The afternoon sun filtered through the sheer white curtains, casting soft golden patterns on the hospital bed. The rhythmic beeping of the oxygen monitor filled the room, blending with the faint rustle of leaves from the open balcony.

Shreya sat cross-legged on the floor beside her mother’s bed, her fingers tracing invisible patterns on the cool marble. The room smelled of fresh lilies and antiseptics—an unsettling contrast of beauty and reality.

“Beta,” her mother’s voice, weak yet firm, pulled Shreya from her thoughts. “You look tired.”

Shreya forced a smile, reaching up to adjust the shawl draped over her mother’s shoulders. “And you look like you could use some of Baba’s terrible tea,” she teased.

Her mother chuckled, a sound that had become rare these days. “I’d drink a hundred cups of his terrible tea if it meant I could be here longer".

Shreya’s chest tightened. She hated these conversations—the kind where her mother spoke of time like sand slipping through fingers. She wanted to believe in miracles, in last-minute recoveries, but the doctors had been brutally honest.

“I don’t want to leave you unprotected,” her mother continued, brushing a hand over Shreya’s cheek. “You have always been strong, but strength isn’t enough, beta. You need someone by your side.”

Shreya stiffened. She knew where this was going.

“I have Kabir, Ma.”

Her mother sighed. “But does Kabir have you?”

Shreya’s gaze dropped to her lap. Kabir. The boy she had met in the chaos of college fests, the one who had held her hand through every exam, every heartbreak, every stolen midnight conversation. He was her home.

But lately, home had started to feel like a distant dream.

Later that evening, Shreya found herself at Brewhouse, the café that had seen the best and worst of her love story. The same dim yellow lights, the same playlist humming softly in the background. It was their place.

Kabir was already there, sitting at their usual corner table, scrolling through his phone. His tousled hair fell over his forehead, his sleeves rolled up carelessly—a sight so familiar it made her heart ache.

“You’re late,” he said, grinning as she slid into the seat opposite him.

“You’re early,” she shot back, mirroring his smirk.

For a moment, it felt like old times. Two people in love, basking in the warmth of their little bubble. But reality had a cruel way of creeping in.

Shreya took a deep breath. “Kabir, I need to talk to you.”

His expression shifted, sensing the weight in her voice. “What’s wrong?”

She hesitated. She didn’t want to sound desperate or demanding, but the truth was, she was running out of choices.

“Ma wants me to settle down… soon,” she finally said. “She doesn’t have much time left.”

Kabir’s fingers tightened around his coffee cup. “Shreya, you know I—”

“I know,” she cut in softly. “You need time.”

The words tasted bitter on her tongue. How long had she been saying them? How long had she been waiting?

Kabir leaned forward, his dark eyes searching hers. “I love you, Shreya. You know that, right?”

She nodded, but love wasn’t the problem. Timing was.

“I can’t marry you right now,” he admitted, his voice laced with frustration. “I need to build my career first. I need to—”

“Be something before you become mine,” she finished for him, her lips curving into a sad smile. “I get it, Kabir. I always have.”

And yet, understanding didn’t make it any easier.

Silence hung between them, thick and unspoken. Somewhere outside, the world moved on—baristas calling out orders, the clinking of cups, the occasional burst of laughter from another table. But here, in this little corner of the café, everything felt frozen.

For the first time in years, Shreya wondered: How long can love survive in waiting?