He was sitting at his desk in his studio, head bowed, lost in thought. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the wind outside. Suddenly, She entered, shaking his shoulder gently.
“What are you doing here, Arhan? Everyone is waiting for you outside,” she said with a playful urgency.
Arhan looked up at her with his shiny brown eyes. His curly hair was slightly disheveled, giving him a vulnerable charm.
“Are you ready for the performance?” Aimee asked, her tone soft but expectant.
“Yes, I am,” Arhan replied, standing up.
“Okay, let’s go then,” she said, leading the way. As they walked, Aimee glanced at him curiously.
“Which song are you going to perform?” she asked, but Arhan remained silent, his thoughts elsewhere. His uncharacteristic quietness did not escape her notice.
When they reached the stage, Arhan was greeted by a roaring crowd. The audience chanted his name with enthusiasm—“Arhan! Arhan! Arhan!”—their excitement palpable. From the corner of the stage, Aimee watched him intently as he began to sing. His voice, powerful yet tinged with emotion, captivated the audience, who eagerly recorded the performance on their phones. After the concert, Arhan returned home. Aimee accompanied him, her concern evident
“What’s going on, Arhan? You’ve been so quiet these past few days. Is something wrong?” she asked, sitting beside him on the couch.
“No, everything is fine. Don’t worry,” he said with a faint smile, hoping to reassure her. But Aimee knew him too well—there was something he wasn’t saying.
Later that night, long after Aimee had left, Arhan stood in front of his bedroom mirror. The doctor’s voice echoed in his mind:
“You have a brain tumor, Arhan. It’s advanced, and according to our estimates, you have three to four weeks left.”
Arhan clutched his head tightly, tears streaming down his face. He cried like a child, overwhelmed by the weight of his diagnosis. Memories of his late mother and distant family filled his mind, amplifying his loneliness. Exhausted, he eventually fell asleep, his pillow damp with tears.
The next morning, his reflection startled him. His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles underscoring his exhaustion. His body felt weak, and the throbbing in his head was unbearable—a stark reminder of the tumor’s toll. He splashed cold water on his face, hoping to steady himself, but the heaviness in his heart remained.
A week later, during breakfast, Arhan decided to tell Aimee the truth. They had always shared everything, and it felt wrong to keep this from her. But as the thought settled, a knock at the door interrupted him.
Aimee stood there, radiant in a red dress that highlighted her warm brown eyes and straight hair that framed her face.
“If you’re free today, can we go for lunch?” she asked cheerfully.
Arhan hesitated but eventually agreed after her persistent urging.
At the restaurant, silence hung between them like a fragile thread. Aimee finally broke it.
“What’s wrong, Arhan? You’re not yourself these days. Why are you pushing me away?” she asked, her voice tinged with hurt.
“I told you to leave me alone,” Arhan snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. “Why can’t you understand that?”
Aimee froze, tears welling in her eyes. Arhan had never spoken to her like this before. Without another word, he left, guilt gnawing at him with every step.
He wandered aimlessly, the cold wind tousling his hair. Eventually, he sat on a bench at the edge of the street, burying his face in his hands.
“How can I tell you, Aimee?” he whispered. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t have much time left, and I can’t drag you into this pain.” His voice broke, tears streaming freely.
Moments later, he felt a presence beside him. He turned and saw Aimee sitting there, her eyes searching his face. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around him in a quiet embrace.
“Don’t cry, Arhan. If you’re not ready to tell me, it’s okay. But please, don’t shut me out like this,” she said gently, her voice trembling.
Arhan took a deep breath. “I want to tell you, Aimee. I need to. But you have to promise me you’ll stay calm.” Aimee nodded, though her heart raced.
“I have a brain tumor,” he began, his voice cracking. “The doctors say I have three to four weeks left. I didn’t know how to tell you—I didn’t want to hurt you.” Tears filled Aimee’s eyes, blurring her vision. She struggled to process his words but steeled herself.
“Arhan,we’ll face this together. I’m not leaving you, no matter what. We’ll fight this, and if we can’t... I’ll make every moment count.”
Her words wrapped around him like a lifeline, but he couldn’t shake the looming shadow of time.
Weeks passed, and their bond grew stronger in the face of uncertainty. They filled the days with music, laughter, and quiet moments of understanding. But as the calendar turned, Arhan’s health began to wane.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Aimee sat by his side, holding his hand. Arhan looked at her, a faint smile on his lips.
“I wish I had more time,” he whispered.
“You’ve given me more than time, Arhan. You’ve given me a part of you I’ll carry forever,” she replied, her voice steady despite the tears threatening to fall.
And as the first star appeared in the sky, their story remained unfinished—an ode to love, loss, and the fleeting beauty of life.
Continue...
AISHA ASGHAR MUGHAL
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