I had never imagined I would see her there—wearing a pale hospital gown, sitting silently in a corner of a long corridor among dozens of exhausted faces and glassy eyes, looking as if the whole world had abandoned her.
And in that moment, it felt as if someone had crushed her heart—and mine along with it.

She—my ex-wife, Maya—the woman I had divorced just two months earlier.

My name is Arjun, 34 years old, an ordinary office-going man. We had been married for five years—on the surface, everything looked stable.
Maya—gentle, kind, not extraordinarily attractive, but every time I came home, she brought a sense of peace with her.

Like any couple, we had dreams: buying a home, raising children, building a small family.
But three years into the marriage, after Maya suffered two miscarriages, things began to change.
She became quiet, withdrawn, her eyes often lost somewhere far away. I grew tired—coming home exhausted from work only to find silence, sighs, and distant looks.

I cannot deny my part in it.
I started coming home late, avoiding conversations, using work as an excuse to hide from the growing emptiness between us.
Small arguments became routine. Neither of us wanted to hurt the other… yet we both did.

One day in April, after a small but exhausting argument, I quietly said:

— “Maya, let’s get a divorce.”

She looked at me for a very long time, then said just one sentence:

— “You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”

I nodded.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream.
She simply nodded softly, packed her belongings that same night, and walked out.
The divorce papers were signed quickly, as if we had both been mentally preparing for it for months.

After the divorce, I lived in a rented flat in New Delhi, an ordinary life: work in the morning, drinks or a movie at night.
No one cooked for me, no familiar footsteps in the morning, no soft voice asking, “Did you eat?”
But I refused to feel weak. I convinced myself I had done the right thing—at least, that’s what I believed then.

Two months passed.
I lived like a shadow.
Many nights I woke from nightmares, calling Maya’s name.

One day, I went to AIIMS to visit my best friend Rohit after his surgery. While walking through the Internal Medicine ward, I turned my head and froze.

I saw her.

She was sitting there, wearing a pale blue hospital gown. Her hair was oddly short—she used to love her long hair.
Her face was pale and thin; her eyes looked hollow, lifeless.
An IV drip hung beside her.

My heart stopped.
Questions stormed through my mind: What happened to her? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why was she alone?

I walked toward her with trembling steps.

— “Maya?”

She looked up. Her empty eyes flickered with surprise.

— “You… Arjun?”

— “What are you doing here? What happened to you?”

She avoided my eyes, turned her face away, and whispered:

— “Nothing… just a routine check-up.”

I sat beside her and held her cold hand.

— “Maya, you don’t have to hide anything from me. Not when I’m seeing you like this.”

A long silence passed. Then she finally said softly:

— “I… just found out I have early-stage ovarian cancer. The doctors say it’s treatable… if I follow all procedures. But I have no insurance, no one with me… and after leaving home, I barely have anything left.”

I froze.
Her words stabbed me like a knife.
While I had been living in false peace, she—my wife once, the woman who had slept beside me for years—was quietly suffering.

— “Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice trembled.

— “We were already divorced. I didn’t want to burden you. I thought I could handle it alone.”

I had no words.
Guilt crushed me.

We sat together until evening.
For the first time in months, we talked like a family—no accusations, no pride.

Before leaving, I said:

— “Maya, let me stay with you. Even if we’re not husband and wife anymore, I can’t leave you like this.”

She gave a sad smile.

— “Do you pity me now?”

— “No,” I whispered. “I… I truly love you.”

The next morning, I brought her a box of warm khichdi and some oranges. She looked surprised but didn’t say anything. Maybe she had expected me. Maybe not.

Over the next days, I spent nearly all my time by her side.
I went with her for tests, waited through her treatments, followed every dietary instruction.
I didn’t know why—penance, regret, or because I still loved her.

One afternoon, while I was adjusting her bedsheets, Maya suddenly said:

— “Do you know… I found out I was sick even before the divorce?”

I froze.

— “What?”

— “A week before you asked for a divorce, I had terrible abdominal pain. I got a biopsy.
The results arrived the same day we had that fight.”

I stared at her, stunned—like being punched in the chest.

— “Why didn’t you tell me?”

— “Because I knew… if I told you, you would stay out of responsibility, not love.
I didn’t want that.
I wanted you to be free… at least free from my suffering.”

Tears rolled down my face.

— “Do you think I’m that kind of person? That I feel nothing?”

She looked at me gently and smiled—a calm, heartbreaking smile.

— “It’s not that I didn’t trust you.
I just couldn’t bear the thought of you pretending to be happy, while being tied to a sick woman.”

I couldn’t answer.
Because in some ways, she had been right.
At that time, I truly thought leaving was best.
I had left her to face this cruel world alone.

A week later, her chemotherapy began.
I borrowed a folding bed and stayed in the hospital.
For the first time in years, I learned to actually listen—to her pain, her nausea, her tiny moments of laughter.

One night, while she slept, I found a small envelope in her bag labeled: “If Arjun ever reads this, forgive me.”

I hesitated, then opened it.

Arjun,
If you’re reading this, I probably won’t have the strength to speak.
I know you hated my silence.
I never wanted to burden you.
You didn’t deserve to be dragged into my helplessness.

I became pregnant again. Only briefly.
I didn’t tell you because I was afraid—afraid of failing again, of losing control.
And then it happened… I lost the baby at six weeks.
The doctors said it was because of my weakness and… the tumor.

I asked for a divorce so you could remember me as your Maya, not as a weak woman surrounded by IV bags and antiseptic smells.
But I still love you. That love… I kept it with me.

Even if I could go back, I would still let you go—because you deserve a different life.

Thank you for loving me.

I clutched the letter to my chest, shaking.
Everything she had hidden—another miscarriage, her illness, her decision—was all to protect me.
Yet it shattered me a hundred times more.

A week later, Dr. Kapoor called me into his office.

— “Maya’s condition is worsening.
The tumor isn’t responding well to chemotherapy. We will try other approaches, but the outlook… isn’t favorable.”

My strength vanished.
For the first time in my life, I was terrified of losing someone.

That night, I held her hand.
She had barely any strength left to speak.
I leaned close and whispered:

— “If you can… I want to marry you again.
I don’t care about papers.
I just want to see you every morning, hold your hand every night—for as long as you’re here.
We don’t need a grand beginning… just togetherness.”

Maya touched my cheek gently and gave a faint, tearful smile.

— “I… agree.”

In the days that followed, we had a simple wedding ceremony right there in the hospital room:
a nurse tied a red thread on her wrist, some marigold flowers were brought in as gifts.
No music, no guests—just the beeping of machines and whispered promises.

Three months later, Maya passed away in my arms.
In that short time, we had lived again as husband and wife.
I still keep our old wedding photo… and the letter she left behind—my two sacred treasures.

I don’t cry every night now.
But whenever I walk through the old corridors of AIIMS, I remember that moment—the look on her face when I first saw her—
a moment that changed the rest of my life forever.

In the fast chaos of New Delhi, I still sometimes hear a soft whisper:

“Thank you for loving me.”