She watched them. The dialogues above their heads. She couldn’t hear them aloud so she saw them silently floating like ghosts. Just like he never said ‘I love you’ to her, but it always hung there like wisps of cloud above her.
“What else can we do for him?” The doctor paused, glancing at the bed beside which she sat.
“We only need a miracle!” The nurse sighed from the other end of the room.
“Pity! How is she holding up?” The visitor to the patient from the opposite bed had heard the doctor earlier, “You only have the night.”
Maybe he will die a thousand deaths before he dies but she will never give up on him until then. So what if, it is the third stage of cancer? Between the third and the final, there is always a long road.
The monitors in the room beeped. He was sleeping. She has lost track of the time for the fluorescence from the tube light in the Intensive Trauma Unit does not give you any sense of day or night. Sitting on the chair she rested her head on his bed. She drifted off.
‘Ta-da, ta-da, ta dad da dada da, ta-da’ his frail fingers ever so slowly danced on her hand. Even in her exhausted sleep, she knew the rhythm. It was their very personal rhythm. Mindless yes but not meaningless. Who started the rhythm is all blurry. But it was theirs and theirs alone. Sometimes when words failed they used to hum them. Sometimes together sometimes by themselves, for they knew for sure the other would hear it.
She heard him this time too all right!
His rhythm of life is not lost yet. This was not their last night. And she loved him too!
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