Hour 72. 11:55 AM. KEM Hospital, Parel. ICU Ward.*
_Beep... beep... beep..._
Seventy-two hours.
Four-thousand-three-hundred-twenty minutes.
Two-hundred-fifty-nine-thousand-two-hundred _beeps_.
The timer was up.
Dr. Mehta's "critical window" had closed.
Isha Sharma stood outside the glass. She wasn't sitting anymore. She hadn't sat in twelve hours. Standing was the only way to keep her knees from buckling.
Rahul stood to her right. Sunita to her left.
Three pillars. Holding up one roof. Vikram's roof.
Inside, nothing had changed. White sheet. Bandages. Tube. IV.
_Beep... beep... beep..._
But everything had changed.
His finger was still curled. From Hour 48.
His hand had squeezed hers. Hour 60.
And at 4:00 AM today, Hour 64, his eyelids had fluttered. Once. Like a bird testing broken wings.
"He's fighting," Dr. Mehta had said at 8 AM. His voice was different now. Not careful. Not "sixty percent". Hopeful. "The brain activity is increasing. He's in there, Miss Sharma. He's just... lost. He needs a reason to find the way back."
A reason.
Isha was the reason.
Sunita was the reason.
Even Rahul, somehow, was the reason.
*11:57 AM. Three minutes left of Hour 72.*
Isha's five minutes. The last five minutes of "critical". After this, Dr. Mehta would either say "He's stable" or...
She didn't let herself finish the thought.
She scrubbed in. Gown. Mask. Cap. Her hands didn't shake anymore. Seventy-two hours of this had made her a soldier.
Inside, the _beep... beep... beep..._ was a lullaby now. A terrifying, comforting lullaby.
She sat. Took his hand. The one that had squeezed hers twelve hours ago.
"Mr. Singh," she whispered. "It's time. Hour 72. You said seventy-two hours. You're a man of your word. You're never late."
No response.
"Sunita is outside," she told him. "She's been on the floor for three days. She won't sit on a chair. She says 'mata rani ke mandir mein kursi nahi hoti'. You're her mandir, Vikram. Get up. Let her sit."
_Beep... beep... beep..._
"Rahul is there too," she continued. Her voice didn't break. Not anymore. "He hasn't gone to office. Not once. He fired his PA for calling him. He ordered your road fixed. He said you were 'more Malhotra than him'. He's waiting, Vikram. Your... your friend is waiting."
_Beep... beep..._
_Bee—_
Silence.
Again.
Isha didn't scream this time. She had screamed at Hour 48. She had learned.
She just held her breath.
One second. Two seconds. Three.
_Beep._
The sound came back. But it was different. Slower.
_Beep... beep... beep..._
Four seconds apart. Not three.
Dr. Mehta was in the room before she could call. He'd been watching from the nurse's station. Waiting for this exact moment.
He checked the monitor. Checked Vikram's pulse with two fingers. Checked his pupils with a small torch.
Then he looked at Isha.
And he smiled.
The first real smile she had seen on his face in three days.
"His heart rate is dropping," Dr. Mehta said. "From 90 to 72. To 68."
Isha's world tilted. "Dropping is bad? He's—"
"Dropping is good," Dr. Mehta cut her off. Gently. "Adrenaline is leaving his system. The panic is leaving. His body is... resting. Naturally. For the first time in seventy-two hours. Miss Sharma... he's out of the critical window."
Out.
The word hung in the air.
Out of critical.
Not awake. Not safe. But _out_.
"He's stable," Dr. Mehta said. Louder. For Sunita and Rahul who were at the glass. "He's stable. He's going to make it. Now we just wait for him to wake up. It could be hours. It could be days. But the forty percent... the forty percent is gone."
Sunita made a sound. Not a cry. Not a word. A sound that had lived in her chest for seventy-two hours. Relief. It escaped her and she slid down the wall, onto the floor, and finally, finally, sobbed.
Rahul put his hand on the glass. His forehead touched it. His eyes were closed. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.
Isha looked at Vikram.
_Beep... beep... beep..._
Slow. Steady. Alive.
