monday. 10:23 am. day 28 since diagnosis. week four. scan results day.
aiims waiting room. same plastic chairs. same antiseptic smell. same crying babies and worried families and time moving slow like punishment.
different this time. she wore scarf—the star one. priya's date choice. he wore the shirt she liked. dark blue. said it made him look less like "IT office ghost."
priya sat between them. pretending to scroll phone. screen frozen. just staring. waiting.
name called.
"reshma kumar."
they stood together. walked together. entered dr. mehta's cabin together.
doctor looked up. kind eyes. tired face. the expression of someone who delivered bad news for a living.
please sit.
they sat. hands linked. tight. desperate.
doctor pulled up scans on computer. images of her insides. tumors like dark clouds on screen.
"results are..." he paused. reading. checking. "...showing response."
"response good or response bad?" shubham asked. voice barely controlled.
doctor looked at them. something flickering in his eyes. something cautious.
"blast percentage decreased."
silence.
reshma's hand crushing his. "what does that mean."
doctor scrolled through lab results. numbers. percentages. medical language they'd learned to fear.
"initial diagnosis three weeks ago: 52% blasts in bone marrow. Standard range for acute myeloid leukemia." he pointed to screen. "after three weeks chemotherapy—" pause. checking again. "—41%."
"that's... good?" shubham leaning forward.
"it's response. Most AML patients at three weeks show 2-3% reduction if responding at all. You're showing 11%." he chose words carefully. clinical. "that's rare. But not unprecedented."
"how rare." reshma's voice small.
"ten percent of cases show this kind of early response. maybe less." doctor pulled up another scan. "tumor activity also reduced. Not stopped. Not reversed. But cellular division slowed. Inflammation markers down. White blood cell count improving."
they stared at numbers that might mean life.
"what does it mean for timeline sir." shubham's throat tight.
doctor set down pen. looked at them directly.
"six months was baseline. Assuming normal resistance development to chemotherapy. If you continue responding at this rate..." he stopped. started again. "i won't promise years. i won't promise cure. Leukemia this aggressive rarely fully remits. But—"
"but what." reshma gripping table edge.
"but months. Plural. Significant plural. If response continues—maybe twelve to eighteen months. If we're fortunate."
her breath caught. shubham's vision blurred.
"you're still terminal mrs. kumar. I need you to understand that." doctor's voice firm now. necessary cruelty. "we're buying time. Not curing disease. Next resistance could develop. Relapse is always possible. We monitor every two weeks. Adjust treatment accordingly. This is good news. But tempered good news. Clear?"
"clear," shubham managed.
doctor nodded. handed them new prescriptions. updated schedules. "continue current regimen. Sahjan tea shows correlation with inflammation reduction—keep that. Rest. Nutrition. Immunity support. Next scan in two weeks. We'll know more then."
"and if numbers get worse?" reshma asked. brave. terrified.
"then we adjust. Different chemo combination. Clinical trials if needed. We fight. That's what we do." small smile. almost paternal. "but for today? Good news deserves acknowledgment. You're responding. That's all we can ask for."
11:47 am. hospital corridor.
they stood outside doctor's cabin. stunned.
priya ran up. "what happened?? you were in there forever. what did he—"
reshma grabbed her. hugged. tight. shaking.
"not dying faster."
"what?"
"tumor responding. maybe buying more time. maybe—" she couldn't finish. crying properly now.
priya looked at shubham. wide-eyed.
"bhai?"
"hope," he said. word feeling foreign in his mouth. "genuine hope. for the first time."
priya made sound—half laugh, half sob. joined the hug. three people standing in hospital corridor, holding each other, breaking apart with relief.
12:34 pm. hospital canteen.
they ate. actual food. with actual appetite—even reshma managed half a plate without nausea winning.
"so sahjan is actually helping," priya said. "i take full credit. ma's recipe. my idea."
"you texted one line with emojis—"
"STRATEGIC communication. very important."
reshma laughed. real laugh. light. free.
shubham watched. memorized. this sound. remember this.
then his phone buzzed.
rohan.
"bro. saw boss's email. you're fired officially. HR sending termination papers. i'm so sorry."
reality crashing back. always crashing back.
reshma noticed his expression. "what?"
"nothing." he put phone away.
"shubham."
"later. not now. now is good news. let's stay in good news."
she studied his face. chose to let it go. for now.
2:14 pm. their flat.
home. finally. exhausted but lighter.
priya crashed on couch immediately. "bhabhi, bhai, i'm taking nap. emotional rollercoaster requires sleep."
"you're sixteen. you shouldn't be on emotional rollercoasters."
"dating prep. relationships are basically this forever apparently."
"that's... dark and accurate."
them in bedroom. door closed. alone.
she sat on bed. looked at him. saw everything he was hiding.
"now tell me. what was on your phone?"
"reshma—"
"we promised. honest always. what was it?"
he sat beside her. showed her the message.
