The automatic doors swallowed her father and the surgical team, leaving a freezing, echoing emptiness behind. Zarah stood there long after they'd disappeared — chest heaving, tears still streaking her face, arms limp at her sides.
Silence.
Not peaceful silence — suffocating silence. The kind that felt like waiting for a bomb to go off.
Aishah gently tugged her sleeve. "Zee... let's sit."
Zarah nodded, barely registering her own movement as she followed her sister into the waiting area — dull green chairs, bad lighting, a vending machine humming too loudly. Hospitals didn't care about comfort. They cared about survival.
Her mother was already seated, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through her phone like the world wasn't collapsing. Her voice cut through the air.
"You should be thanking him instead of embarrassing yourself." She didn't look up. "God knows you could never afford that bill."
Aishah flinched. Zarah didn't.
She didn't have the energy.
She wasn't even sure she had a pulse.
Alex was standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, gaze lowered — giving them space without disappearing. Present, but not intruding. The most intentional kind of care.
A nurse approached with a clipboard. "He's been taken into surgery. It may take several hours. We'll keep you updated."
"Thank you," Alex answered before anyone else could.
Zarah sank into a chair, elbows on her knees, fingers pressed to her forehead. Aishah sat beside her, rubbing her back in small, shaky circles.
Her mother scoffed. "This is what happens when a man refuses to listen to his wife. Investing everything into a failing business, then we suffer." Her tone sharpened. "And you two think working part-time and running around is enough? Shameful."
Zarah lifted her head — slowly, like gravity was thicker around her. Her voice was low, exhausted, done. "Mom... not now."
"Why not now?" her mother snapped. "Maybe now you'll learn responsibility. You come home late, acting like you're important. You think your tiny job can sustain a family? You're delusional."
Aishah grabbed Zarah's hand, pleading. "Please don't—"
But Zarah stood anyway.
Not dramatic. Not loud. Just... steady.
She faced her mother fully for the first time since arriving. Her heartbeat didn't race — she was too tired for adrenaline. Too broken for fear.
"You don't get to talk about responsibility," she said quietly. "Not when Dad is fighting for his life. Not when Aishah is doing everything to stay strong. Not when you're more worried about assigning blame than praying he survives."
Her mother's eyes widened — offended, shocked, insulted.
Zarah continued — voice still calm, but sharp enough to bleed. "We are not children anymore. And we're not your punching bags. So if you can't sit here without tearing someone down, go outside."
Aishah's breath hitched. Even the vending machine seemed to pause.
Her mother opened her mouth, but for once, no words came out.
Alex watched — not interfering, not rescuing — just witnessing. Respectfully. Quietly. Proudly.
Zarah sat back down, chest rising and falling slowly, hands trembling. Aishah leaned her head on Zarah's shoulder, whispering, "Thank you."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then — a soft rustle of footsteps.
Alex approached, stopping in front of them, voice gentle, almost hesitant. "Can I get you both water? Food? Coffee? Anything?"
Zarah looked up, eyes red, lashes wet. She swallowed, trying to steady her voice. "You don't... have to stay."
"I know," he said. "But I'm not leaving."
And somehow, that simple sentence cracked something open — not painful this time, but relieving.
She didn't respond — she didn't need to.
He sat beside her, close enough to feel present, far enough not to overwhelm. Their shoulders didn't touch, but the space between them felt intentional — like a promise.
Time dragged — minutes felt like hours, hours felt like days. Nurses moved in and out, the receptionist switched shifts, the sun dipped behind the city skyline. Still no update.
At some point, Aishah fell asleep with her head in Zarah's lap. Their mother stepped outside to take a phone call, voice loud and irritated. The waiting room emptied, then refilled, then emptied again.
But Alex stayed — coat draped over the back of his chair, tie loosened, eyes fixed on the surgical doors like he could will them open.
Zarah watched him quietly — the way he sat forward, elbows on his knees, jaw tense with concern. He wasn't restless, or bored, or inconvenienced.
He was scared too — for her.
She didn't know what to do with that.
A slow tear slipped down her cheek — silent, unannounced.
Alex noticed immediately. "Hey..." he whispered. "Talk to me."
She exhaled shakily. "I'm trying so hard not to fall apart."
He leaned closer — voice steady, unshakable. "You don't have to try with me."
Her throat tightened so painfully she almost gasped.
For the first time since yesterday, she let herself breathe — deeply, fully, like coming up for air.
The surgical doors finally opened.
A surgeon stepped out, removing his cap, expression unreadable.
Everyone stood at once — Zarah, Aishah, their mother, Alex.
The world held its breath.
"How is he?" Zarah asked, voice barely audible.
The doctor exhaled softly. "The surgery was successful. He's stable. He'll need time, monitoring, and rehabilitation — but he made it."
Zarah didn't cry immediately — she just closed her eyes and inhaled, like her soul needed proof first.
Aishah burst into tears. Her mother's hand flew to her chest, whispering prayers under her breath.
Zarah opened her eyes — glossy, relieved, shaking — and met Alex's gaze.
He smiled, small and warm and exhausted. "Told you he'd be okay."
That was it — the moment her knees almost gave out.
She stepped forward — not thinking, not calculating — and Alex caught her instantly, arms wrapping around her, steady and sure.
She didn't collapse.
She didn't shatter.
She just... rested.
For the first time in 48 hours.