.
The room was quiet, except for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor.
Kabita lay still on the hospital bed, covered in white sheets so clean they felt unreal. Her face was pale but peaceful. A tube trailed from her nose. Machines flanked both sides of her like silent guards. An IV drip ticked slowly. A ventilator hummed beside her, breathing in and out like a substitute soul.
Rajan sat in the corner, silent.
He had been there for three hours, unmoving. At first, he'd sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded, eyes scanning her face for any signs of life. A twitch. A flutter. Anything. But there was nothing. She looked like a wax doll shaped from old memories.
He didn't know what he expected. Miracles weren't in his vocabulary anymore. But something had pulled him here—some cruel thread of destiny that didn't want to let him forget.
Outside the room, he heard muffled voices.
A man's voice—tense, angry. A woman's—choked with tears.
Rajan stood slowly, walked to the door, and opened it just a crack.
Kabita's parents were outside, speaking to the doctor.
"We've tried everyone!" her mother sobbed. "All the donors we checked—none match her blood type!"
The doctor's face was calm but firm. "Her condition is stable for now, but it won't remain that way. Her heart's function is deteriorating rapidly. The only long-term solution is a transplant. If we don't find a match soon…"
"She's AB-negative," her father interrupted. "One of the rarest types. It's like searching for a ghost."
"There is a national registry," the doctor said, "but even if we find a match, it could take weeks. Maybe months."
Kabita's mother collapsed onto the waiting bench, her face buried in her hands. "She's all we have…"
Rajan's breath caught.
He stepped back from the door, heart pounding.
The words echoed in his mind.
AB-negative. Her heart is failing. No match.
He sat back down beside her.
Kabita.
The girl he had loved in silence.
The girl who lived a life ten worlds above his.
The girl who had never asked for his love…
…and who would never know the price of it.
His eyes traced her features—softer now without makeup, without the walls she built around herself in the world outside.
He remembered her voice.
Her laughter.
The way she handed him the keychain that day.
The way she smiled like she was throwing stars into the sky and didn't care who caught them.
And now—here she was.
Silent. Slipping away.
And there he was.
The one person who could save her.
---
He left the room like a man walking into his own grave.
He went straight to the doctor's office. No hesitation. No fear.
The doctor looked up when he entered.
"I want to talk to you," Rajan said. "About the transplant."
The doctor studied him, puzzled. "Are you a relative?"
"No," Rajan replied, voice steady. "But I'm AB-negative. And I'm willing."
The room fell silent.
The doctor leaned forward slowly. "Are you saying… you want to donate your heart?"
"Yes."
The doctor blinked. "Do you understand what that means?"
"I do."
"You're talking about a direct donation. That's only done if the donor is brain-dead or—"
"Or willing to give up their life for it," Rajan finished. "I know."
The doctor sat back in stunned silence.
"I need to do this," Rajan said. "She doesn't have time. And she deserves to live."
"Are you sure you're not related? A fiancé, perhaps? A—"
"No. She doesn't even know I'm here."
The doctor exhaled. "It's not that simple. Even if you're a match, there are procedures, evaluations, ethics committees. We can't accept an offer like this lightly."
"I don't care how long it takes," Rajan said. "But if the day comes… if you have no other option… promise me you'll consider it."
The doctor stared at him for a long moment.
Finally, he nodded. "Give us your contact. And get tested again. If it's confirmed, we'll let you know."
---
Outside the hospital, the sky was turning amber.
Rajan stood at the gate, watching people rush past. Cars honked. Vendors shouted. Life moved on.
But for him, something had stopped.
He wasn't afraid. Death didn't scare him. Not anymore.
He had lived in silence. He had loved in silence.
If he could give in silence… maybe that would finally mean something.
He thought about her waking up.
Breathing.
Living.
Maybe marrying someone else. Maybe forgetting him forever.
That was okay.
Because love, true love, didn't always need a name.
It just needed a heartbeat.
And he still had one left to give.
.
.
The hospital air always smelled the same—sanitizer, steel, and sadness.
Rajan returned every day.
Sometimes just for an hour. Sometimes for entire nights. No one stopped him anymore. The nurses nodded. The security guards offered him tea. He'd become a silent part of the place, like one of the machines. Quiet. Necessary. Unseen.
