tuesday. 6:47 am.
alarm screamed. shubham already awake. hadn't really slept. just dozed in patches, jerking awake every hour to check—still breathing. still here. still warm beside him.
four days since first chemo. four days of vomit and pills and her pretending she was fine when she clearly wasn't. four days of him counting breaths like lines of code. just keep running. don't crash.
medicine box sat on table like a battlefield map. twelve pills organized by hour. green one for nausea. yellow cluster for immunity. white horse pill she hated—the one that made her gag every time.
and today's new addition.
fresh sahjan leaves. drumstick greens. priya's prescription from last night, texted with seventeen exclamation marks. "bhabhi TRY THIS. ma swears by it!!! immunity boost!!! natural medicine!!!"
he'd gone to sabzi wala at 5 am. old guy looked at him like he was crazy. maybe he was.
(Speaker: our mosshead has upgraded from burnt rotis to forcing trees on his wife. progress? debatable.)
she stirred. one eye cracked open. saw him hovering with leaves like some sort of deranged herbalist.
"what fresh torture today."
her voice was scratchy. hoarse from throwing up at 3 am. he'd held her hair—what was left of it—and rubbed her back and pretended he wasn't dying inside.
he held up the leaves. tried for cheerful. failed. came out desperate instead.
"sahjan! full of vitamins. iron. calcium. basically super—"
"basically you're feeding me tree branches now."
"nutritious tree branches."
she turned face into pillow. muffled. "i married a dictator."
"you married someone who reads health articles at 2 am." he sat on bed edge. gentler now. "please. just try. doctor said immunity matters during chemo. if it tastes horrible i'll eat the rest myself."
one eye emerged from pillow fortress. suspicious. exhausted. still beautiful even like this. even with dark circles and dry lips and that fragile look she hated him noticing.
"promise?"
"promise."
five minutes later. both of them gagging over bitter leaves at kitchen counter.
"this," she wheezed, grabbing water desperately, "is the WORST thing you've ever made me do."
"including marrying me?"
"...close second."
he laughed. surprised himself with how loud it came out. at least she was still fighting. at least she could still make him choke on his own joke.
priya emerged from her couch-bed, hair wild, rubbing eyes. "why is everyone making dying sounds this early."
"sahjan torture," reshma said. flat.
priya's face lit up. "oh!! ma's recipe worked??"
"your ma is a sadist and so are you."
"rude bhabhi. so rude." but priya was grinning, already making chai like she'd lived here her whole life. sixteen years old and somehow the most functional person in this disaster household.
shubham watched the two of them bickering—priya threatening to add sahjan to chai, reshma threatening murder—and felt something loosen in his chest.
this. this was what he was fighting for.
not just her survival. their survival. this strange fragile family that had assembled itself from bridge rescues and burnt dinners and government health cards.
after breakfast. pills swallowed. nausea managed. for now.
"so," he said, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly, "i was thinking. one good day rule. maybe today?"
she looked up from her chai. "today."
"yeah. small outing. nothing crazy. just—" he scratched his neck, ears going red. "sarojini market. lodhi garden after. you said you wanted a new dupatta."
her eyes narrowed. "you planned this."
"...maybe."
"without telling me."
"i was going to surprise—"
"oh shubham." she smiled. the first real one in days. small and tired but real. "you're so bad at surprises. you literally announced it."
"i panicked!"
she laughed and it hurt and healed him simultaneously.
"okay," she said. "but i have conditions."
"anything."
"priya stays here. handles any emergency calls from ma. and—" she paused, something mischievous flickering. "—i get to plan part of it too."
"what do you mean plan—"
but she was already shuffling toward their room, moving slow but determined, calling back: "just trust me mosshead. i'm not completely useless yet."
(Speaker: plot twist. the dying girl has schemes. mosshead didn't see this coming. neither did we honestly.)
10:34 am. sarojini nagar market.
chaos. absolute beautiful chaos.
tuesday morning heat already brutal. that Delhi summer that made you regret existence. aunties with shopping bags bigger than priya. college girls hunting ₹100 tops. vendors yelling prices like auctioneers. smell of momos and perfume and sweat and life.
reshma walked slow. held his arm for support but pretended it was affection. five minutes in and she was already parched.
"nimbu paani," she said. "before i die from heat instead of cancer."
"not funny."
"little funny."
he bought two nimbu paanis from corner stall. she drank half immediately. color returning slightly.
some lies were kindness. some hydration was survival.
"that one." she pointed to a stall drowning in dupattas. "sapna fancy store. best prints. ma used to shop there."
"you've been here before?"
