wednesday. 2:00 am.
everyone was awake. pretending to sleep, but awake.
reshma was in the bedroom, stabilized but weak. shubham was sitting by the bed, holding her hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth.
gambhir was on the balcony.
smoking. (don't tell ma).
the smoke curled up into the delhi smog, invisible and toxic. just like the situation inside.
he pulled out his phone.
opened chrome. incognito mode.
AML pregnancy chemotherapy risks second trimester chemo fetal toxicity maternal mortality rate leukemia pregnancy india
the search results were a horror show. red text. warning boxes. statistics that looked like death sentences.
high risk of spontaneous abortion. intrauterine growth restriction. maternal septicaemia. cardiac failure.
"idiots," gambhir whispered to the night. "absolute rom-com brain-rotted idiots."
he scrolled.
termination recommended before chemotherapy initiation.
they hadn't done it. clearly. she was showing. maybe 14 weeks? 16?
he looked back through the glass door.
shubham was leaning forward, whispering something to reshma. she smiled. sleepily. touched his cheek.
it was a scene from a movie. beautiful. tender.
gambhir felt sick.
"it's suicide," he muttered. "romantic suicide."
he switched tabs.
opened whatsapp. family group chat: The Extended Family (No Politics).
last message from ma: shubham beta, did you eat? how is bahu? shubham's reply: all good ma. we are sleeping. love you.
lies.
digital footprints of a fake life.
gambhir's thumb hovered over the keyboard.
he could end this. right now. one message. ma, shubham is lying. reshma has cancer. she is pregnant. they are broke. come to delhi. bring mama. bring ambulance.
it would save them. physically. it would destroy them. emotionally.
shubham would never forgive him. reshma... reshma would probably hate him till her last breath.
but she would have more breaths.
wouldn't she?
he typed: Ma, need to talk. Urgent.
stared at it.
didn't press send.
he watched shubham inside. shubham, who used to cry when he scraped his knee. shubham, who was now holding a dying wife and an unborn child and standing against the whole world.
"when did you get so brave, bhai?" gambhir asked the glass. "and so stupid?"
he deleted the message.
for now.
he went back inside. quiet. ghost-like.
he stood at the bedroom door.
"bhai."
shubham looked up. eyes hollow.
"is she okay?"
"sleeping," shubham said.
"bhai. i looked it up. the risks."
"i know the risks, gambhir."
"do you? do you really? because the stats say—"
"stats say she should be dead already," shubham cut him off. voice low. fierce. "stats said 6 months. doctor said maybe 12 now. stats say abortion is safer. she said no. she said she wants to 'choose'. she wants to leave something behind."
gambhir stared.
"she's choosing a legacy over her life."
"she thinks she's losing the life anyway," shubham said. tears standing in his eyes. "she wants this. gambhir... i can't take this away from her. it's the only thing making her eyes light up."
"it's draining her blood, bhai. literally."
"i know." shubham looked at reshma. "i feed her sahjan. i make her eat iron. i'll give her my blood if i have to."
"that's not how medicine works."
"that's how love works."
gambhir slumped against the doorframe. defeated by illogical, stubborn, suicidal love.
"you're both crazy."
"yeah."
"i should tell ma."
"please don't."
"i should."
"gambhir. please."
gambhir looked at his cousin. the desperation. the exhaustion. the hope.
he sighed.
"go to sleep, bhai. i'll check her vitals in the morning."
shubham nodded. "thanks. for... not sending whatever you were typing."
gambhir froze. "how did you—"
"i know you. you're the anti-matter. you try to balance the equation."
gambhir huffed. a half-laugh.
"go to sleep, mosshead."
he walked away. back to the couch.
he didn't send the message.
but he took a screenshot of the search results. and saved it.
keep the evidence. just in case.
(Speaker: bro code holding by a thread. logic screaming in one ear, romance whispering in the other. gambhir is the audience surrogate right now. screaming 'don't go in the basement!' while the protagonists run straight down the stairs holding hands.)