The coldness of the hospital tiles seeped through Rohan's shirt, but he didn't pull away. He welcomed the chill; it was the only thing anchoring him to reality while his mind spun into a dark, chaotic gallery of images he hadn't asked for.
He could still feel the phantom weight of her in his arms—the terrifying lightness of a woman who had been starving herself of food and hope in equal measure.
Why does it feel like the air has been sucked out of the room? he wondered, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches.
He looked down at his knuckles. The dried blood was a dark, haunting crust. For years, Rohan's life had been built on the artificial—expensive cars that went too fast, laughter that didn't reach his eyes, and the neon safety of Night Heaven. He was Rohan Malhotra; he was the one who walked away. He was the one who didn't care.
But here, in the clinical, unforgiving glare of the hallway, his money felt like play-money. His influence felt like a cruel joke. All the silver spoons in the world couldn't buy back the cells dying inside Asha's body.
A surge of pure, unadulterated rage flared in his chest—not just at the stalker, who was already a shadow behind bars, but at the sheer unfairness of the universe.
He thought of his mother.
For a decade, he had built a wall of alcohol and shallow flirtations specifically so he would never have to stand in a hospital corridor feeling this helpless again. He remembered the exact, blinding shade of white the sheets had been when his mother stopped breathing. He had spent his life running from that memory, only to find himself standing right back in its shadow.
And yet, here he was. Brought to his knees by a girl he had known for less than forty-eight hours.
I avoided her because she made me blush, he thought, a bitter, self-deprecating laugh bubbling in his throat. I avoided her because she was a threat to my freedom. And now, she's actually leaving. She's leaving for real.
The doctor's sentence—months at best—rang in his ears like a death knell. It wasn't just shock he was feeling; it was a profound grief for a future he hadn't realized he wanted until it was being snatched away.
He wanted to argue with her again. He wanted to watch her eyes light up while she sketched buildings that touched the clouds. He wanted to sit on that park bench and tell her that her legs didn't have to be tired anymore, because he would help her kick the doors down.
Roy's hand landed on his back, but the contact felt miles away. Rohan felt isolated in his own skin, a prisoner of his own late realization. The tears that finally carved paths through the dust on his cheeks weren't just for Asha; they were for the man he was becoming—a man who finally understood that the most expensive thing in the world isn't a watch or a car.
It's time.
He looked at the heavy ICU door, his heart hammering a painful, irregular rhythm against his ribs. He had spent his entire life running from anything that felt like "forever," terrified of the weight of it. Now, he realized he would give everything he owned just to have a "forever" that lasted longer than a few months.
"I won't let you just vanish," he whispered into the empty, sterilized air. His voice was thick, carrying a promise he didn't yet know how to keep. "I won't let you be invisible anymore."
The playboy was dead. And in the silence of the corridor, Rohan Malhotra finally began to grow up.