"college days. hostel wasn't far." something wistful in her voice. "we'd come every saturday. five of us. pooled money, bought matching stuff, felt like queens."
she didn't talk about college friends anymore. he'd noticed. they'd stopped calling after the diagnosis. fair-weather friendships that dissolved when weather turned to cancer.
i won't dissolve, he thought fiercely. i won't.
at the stall she transformed. sick girl disappeared. marketing professional emerged.
"bhaiya this is 400? for THIS print? come on. i've been buying here since 2018."
vendor uncle looked startled. then impressed. then defensive. "madam quality dekho. pure cotton."
"pure cotton my foot. this is poly-cotton blend. feel the texture." she rubbed fabric between fingers like a detective examining evidence. "300. final."
"madam you're killing me."
"350 and throw in that blue one."
uncle spluttered. shubham watched, mesmerized. who WAS this woman. where had she been hiding.
"bhai," uncle turned to him desperately, "tell your wife—"
"i don't argue with her. tried once. lost badly."
reshma shot him a triumphant look. uncle surrendered.
350 for two dupattas. she emerged victorious, slightly breathless, holding bags like trophies.
"you're terrifying," shubham said with deep admiration.
"marketing training. we were basically trained to negotiate blood from stones." she grinned. then winced. hand went to stomach briefly.
"you okay? we can go—"
"no." firm. "one good day. we agreed. i'm fine."
she wasn't fine. he knew. she knew he knew. they both chose to not acknowledge it.
this is how we survive, he realized. small lies. brave lies. lies that let us live between the dying.
12:17 pm. lodhi garden.
shade. finally shade.
they found bench under massive banyan tree. she practically collapsed onto it.
"one second," she said. voice tight. "just need—"
she stood abruptly. walked behind the tree. he followed.
threw up. quietly. efficiently. the bargaining and golgappas and heat catching up.
he held her scarf out of the way. rubbed her back. said nothing.
when she was done:
"we're not talking about this."
"wasn't planning to."
"perfect husband."
"i try."
they walked back to bench. pretended nothing happened. anyone watching would've thought she'd just disappeared to make a phone call.
pretending is its own kind of truth, he thought.
reshma leaned against him. tired now. done pretending not to be.
"okay," she said. "open the bag."
"what bag."
"the one you thought i didn't pack. front pocket of your backpack."
he blinked. reached into backpack. found—
a ziploc bag. inside: bhujia sev. his favorite. the one from that specific haldiram outlet in chandni chowk that he'd mentioned exactly once, weeks ago, as a throwaway childhood memory.
and a folded note.
"for my mosshead. you take care of me so much you forget to eat. this is payback. now CHEW. — your ghost"
his throat closed. he blinked rapidly. absolutely NOT going to get emotional in a public park like some character in a bad serial.
"you—when did you—"
"priya helped. she went to chandni chowk yesterday while you were at chemist." reshma smiled, tired and proud. "i'm not just receiving care shubham. i'm still here. still capable of—" her voice cracked. "still capable of loving you back."
he pulled her close. buried face in her shoulder. one deep breath. then another.
"idiot," he mumbled into her neck. steadier now.
"your idiot. government approved."
(Speaker: mosshead almost short-circuited but held it together. character development. or just male stubborness. probably both.)
they ate bhujia together. then spotted a golgappa vendor.
"no way," shubham said. "after what just happened—"
"that was bargaining stress. this is celebration eating. completely different."
"that's not how stomachs work—"
"fight me."
he didn't fight her. knew better.
four golgappas in, she insisted on one more.
"one more."
"you'll throw up later."
"worth it."
she dunked golgappa in spicy water, shoved it in her mouth, and grinned at him with puffed cheeks and watery eyes from the heat.
this, he thought. remember this. whatever happens. remember.
priya had made him download an app for notes. he'd been secretly writing things down. moments. details. the way her nose scrunched when food was too spicy. how she laughed with her whole body. the specific curve of her smile when she thought she'd won an argument.
just in case, he told himself. just in case i need to remember later.
his phone buzzed. priya.
"bhabhi alive? scale of 1-10 how much torture?"
he showed reshma. she grabbed his phone, typed back: "9. he made me eat LEAVES. but i got revenge golgappas. we're even."
priya's response: three laughing emojis and "bhai you're losing the war."
he was. happily.
2:43 pm. heading home.
she was fading. could see it in how she leaned heavier on him. steps slower. breathing more careful.
"we should—"
"i know." she cut him off gently. "i'm tired. let's go."
no argument. no pushing through. just honest acknowledgment.
they were learning. both of them. learning to read each other's limits. learning when to fight and when to fold.
at metro station she sat on bench while he got tickets. watched him fumble with the machine—still couldn't figure out delhi metro interface despite having lived here three years. software developer defeated by public transport. some things never changed.
she smiled to herself. this dumb brilliant man. mine.
on the train she rested head on his shoulder. half-asleep already. tired from living. tired from fighting. tired from one good day that had used up all her reserves.
but happy. actually happy. small victory stolen from cancer's countdown.
