Vikram Singh Rathore checked his watch. 11:17 AM.
Fourteen minutes since the email. Fourteen minutes since Isha Sharma became a signed author. Fourteen minutes since his phone buzzed with Rahul's text: _She did it. 11:03. Go. She needs you._
He didn't need to be told. He was already moving.
The black Mercedes was parked three feet from the chawl gate. Always three feet. Close enough to reach. Far enough to watch. That was his rule. His penance. His promise.
He slid into the driver's seat. The engine purred. Expensive. Quiet. Like him.
His phone was on the passenger seat. Screen up. Isha's contact open. Last message: _Vikram: Saw it. 11:03:14. You're clear. Sign. I'm outside. Three feet._
He hadn't gone inside. Not yet. He wanted to give her a minute. With Sunita. With the ladoo. With the moment.
Now the minute was over.
He put the car in gear. His hand was steady. Always steady. He'd driven through riots in Udaipur. Through floods in Mumbai. Through gunfire for Rahul's father.
He'd never driven through this.
Joy.
It made his hands feel... wrong. Like they belonged to someone else. Someone who got to be happy.
He pulled onto the main road. Dombivli East. Traffic was light. Thursday. Mid-morning. The world was at work. Or school. Or sleeping.
His phone rang. Rahul.
"You going?" Rahul didn't do hello.
"Yes."
"Good. Take her to Trident. My card. Order everything. Bill me. No—bill Webnovel. Tell them it's a signing bonus party." A pause. "And Vikram?"
"Sir."
"Don't hover three feet today. Go inside. Sit. Eat poha. She signed a contract. You can sign a truce. With yourself."
Vikram didn't answer. Rahul hung up anyway.
The chawl was seven minutes away. Six if he took the shortcut past the railway crossing. He always took the shortcut. Faster. Efficient.
At 11:23 AM, his phone buzzed again. Unknown number. He ignored it. Probably spam. Or a client. Or Aditya Pratap Singh.
At 11:24 AM, he saw it.
The truck.
It came from the left. The wrong side. The blind side. Red. Eicher. Loaded with steel rods. Too fast. Way too fast. The driver was looking down. Phone. Or sleep. Or drunk.
Vikram's brain did the math in 0.2 seconds.
Speed of truck: 70 kmph.
Distance: 40 feet.
Time to impact: 1.17 seconds.
Survival probability if he stayed straight: 12%.
If he swerved right: 38%. There was a divider. Concrete.
If he swerved left: 61%. There was a thela. Vegetables. An old man.
He chose right.
The Mercedes hit the divider at 54 kmph. The airbag exploded. White. Violent. His ribs knew it first. Crack. Then his head. Windshield. Star pattern. Blood.
The truck didn't stop. It couldn't. Physics. It sheared past, taking the entire left side of the Mercedes with it. Metal screamed. Glass became rain.
The car spun. Once. Twice. Landed on the driver's side. Facing the wrong way. Facing away from the chawl.
Away from three feet.
Silence.
Then sound. All of it. Horns. Screams. The thela-wala yelling "Are koi bachaao!". Feet running. Phones coming out. Not to call. To record.
Vikram was awake. He knew because pain was a language and his body was fluent.
Ribs. Broken. At least three.
Left arm. Wrong angle. Compound fracture. Bone out. Blood out.
Head. Wet. Warm. His vision was doubling. Then tripling. Then dark.
He tried to move. The seatbelt had him. The door was above him. The roof was the floor.
His phone. Where?
There. Passenger seat. Now ceiling. Screen cracked. But lit.
11:26 AM.
A notification. Isha.
_Isha: Vikram? You said you're outside. Ma is asking. Come na. We're cutting ladoo._
He tried to speak. His mouth was full of copper. And something else. A tooth.
He used his good hand. Right. Tapped the screen. Blood on glass. It didn't read. He wiped it on his shirt. Black shirt. Now black-red.
He typed: _C_
The screen went black.
Battery? No. Blood in the charging port.
Outside, someone was yelling. "Mercedes hai! Amir log! Police ko bulao!"
Someone else: "Nahi nahi, ye Rahul Modi ka aadmi hai! Vikram Rathore! News mein aaya tha!"
A third voice, older: "Bachcha, sun raha hai? Hil mat. Ambulance aa rahi hai."
Vikram didn't care about ambulance. He cared about 11:27 AM.
