The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor hummed faintly, their glow too sharp, too sterile for the storm of emotions running through you. You sat inside the cabin, waiting, your hospital gown feeling more like armor than comfort. The doctors’ words were still ringing in your ears, though you tried hard to push them away—early-onset Alzheimer’s.

Outside, you caught muffled voices—your mother’s trembling urgency, Krish’s silence.

“You’ll marry her, won’t you?” your mother’s voice was sharp, desperate, carrying the weight of wounds you knew too well. “She’s suffered enough already. If you don’t want to marry her, then leave right now. You’ll get plenty of other girls, but my daughter is not a toy for you to play with—”

You heard the shuffle of footsteps, your father’s firm interruption. “Enough. That’s not the way.” His voice softened as it turned toward Krish. “You can go inside if you want.”

Moments later, the door clicked open.

Krish stepped in, quiet, his expression unreadable as he crossed the small space. He didn’t speak at first, just sank down onto the edge of the bed beside you. The mattress dipped under his weight, and the silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.

He finally turned, his eyes meeting yours, raw and unwavering. Then, with no prelude, no hesitation, he said it:

“Let’s get married.”