Kabita remained unconscious, untouched by time. The only thing that changed was the frequency of the alarms. Her heart was getting weaker. The machine rhythms grew more frantic, as if urging her to hold on a little longer.
But time was running out.
The doctor called Rajan in again after a week. They had rechecked everything.
"You're a perfect match," he said. "Physically. Biologically. But this isn't just about compatibility. It's about consent. About why."
Rajan said nothing.
The doctor leaned forward. "You're young. You're healthy. You have an entire life ahead. I need to know this is not a spur-of-the-moment decision. Not made from guilt. Or fantasy."
Rajan's lips curled in the faintest smile.
"I've loved her since I was nineteen," he said. "And she never even looked at me the way I looked at her. I never expected her to. I just… wanted her to be okay. That was always enough."
The doctor hesitated. "We still have to go through ethics panels. Psychological evaluations. You'll be required to sign a full release. And even then—it's an incredibly rare approval. Voluntary heart donation from a living donor is… almost unheard of."
"I don't want the world to hear of it," Rajan replied. "I want her to live."
The doctor leaned back, studying him with quiet awe. "You're either the most reckless man I've met… or the purest."
"I'm just tired of watching her fade."
---
The evaluations began.
Psychologists asked him about his childhood. His education. His loneliness. His memories of her. They asked about trauma, about suicidal thoughts, about motivations.
He answered everything honestly.
No, he didn't want to die.
Yes, he knew what he was giving up.
No, he didn't believe she owed him anything in return.
Yes, he had thought it through.
They were skeptical. Some said he was delusional. One asked him if he was trying to "buy love with martyrdom."
He didn't argue.
Eventually, the final approval came.
One of the panelists—an elderly woman with gray eyes—called him aside afterward.
"I once had a brother," she said. "He died for someone he loved. We thought he was a fool. But now… I think he was the bravest of us."
Rajan nodded.
"Will you write something?" she asked gently. "For her? In case… she wakes up?"
---
That night, Rajan sat by Kabita's bedside and pulled out a notebook. The room was still. The only sound was the ticking of the monitor and the breath of the ventilator.
He wrote slowly.
---
To Kabita,
By the time you read this, I may not be here anymore. Or maybe you'll never read this at all. Maybe someone will forget to give it to you, or throw it away, or it'll get lost under a drawer like so many forgotten things.
But I need to write it anyway.
Because this… this is the last thing I have to give.
I've loved you since I was nineteen. Maybe before that. I never told you, because it wouldn't have changed anything for you—and it would have changed everything for me.
You were light. I was shadow. You were sky. I was ground.
But you smiled at me once. Gave me a keychain with a crane in it. Do you remember? Maybe not.
I remember.
I remember thinking, for just one day, that maybe someone like me mattered.
Then I saw you kiss someone else.
And I realized: I would never belong in your world.
But still—I watched from afar. Like someone watches the moon, knowing they can never touch it.
I thought that was the end.
But fate—fickle, cruel, beautiful fate—brought you back to me again.
And this time, it asked me to choose.
I can't give you flowers. Or diamonds. Or promises of a future.
All I can give you now… is the one thing I have left.
My heart.
It's yours. Not in the poetic way people say. But literally. In flesh and blood.
You won't remember me, maybe. Or you'll only remember a quiet boy from college. But if you ever feel something strange when you wake up—a rhythm that doesn't feel like your own, a warmth you can't explain—that's me.
That's my love, still beating for you.
Live, Kabita.
Live beautifully.
That's all I ever wanted.
—Rajan
---
He folded the letter and slipped it into the notebook, placing it gently on the bedside table.
Then he leaned down and kissed her forehead.
"I hope you never find out it was me," he whispered. "Because if you do… it means I'm gone."
---
The surgery was scheduled for the following week.
It would be risky. It would be fast.
It would be his last.
And he was ready.
.
.
.
The light burned behind her eyelids—soft at first, then slowly growing.
Voices echoed like whispers through water.
"…vitals are holding steady…"
"…she's coming out of it…"
"…miracle…"
Kabita's eyelids fluttered. Her fingers twitched.
A sudden breath surged through her lungs like lightning, and her body jerked forward, pulling the machines into a panic.
Alarms. Beeps. Movement.
Her mother screamed.
"She's awake! Doctor! She's—"
Kabita's eyes opened. At first, everything was blurry—white walls, swinging shadows, movement too fast to follow.