Isha would be waiting. With ladoo. With Sunita. With 4.7K views.
And he was here. Bleeding on a road. Because he chose the divider. Because he didn't take the thela-wala.
Three feet. He'd always kept three feet.
Today, three feet was too far.
---
*11:31 AM. Isha's Chawl.*
Isha was on the balcony. Phone in hand. Dialing Vikram. Again.
"Voicemail," she whispered. "Kyum nahi utha raha?"
Sunita came out. Plate in hand. Four ladoos. "Beta, kya hua? Chehra kyun utra?"
"Vikram. Bola tha bahar hai. Ab phone nahi uthata. Location bhej raha tha... ab band."
Rahul's car pulled up. Not the Rolls. The Audi. Faster. He got out before the driver opened the door. Face wrong. Not smirk. Not calm.
"Isha," he said.
She knew. Before he said it. Women know. Authors know. You write tragedy, you recognize it.
"Accident," Rahul said. One word. It was enough.
Sunita's plate fell. Ladoo rolled. One stopped at Isha's foot. Round. Sweet. Wrong.
"Where?" Isha's voice wasn't hers. It was cold. Like Vikram's.
"Railway crossing. Shortcut wala. Truck. He's..." Rahul swallowed. Rahul Modi didn't swallow. "He's alive. Critical. MGM Hospital. Vashi."
Isha was already running. Sling ignored. Stairs three at a time. Rahul caught her before she fell.
"My car," he said. "Now."
In the car, no one spoke. Isha looked at her phone. 11:34 AM.
The last message. From him. _C_.
C for Congratulations?
C for Coming?
C for Can't?
At 11:47 AM, they reached MGM.
The ICU was on the 3rd floor. Room 3.
A doctor was there. Tired eyes. Blood on her coat. Not his. Others'.
"Family?" she asked.
Rahul stepped up. "I'm his employer. She's..." He looked at Isha.
"I'm his three feet," Isha said. It made no sense. It made all the sense.
The doctor nodded like she understood. Maybe she did.
"Ribs broken. Three. Punctured lung. Left arm, compound fracture. Head trauma. Surgery in 20 minutes. Survival chance..." She hesitated. "60%. He's strong. He chose to hit the divider. Saved a thela-wala. Witnesses said."
Isha closed her eyes. Of course he did. He'd save a stranger. He wouldn't save himself.
"Can I see him? Before?" she asked.
"Two minutes. He's unconscious. But... sometimes they hear."
The room was white. And beeping. And smelling like Dettol and fear.
Vikram was there. Not Vikram. A version. Head bandaged. Face swollen. Left arm in a temp cast, already red. Chest taped. Tubes. Wires.
The three feet between them was gone. She was at his side. Holding his good hand. Right. Cold.
"Hey," she whispered. "You idiot."
No answer. Just beep... beep... beep.
"You were coming to say congratulations na? To me? For contract?" Her voice broke. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to bleed before I can say thank you."
Beep... beep... beep.
"I signed it, Vikram. 11:15 pe. Tere bina. Tu bola tha 'Sign. Then panic.' Maine sign kiya. Ab panic kar rahi hoon. Tu kaha hai?"
His finger moved. Or she imagined it.
"You said three feet. Always three feet. Today you crossed it. Without asking. You can't leave now. Samjha? You owe me poha. With onions. You promised."
The doctor was at the door. "Time."
Isha leaned down. Put her lips near his ear. The ear that had heard 97%, that had heard kidnapping, that had heard "I'm outside".
"Vikram Singh Rathore," she said. "You come back. That's an order. From your topper. From your author. From your..." She stopped.
She kissed his forehead. Above the bandage. Where blood wasn't.
"From yours," she finished. "Come back to your three feet."
They took him.
Isha didn't move. Sunita came. Sat. Didn't speak. Just held her.
Rahul stood at the door. Phone to ear. "I want the truck driver's name. Now. And I want the best surgeon in Mumbai on call. Now. Money is not a problem. Time is."
At 12:03 PM, Isha opened her laptop. ICU waiting room.
She opened a new doc.
She wrote.
Because if she didn't, she'd scream. And if she screamed, she'd never stop....
Author's Note:
I can't breathe😭🖤
I wrote this and now I can't breathe. Vikram... my Vikram...
Trigger Warning: Car accident, blood, hospital scene. If you can't read, skip this chapter. Your mental health first. I understand🫂