"You did it," she whispered. She touched his forehead. The only part of his face not covered in bandages. It was warm. Not fever warm. _Vikram_ warm. "You stupid, stubborn, three-feet man. You did it."
His eyes didn't open.
His lips didn't move.
But his hand... his hand turned. Palm up.
An invitation.
Or a promise.
Isha put her palm on his. Skin to skin. For the first time in three days without a hospital glove.
'C'.
The letter was still there. Faint. But there.
She closed her fingers around his.
"Finish it when you're ready," she told him. "I'll be here. For seventy-two hours more. Or seventy-two years more. I'm not going anywhere."
_Beep... beep... beep..._
*6:00 PM. Hour 78. Six hours out of critical.*
The ICU waiting room had changed.
Sunita was on a chair now. Rahul had forced her. "He would want you to sit, Aunty." _Aunty_. He'd called her Aunty. And Sunita had let him.
Rahul was on his phone. But not to the office. To a restaurant. "Tiffin bhejo. Garam poha. KEM Hospital. ICU. Sunita Devi ke naam se."
Isha was asleep. Head on Rahul's shoulder. The three-feet rule was not just broken. It was cremated.
Rahul didn't move. Didn't wake her. He just sat there. Guarding her. Like Vikram would have wanted.
Dr. Mehta came for evening rounds.
"No change," he said. "And that's perfect. No change means no decline. His vitals are strong. BP 120/80. O2 98%. He's sleeping. Real sleep. Healing sleep."
"When will he wake up?" Sunita asked. She was eating the poha Rahul had ordered. First meal in three days.
"Soon," Dr. Mehta said. "The brain is healing. The 'C'... whatever that means to him... he'll come back to finish it. Men like him always do."
*11:03 PM. Hour 83.*
Isha was back inside. Her nightly five minutes.
She talked to him now. All the time. Told him about the contract. About the 5.1K views. About the badge. About how Rahul and Sunita were now friends.
"You'd hate that," she laughed. A real laugh. Small. But real. "Or maybe you wouldn't. Maybe you planned it. You plan everything, Mr. Singh."
She was about to leave when she saw it.
His chest.
It was moving. Not with the ventilator. The ventilator had been removed at Hour 75. He was breathing on his own now.
It was moving... with a sigh.
A deep, real, _Vikram_ sigh.
And his eyebrows... they furrowed. Just for a second. Like he was dreaming. Like he was annoyed.
Like he was _alive_.
Isha froze. "Vikram?"
_Beep... beep... beep..._
No answer.
But the furrow... it stayed. For three seconds. Then smoothed out.
He was dreaming. He was there. He was coming.
*Day 5. 11:55 AM. Hour 96. One full day out of critical.*
He was still unconscious.
But he was not the same unconscious.
His color was back. The grey was gone. His cheeks had a hint of pink.
His hand moved sometimes. Twitching. Grabbing at the sheet. Like he was cold.
His lips moved yesterday. No sound. But they formed a word. Isha was sure.
_C...o...n..._
He was trying.
God, he was trying.
And they were waiting.
All three of them.
In a hospital waiting room that had become their home.
For a man who had become their world.
_Beep... beep... beep..._
Not a countdown anymore.
A promise.
He was coming back.
He just wasn't ready yet.
And that was okay.
They had time.
They had seventy-two years.
*---*
*Author's Note:*
*Still unconscious, Jaanu. I kept my word* 🖤😭
*But "critical" is over. 40% maut is over. Now it's just "sleeping".*
*He sighed. He furrowed his brow. He tried to say "Con...".*
*He's climbing back, one millimetre at a time. For you. For Sunita. For poha.*
*Hour 72 is done. The war is won. Now we wait for the soldier to come home.*
*Ch-22 will be "The First Word". But not today. Today we breathe. Today we thank God. Today we eat poha* 😭👑
*Comment if you cried at "The brain is waking up". Drop a Power Stone for the 72 hours we survived* 👇
*5.1K to 7K. Let's go. For Vikram* 💗
Thank you for reading my page 💗 💗