And then… the pain.
A dull pressure in her chest, like something too large had been placed inside a space too small. She couldn't speak. Her throat was raw. Her lips dry.
"Don't move," said a calm voice—a nurse. "You've been through surgery. You're okay. You're safe."
Her mind spun in chaos.
What surgery? Where am I? What happened?
But her body couldn't keep up with the questions. It dragged her back into sleep, even as the faces around her blurred into tears and relief.
---
The next time she woke up, the world was slower.
Still white. Still sterile. Still strange.
But now, her mother was beside her, holding her hand like it was the only thread keeping reality stitched together.
"Ma…" she croaked.
Her mother burst into sobs. "You're awake. Thank God, you're awake."
Her father stood at the foot of the bed, eyes red. Even he—stoic and silent all her life—had cracked under the weight of the past weeks.
Kabita looked between them, throat tight. "What… happened?"
"You fainted at the airport," her father said gently. "Your heart stopped. You've been in a coma for two weeks. They said… they said it was impossible. Your blood type was so rare. They didn't think they could save you."
"But someone did," her mother added, gripping her tighter. "Someone gave you a heart."
Kabita blinked.
"A transplant?" she whispered.
Her father nodded. "A full transplant. And… it worked. You're alive, beta. You're alive."
---
The days passed in a blur of recovery.
Doctors checked her every hour. Nurses guided her through small exercises—first sitting up, then moving her legs, then walking short distances with trembling steps. Her body had forgotten everything, but her spirit burned like a wick fighting back darkness.
But in the quiet moments—between medication and meals—she touched her chest.
The heartbeat was new.
Not just in rhythm. In feeling.
It was softer, stronger. It felt like… someone else was living inside her.
She didn't understand why. But it made her cry when no one was looking.
---
A week later, when she was strong enough, she asked again.
"Who donated it?"
Her parents exchanged glances.
"We don't know," her mother said. "No one told us."
Kabita's brows furrowed. "But… someone gave up their heart. They saved me."
"Yes," her father said, voice heavy. "The doctors only said… he insisted on staying anonymous."
He.
She sat still. Her hands curled around the edge of her blanket.
"Did he… die?"
A long silence.
Her mother nodded slowly. "Yes. He… gave everything."
Kabita looked down. Her vision blurred again.
She didn't understand why she felt like she had lost something—someone—when she had just been given a new chance to live.
---
Two more weeks passed.
The press had begun circling the story. A beautiful young woman—an air hostess—brought back from death by an unknown donor. Doctors called it "a miracle." Some called it "a love story written in blood."
Kabita hated the attention. She hated not knowing.
She couldn't sleep. She kept waking up in the middle of the night, hand over her chest, feeling that strange heartbeat like it was trying to speak a language she didn't know.
The doctors allowed her to move into a recovery suite—a room with soft lights, a couch, and privacy. Her parents stayed close.
And every day, she asked the same question.
"Who was he?"
But no one could answer.
---
One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the room in warm gold, a young nurse walked in with her chart.
She looked nervous.
Kabita watched her for a moment. "You know something, don't you?"
The nurse hesitated.
"I… don't know his name," she said. "But I was there. When he came in. He… wasn't like anyone else."
Kabita's heart raced.
"He was calm," the nurse whispered. "He never flinched. He just said, 'If she dies, something inside me dies with her.' Then he smiled. A sad, small smile. And said, 'This is the only way I'll ever be close to her heart.'"
Tears welled up in Kabita's eyes.
"Did he leave anything?" she asked. "A letter? A message?"
The nurse shook her head. "We searched his file. But… there was nothing."
---
What no one knew—what not even the doctors realized—was that Rajan had burned the letter he wrote.
Two days before the operation, he had gone to the hospital roof.
He pulled out the notebook, stared at it, and then struck a match.
The fire crackled softly as the pages curled and blackened.
He watched the words disappear into ash and wind.
He couldn't let her know.
Because love was only love when it asked for nothing in return.
---
Kabita sat alone that night.
The windows were open. The stars shone faintly.
She sat with her hands over her heart, listening.
"I don't know who you are," she whispered. "But… I feel you."
No name.
No face.
Only a pulse in her chest that didn't belong to her…
…yet somehow felt like home.