd cleaned flat. picked up thrown bottles. made chai. weak. trying.
"sorry about earlier," she said quiet.
"me too. shouldn't have yelled."
silence. ice cream melting between them. unspoken things hovering.
"i push people away," she said finally. "before they can leave. test them. make them prove they're staying. it's." she swallowed. "it's fucked up. i know."
"yeah."
she flinched. he continued.
"but i get it. everyone left. ex. family. friends when diagnosis came. you're waiting for the other shoe." he looked at her. "i'm not the other shoe reshma. i'm not leaving."
"you almost broke," she whispered. "i saw it. in the bedroom. you almost broke."
"yeah." honest. no point lying. "i almost broke. not because of cancer. not because of you sick. because you were trying to KILL us. our relationship. on purpose. that's what almost broke me."
"shubham—"
"i can handle chemo. i can handle bills. i can handle you sick and tired and angry. i CANNOT handle you pushing me away. don't do that. fight me. not us."
tears falling now. both of them.
"okay." she said. small. "okay. i'll try."
"that's all i'm asking. try."
she moved closer. different from before. not collapsing into him. choosing to lean against him. subtle difference. huge shift.
he put arm around her. not holding her up. just. with her. beside her.
"i needed to hear it though. truth. boundaries. that you're not leaving."
"never leaving."
"even when i'm terrible."
"especially when you're terrible. that's when you need me most."
she looked at him. really looked. something shifting in her eyes. walls coming down properly. not halfway. all the way.
"i love you." first time she'd said it clearly. not implied. not assumed. spoken.
his heart stopped. "what."
"i love you. stupid. terrifying. real. i love you." she kissed him. quick. fierce. "figured you should know. since i keep making you chase me."
"i love you too." voice thick. "figured you knew."
"nice to hear though."
"yeah. nice to hear."
they sat. shared ice cream. her appetite mostly gone but forced few bites. him feeding her small spoonfuls. her rolling eyes but accepting.
"priya called," she said. "government health card approved. ayushman bharat. starts covering treatment from tomorrow."
"seriously."
"yeah. full five lakhs. everything covered." she laughed. small. "universe really wants me alive apparently."
"told you. gods. government. all of us."
"yeah."
silence. comfortable now. post-fight peace. different from before-fight denial.
"shubham."
"yeah."
"when i die—"
"reshma—"
"no listen. when i die. don't. don't martyr me. don't stop living. don't worship memory." she grabbed his hand. "promise me. you'll move on. find someone. be happy."
"i'm not promising that."
"shubham—"
"because we're not planning your death. we're living your life. six months. or sixty years. we live. we don't plan after." he looked at her. fierce. "you want rule. here's mine. one good day rule."
"what."
"one good day rule. every week. minimum. we do something good. ice cream. movie. walk. anything. steal joy. make memories. no hospital talk. no cancer talk. just us. being couple. living."
she stared. processing. "one good day."
"minimum. preferably more. but at least one. one day where you're not dying. you're just living. with me. your husband. doing stupid couple things." he squeezed her hand. "can we do that. can we steal one good day a week from this nightmare."
she was quiet for long moment. then. soft. "yeah. we can do that."
"deal."
"deal."
they shook on it. silly. serious. real.
"this week's good day," he said.
"we just fought."
"and made up. ate ice cream. fixed everything. you said you love me for first time." he grinned. "sounds pretty damn good to me."
she laughed. actual laugh. light. free. "you're really an idiot."
"your idiot."
"yeah. mine."
they finished ice cream. watched stupid TV. her falling asleep against him. soft breathing. peaceful.
he watched her. memorizing. always memorizing.
six months. four hundred seventy three days. maybe less. maybe miracle more.
didn't matter.
today they fought. made up. lived. chose each other again.
tomorrow they'd do it again.
and again.
and again.
however many tomorrows left.
all of them. theirs.
(Speaker: first married fight complete. walls broken. truth spoken. one good day rule established. they're messy. imperfect. fighting cancer and each other and themselves. but also? choosing love anyway. every day. despite everything. that's the story folks. raw. devastating. beautiful. real.)
Cliffhanger → They fought. They broke. They rebuilt. One good day rule created. Six months countdown continues. But now they're team. Actually committed. No more pushing away. No more testing. Just living. Whatever time left. Together. And maybe that's enough. Maybe that's everything.