"shubham."
"hm."
"thank you. for today. for—" she yawned. "—for making me live instead of just survive."
he kissed her forehead. soft. "thank priya. she's the one who went to chandni chowk."
"i'll thank her with my life someday. when i have more of it to spare." dark humor. their specialty now.
he didn't respond. just held her tighter.
4:12 pm. their gali. almost home.
they walked slow through narrow lane. neighbors doing their thing. sharma aunty hanging clothes. gupta uncle playing cards with retired gang. kids chasing each other with stolen mangoes.
normal. safe. home.
then—
"shubham? SHUBHAM KUMAR?"
female voice. too loud. too surprised.
they turned.
megha. from marketing floor. red lipstick. shopping bags. and that shocked expression that was already calculating gossip value.
"oh my god." megha's eyes went wide. darted to reshma. to their linked arms. to reshma's visible exhaustion. the scarf hiding thinning hair. the weight loss visible even through loose kurti. "it IS you. and is this—wait. ARE YOU TWO—"
"hi megha," shubham said flatly. dread pooling in his stomach.
"you're MARRIED?? since when?? why didn't anyone know??" megha's voice carried. sharma aunty definitely heard from balcony above. probably recording mentally for evening gossip rounds. "and she looks—"
megha stopped herself. but too late. the unfinished sentence hung there like a verdict.
she looks sick. she looks dying. she looks like cancer.
reshma felt something shift inside. anger rising through the exhaustion.
"she looks like someone who just outbargained three vendors at sarojini." reshma's voice sharp. marketing voice. "how do YOU look after a full day of shopping megha?"
low blow. megha famously couldn't bargain to save her life. entire floor knew that story about her paying 800 for a 200 rupee bag.
megha's expression flickered. hurt. but phone was already out.
"rohan is going to FREAK," megha said, typing. "this is massive. HR doesn't even know. boss is going to—"
"megha." shubham stepped forward. voice sharp now. something dangerous in it she'd never heard before. "put the phone down."
"i'm just—"
"you're just WHAT? spreading our personal life to office group chat? making my wife into content?" he was close now. not threatening but definitely not the shy IT guy she knew. "this isn't work drama megha. this is our LIFE."
megha blinked. actually took half step back.
reshma watched. surprised. this wasn't the shubham who apologized to furniture. this was someone else underneath.
"i—i was just going to tell rohan—" megha stammered.
"tell him what?" reshma asked coldly. "that you bumped into us in MY neighborhood? that i looked tired after a full day out? that we're married and didn't feel like announcing it to HR?"
"well when you put it like that—"
"there's no other way to put it." reshma grabbed shubham's arm. pulled him forward. past megha. toward their building. steady despite everything inside screaming to collapse. "nice seeing you megha. give my regards to rohan. tell him we'll catch up when we catch up."
megha's voice followed them. weaker now. "i—okay. sorry. i'll just—we should get dinner sometime?"
neither responded.
inside flat. door closed. masks dropped.
reshma made it three steps before legs gave out.
shubham caught her. guided her to couch. she was shaking. from exhaustion. from adrenaline. from everything.
"that was—"
"that was AMAZING," she said. surprising both of them. laughing slightly hysterical. "did you see her face? when you told her to put the phone down? she actually stepped BACK."
"i don't even know where that came from—"
"i do." reshma looked at him. something new in her eyes. "that's the shubham who pulled me off a bridge. the one who doesn't take no for answer when it matters."
he sat beside her. still processing his own outburst.
"she's still going to tell everyone," he said. "i just made it worse probably."
"maybe." reshma shrugged. exhausted but somehow lighter. "but she'll also remember you standing up for me. for us. that's not nothing."
"reshma—"
"it's fine. i'm fine." clearly not fine. but choosing to be anyway. "today was perfect. one stupid marketing gossip can't take that away."
he sat beside her. took her hand.
"perfect," he agreed. even though storm was coming. even though phone would blow up tomorrow. even though their careful constructed world was about to shatter under office gossip and concerned colleagues and questions without good answers.
still. today.
today they'd had sahjan torture and bargaining victories and golgappas and notes in backpacks and stolen joy.
today was theirs.
his phone buzzed. rohan.
"bro. megha just texted group chat. wtf is going on. call me. now."
he silenced it.
tomorrow's problem.
tonight he just held her.
(Speaker: one good day: achieved. gossip bomb: launched. mosshead's inbox: about to become a crime scene. but hey—golgappa count today? four. dupatta deals closed? two. bhujia note received? one. worth it. absolutely worth it. now if only megha would walk into traffic... kidding. mostly.)
Tomorrow, the storm. Tonight—dupatta bags on floor. Bhujia crumbs on table. One good day successfully stolen.