The days blurred together as Ayaan's condition worsened. The disease drained him in ways he never anticipated. His pride and independence became distant memories as he struggled with the simplest of tasks.
But Zoya... she was constant.
She was there every morning, even before the sun rose. She prepared his meals, adjusted his medication, and sat with him through the long hours of his fatigue. He could see it in her eyes - the worry she tried to hide, the care she poured into every small action, the soft smiles she gave when she thought he wasn't looking.
He noticed everything.
When he woke up early one morning to find her curled up in a chair beside his bed, her hand still resting on his arm, a soft breath escaped him. Zoya's love wasn't flashy or loud. It didn't demand attention. It simply existed - steady, unwavering, a quiet force.
---
One evening, after dinner, Zoya began reading to him. She'd chosen a simple novel, one she thought might distract him from the pain, but he wasn't listening to the story. Instead, his gaze was fixed on her - the way her lips moved, the way her voice softened with each sentence.
Ayaan had always believed love to be a battle, a fight that either won or lost. But Zoya's love wasn't a battle. It was a surrender - one that had nothing to do with giving up, and everything to do with giving.
---
She didn't ask for anything in return. And he hated that.
He hated the vulnerability it forced upon him. He hated that, no matter how much he tried to distance himself, she remained by his side. She wasn't just his wife - she had become his strength, his anchor in a storm of self-loathing and confusion.
Ayaan's pride had never allowed him to accept help, let alone kindness. Yet, Zoya had pushed past all of that, offering him not pity, but companionship, not sympathy, but loyalty.
---
One afternoon, as the sun set and the sky turned shades of pink and gold, Ayaan found himself struggling to stand. He had an important meeting to attend - one he couldn't afford to miss. His fingers trembled as he buttoned his shirt, but the effort drained him.
Zoya appeared in the doorway, her eyes soft yet resolute. "You're not going anywhere," she said, her voice steady.
"I have to," he protested weakly. "I can't leave it. It's too important."
"You're not well enough, Ayaan," she replied, crossing the room and taking his arm gently. "You can't keep pushing yourself. You need to rest."
Her hands were warm. Her touch was healing. He didn't want to admit it, but her words were the only thing grounding him. He hadn't realized how much he needed her presence, how much he relied on her steady, quiet devotion until that moment.
---
He wanted to pull away. He wanted to push her out and go back to his old self. But the truth was, he was too tired to fight anymore. And in the deepest part of him, the part that he kept hidden from the world, he realized that he didn't want to fight her love.
So, for the first time in a long time, he let her care for him without resistance.
---
As she helped him back to bed, she whispered, "You don't have to do this alone, Ayaan."
His heart tightened, but he said nothing.
She was right. He didn't have to.
And for the first time in months, he allowed himself to believe it.