"you're fired officially."
silence.
"oh shubham."
"it's fine. i knew it was coming. boss made it clear—"
"it's NOT fine." she grabbed his hands. "you lost your job. because of doctor appointments. because of me."
"i lost my job because boss is heartless and i chose you. those are different things."
"the result is the same. you're unemployed. we have bills. rent. priya's expenses. how are we going to—"
"we'll figure it out." calm he didn't feel. steady because she needed steady. "ayushman covers medical. savings will last couple months. i'll freelance, like i did before. apply to other companies. we'll manage."
"and if we can't?"
"then we still won't regret it." he looked at her. fierce now. "because i was THERE today. in that room. holding your hand when he said 'not dying faster.' i wouldn't trade that moment for any job."
she stared. eyes wet.
"you're an idiot."
"established fact."
"MY idiot."
"government approved."
she laughed. not crying this time. exhausted relief instead.
4:23 pm.
priya making tea. attempting to also make dosa. results questionable.
"bhai the batter looks weird."
"did you ferment it overnight?"
"what's ferment?"
"we're ordering from swiggy."
"that's fair."
reshma in bedroom. writing something in notebook. private. her letters to future, maybe. her way of coping.
shubham stepped out onto tiny balcony. watched gali below. gupta uncle playing cards. sharma aunty hanging same clothes as always. normalcy everywhere.
phone buzzed. rohan again.
"listen. some of us are pooling together. for you. not charity—loan. whenever you can pay back. let us help."
his throat tight.
typed back: "you don't have to—"
immediate response: "bro. shut up. accept help. you've helped me debug projects at 3am for two years. let me do ONE thing."
"okay. thank you. seriously."
"will do."
another message from rohan:
"oh also—megha feels terrible btw. keeps asking about bhabhi. wants to apologize. should i give her your number?"
shubham stared. megha. the gossip bomb herself.
typed: "tell her thanks. but we're good. no hard feelings. life's too short for grudges apparently."
rohan: "bro that was almost mature of you"
"don't get used to it."
put phone down. breathing slightly easier.
not alone. never fully alone. even when world felt like it was collapsing—rohan and priya and reshma and ma in patna and strangers who became family.
that was something. maybe everything.
8:34 pm.
dinner done. somehow. combination of swiggy dosa and priya's failed attempt and reshma's supervision from bed.
priya asleep on couch. seventeen-hour-old habit of passing out early after emotional days.
them in bedroom. lamp soft. shadows gentle.
reshma in his arms. warm. alive. still here.
"shubham."
"hm."
"today was a lot."
"understatement."
"tumor not growing. you getting fired. rohan offering help. all of it."
"yeah."
pause. comfortable.
"i'm glad i'm not dying faster."
he pulled her closer. "me too. understatement of the century."
"but i'm still dying."
"i know."
"just... slower maybe. more time maybe."
"more time to steal."
"exactly." she looked up at him. "more time for sahjan torture."
"you're going to eat those bitter leaves every morning for however long we have."
"abuse."
"love."
"same thing sometimes."
he kissed her forehead. the way he always did now. ritual. promise.
"shubham."
"yeah."
"that calendar thing. the reminders i added."
"chocolate sundays. anniversary."
"yeah. those." she paused. "keep them anyway. even with more time. keep them."
"i wasn't going to delete—"
"i know. just... confirming." she snuggled closer. "and the letter. same thing. for eventually. whenever eventually is."
"could be decades now."
"could be." she smiled. tired. hopeful. scared. brave. "wouldn't that be something."
"yeah." his voice thick. "that would be everything."
later. almost midnight.
she was asleep. finally. peaceful breathing. scarf fallen off in sleep. bald head against pillow like art installation. beautiful and strange and HER.
he lay awake. thinking.
job gone. tumor pausing. time expanding. everything uncertain.
but she was here. breathing. his. for now. for however long.
he'd pulled her from a bridge. he'd married her in a registry office. he'd shaved her head and held her through chemo and fought about chocolate and lied to his ma and lost his career.
and he'd do it all again. every second. without hesitation.
this, he thought. this is what love looks like. messy. devastating. expensive. terrifying. and worth it. every bit.
outside, delhi continued. million stories in motion. million small tragedies and triumphs.
here, in cramped flat on third floor, a boy who couldn't talk to girls held a dying woman who jumped from a bridge.
both still here.
both still choosing.
that was the only ending that mattered.
for now.
(Speaker: five chapters ago: sahjan torture and gossip bombs. now: job gone, hair gone, megha forgiven, tumor napping. two idiots still holding hands. that's it. that's the whole story. not how long you have—how you spend it. with who. for who. cliffhanger? always. more chemo coming. more bills. more scans. but also: chocolate sundays. stolen mornings. golgappas. love that hurts and heals simultaneously. this isn't ending. it's just... continuing. like all the best disaster love stories do.)