Part 2
Maya looked down at our hands.
For a moment, I thought she was going to pull away.
That would have been easier.
Anger would have been easier.
A cold response would have been easier.
But she didn’t.
She just sat there quietly, staring at the floor as people walked past us in the hospital corridor.
Doctors.
Nurses.
Families.
Everyone moving forward.
Everyone except us.
Finally, she whispered:
“I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
Those words hurt more than I expected.
“Like what?” I asked.
She gave a small, tired smile.
“Like someone you were right to leave.”
My heart sank.
“Maya…”
She shook her head.
“No, Arjun. It’s okay.”
Her voice was calm.
Too calm.
Like she had repeated those words to herself hundreds of times.
“You wanted a different life. I understand.”
I looked at her.
The woman sitting beside me was the same woman I had shared five years with.
The same woman who used to fall asleep on the couch waiting for me when I worked late.
The same woman who remembered every small detail about my day.
But now she looked like someone who had been fighting a battle alone.
And I realized something terrible.
I had never asked what battle she was fighting.
“What happened?” I asked again.
This time my voice broke slightly.
Maya stayed silent.
Then she looked toward the hospital room behind us.
“I’m sick.”
The words were simple.
Almost too simple.
But they crushed me.
“What do you mean sick?”
She swallowed.
“The doctors found something after the divorce.”
My mind raced.
“What?”
She looked away.
“Cancer.”
The hallway noise disappeared.
I heard nothing.
Not footsteps.
Not voices.
Not machines.
Nothing.
Only that one word.
Cancer.
“Maya…”
I could barely say her name.
She continued quietly.
“They found it a few weeks after we separated.”
My chest tightened.
“A few weeks?”
She nodded.
“I was already going through appointments when the divorce was finalized.”
I stared at her.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
She looked at me with tired eyes.
“What would I have said?”
I opened my mouth.
But nothing came out.
Because I didn’t know.
I honestly didn’t know.
Would I have stayed?
Would I have helped?
Would I have delayed the divorce?
Or would I have still convinced myself that leaving was the right thing?
That question terrified me.
Maya noticed my silence.
“That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“I didn’t want you to stay because you felt guilty.”
I looked away.
The shame came slowly.
Then all at once.
For months, I had thought I was the one who was suffering.
I thought I was trapped in a failing marriage.
I thought leaving was my escape.
But while I was rebuilding my life, Maya had been sitting in hospitals alone.
Getting tests.
Hearing terrible news.
Facing fear.
By herself.
“How long?” I asked.
She hesitated.
“The doctors aren’t sure.”
That answer scared me more than anything.
“What does that mean?”
She rubbed her fingers together nervously.
“It means we’re trying different treatments.”
I noticed something then.
A small bag beside her chair.
Not a suitcase.
Not enough clothes.
Just a small hospital bag.
Like someone who wasn’t planning to stay long.
Or someone who didn’t believe she deserved more.
“Does anyone know?” I asked.
“My parents passed away years ago.”
She paused.
“I didn’t want to worry friends.”
I stared at her.
“You had no one?”
She didn’t answer.
And that silence was an answer.
A painful one.
I felt something break inside me.
Because I suddenly remembered all the times she had asked:
“Are you coming home early tonight?”
And I had said:
“Probably not.”
All the times she cooked dinner and waited.
All the times she tried to talk.
And I responded with:
“I’m tired, Maya.”
I thought about the last month before our divorce.
She had become quieter.
I assumed she was giving up on us.
But maybe…
Maybe she wasn’t giving up.
Maybe she was running out of strength.
“Maya,” I whispered.
She looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
Her expression changed slightly.
Not anger.
Not sadness.
Just confusion.
“For what?”
For everything.
The words were in my head.
But I couldn’t say them.
Because an apology felt too small.
Too late.
“I should have noticed.”
Her eyes softened.
“Arjun…”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“I should have seen something was wrong.”
She looked down.
“We were both unhappy.”
“But I left you alone.”
The truth felt heavy.
She didn’t argue.
That somehow hurt even more.
After a long silence, she said:
“Do you remember our first apartment?”
The question surprised me.
“Yes.”
“The tiny one?”
I almost smiled.
“The one with the broken heater?”
She nodded.
“And the kitchen light that always flickered.”
A small smile appeared on her face.
“You hated that place.”
“I didn’t hate it.”
“You did.”
I looked at her.
Then admitted:
“Maybe a little.”
She smiled faintly.
“But you always came home.”
That sentence stayed between us.
Because she was right.
Back then, life wasn’t perfect.
But we were together.
We had nothing.
And somehow we were happy.
Until we started chasing a version of life that kept moving further away.
“Maya…”
I didn’t know what I was trying to say.
I wanted to apologize.
I wanted to promise things.
I wanted to fix something that might already be impossible.
But she interrupted gently.
“Don’t.”
I froze.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make promises because you feel sorry for me.”
Her eyes filled slightly.
“I don’t want pity, Arjun.”
“I don’t pity you.”
“Then what do you feel?”
I had no answer.
Because the truth was complicated.
I felt guilt.
Fear.
Regret.
And something else I didn’t want to admit.
Something that had never completely disappeared.
Love.
Before I could speak, a nurse came toward us.
“Mrs. Sharma?”
Maya looked up.
“Yes?”
“The doctor is ready to see you.”
She nodded.
The nurse looked at me.
“Family?”
The question hit harder than expected.
I opened my mouth.
But Maya answered first.
“He’s my ex-husband.”
The nurse gave a polite nod and walked away.
Those words followed me.
Ex-husband.
A title that felt unbearable now.
Maya slowly stood.
Her body weakened slightly.
I immediately reached out to help her.
This time, she didn’t refuse.
As we walked toward the consultation room, I noticed something on her wrist.
A hospital band.
And beneath it…
A faded bracelet I had given her years ago.
The one she said she would never remove.
Even after everything.
Even after me.
Inside the doctor’s office, we sat across from a man holding a folder.
He looked at me.
Then at Maya.
Then he sighed.
“Mr. Arjun, I assume you’re here because you now know.”
I nodded.
The doctor opened the file.
“Maya has been very brave.”
My stomach tightened.
Those words were never a good sign.
“Her condition requires immediate attention.”
I looked at Maya.
She stared at the floor.
The doctor continued:
“But there is something else you need to understand.”
He paused.
“Treatment will be difficult.”
“How difficult?” I asked.
The doctor looked directly at me.
“Difficult enough that she should not be facing it alone.”
Maya closed her eyes.
And in that moment, I finally understood.
She hadn’t called me.
She hadn’t asked for help.
She hadn’t wanted me to know.
Because somewhere deep inside…
She still believed I had already chosen to leave her.
The doctor’s next sentence changed everything.
“Mr. Arjun, if you are truly willing to support her, she needs someone who will stay.”
I looked at Maya.
The woman I once promised forever.
The woman I abandoned when forever became difficult.
And for the first time in two months…
I knew exactly what I wanted to do.
I wanted to stay.
But before I could say it…
Maya whispered:
“Arjun, you don’t understand.”
I turned toward her.
Her eyes were full of tears.
“There’s something else.”
I felt my heart stop.
“What?”
She took a shaky breath.
Then she said:
“The reason I’m in this hospital…”
May you like
She looked down.
“Is because the cancer isn’t the only thing I’m fighting.”
