You didn’t remember falling.

But Akash would never forget the sound — the thud of your body hitting the floor like a tree cut down in silence. You collapsed, baby still wailing, your lips pale, your breaths uneven.

For the first time in his life, he saw you.

Not the version he expected you to be. Not the woman-shaped checkbox of “wife” and “mother.” He saw you. A girl, barely past her own childhood, lost in a storm of expectations and stitched-up dreams. Falling apart — because he hadn’t noticed you were unraveling.

The hospital smelled like cold bleach and guilt.

“She’s severely sleep-deprived,” the doctor said. “Post-partum depression. She needs rest. Real rest. And emotional support.”

Support.

The word echoed like a slap.

He had given you none.

You were drowning, and he’d stood at the shore, arms crossed, calling you dramatic.

When you were wheeled out in a wheelchair, your head slumped against the pillow, Akash tightened his grip on the baby.

She looked up at him, eyes wide, blinking.

He didn’t deserve her.

He hadn’t been a father. Just a figure in the background while her mother crumbled around her.

When his mother opened the door and clicked her tongue, he didn’t wait.

“She looks weaker than before,” she said. “Honestly, Akash—”

“We’re leaving,” he interrupted.

“What?”

“We’re moving out. Today.”

His mother sputtered, stunned. “You’re taking decisions now, just because she broke down? She’s too fragile to even—”

“She is not fragile,” he snapped. “She’s stronger than all of us. And I will never let you or anyone else speak to her like that again.”

He found them a place of their own. Small. Quiet. Far from the expectations and eyes.

He worked from home. Cancelled client dinners. Took meetings with the baby cradled in one arm. He learned how to change diapers, how to warm milk bottles, how to hush the baby with soft songs he never thought he’d sing.

He tried. God, he tried.

But you…

You weren’t there anymore.

You walked through the house like a whisper. Fed the baby without a word. Slept in long patches of silence, stared at nothing for minutes on end. Sometimes, your eyes would land on him. But they looked through him.

Akash burned to fix it — but this wasn’t something a sorry could mend.

Still, he whispered it every night.

“I’m sorry.” “I should’ve held your hand.” “I should’ve protected you.” “I should’ve loved you the way you deserved.”

But you never replied. Not with words. Not with eyes. Just silence.

One evening, he found you on the bed, breastfeeding the baby.

Your hair was undone. Eyes lowered. You looked… otherworldly. Not in beauty, but in distance. Like someone who had drifted too far from the shore.

He sat down at your feet. Quiet. Hesitant.

The baby suckled softly. The room was dim, and something about the moment — so intimate, so unbearably quiet — shattered something in him.

“I don’t know how to bring you back,” he whispered.

You didn’t look at him.

He lowered his head to your legs, pressing his forehead against your knees, voice cracking as the tears came.

“I wasn’t a husband to you. I wasn’t a father to her. I just existed. I let them hurt you. I hurt you.”

His fingers curled into the fabric of your nightgown.

“I thought you were being dramatic. I thought you were lazy. But you were dying, and I… I let you.”

He sobbed — the sound small, broken, real.

“I miss you. I miss the way you used to smile with your whole face. I miss the girl who used to read poetry out loud. I miss the woman who once believed in love enough to say yes to me.”

Your hand didn’t move.

“But if you can’t come back, if that girl’s gone forever,” he choked, “then I’ll love what’s left. I’ll love the hollow, the ache, the silence. I’ll carry it. I deserve it.”