Too Late For Goodbye

Hospitals always smelled like sterilized sorrow.

Aanya rushed through the long white corridors, her suitcase bumping behind her, heart pounding like a drum against her ribs. It had been five years since she last saw her family. Five years since she walked away from a life that never really felt hers. But now, her mother was dying—and she was late.

The hallway felt like it stretched forever. Every step she took only made the walls seem taller, whiter, more suffocating. Her breath hitched as she rounded the final corner—and stopped.

There, slouched in a steel chair outside the ICU, was Aarush.

Her twin.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His white shirt was wrinkled, tie hanging loosely around his neck, dark circles sinking beneath his red-rimmed eyes. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He just stared at the tiled floor, hands clasped tightly between his knees.

She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but the words turned to ash on her tongue.

He didn’t look up.

So she walked past him, her chest tightening with every step. She pushed open the ICU doors just as a nurse came out. The woman paused, recognizing her.

“You’re Aanya?” the nurse asked gently.

Aanya nodded, breath shallow.

“I’m sorry. She passed ten minutes ago.”

Ten minutes.

Five years apart. Ten minutes too late.

Aanya stood still, swallowing the lump in her throat. She didn’t cry—not yet. She simply nodded and walked inside.

Her mother lay on the bed, still and pale, wrapped in the thin white blanket that now seemed too large for her small, frail frame. Tubes had been removed. Machines unplugged. Only the silence remained.

Aanya stepped closer, her knees trembling beneath her.

She brushed a hand against her mother’s fingers—still soft, still warm.

“I’m here,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I’m sorry I took so long.”

The silence didn’t answer. It never did.

Memories flickered across her mind—of her mother’s soft hands braiding her hair, of the rare moments she sang lullabies when Aanya couldn’t sleep, of the day she had sent her away without saying goodbye.

There were too many words left unsaid. Too much space between them now.

And all of it was permanent.

---

Two hours later.

Aanya sat in the hospital office, her mother’s documents spread out before her. The nurse handed her forms to sign, explaining the procedures in a voice that sounded like background noise.

“We’ll need a signature for the body release. The cremation slot has been confirmed for tomorrow morning.”

“Yes,” Aanya murmured, signing. “I’ll take care of it.”

Still, no one else had arrived.

No Aaryan. No Abeer. No Aarav.

Just Aarush, who remained exactly where she’d left him—outside the ICU, unmoving, silent, staring into nothing.

She approached him with the file in her hands.

“They’ll be taking her in an hour,” she said, voice steady. “I’ve taken care of everything.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod.

Didn’t even blink.

His silence wasn’t cold—it was shattered.

Aanya stood there for a few seconds longer, waiting for a reaction. When none came, she turned and walked away.

Aarush stood a moment later.

And followed.

Not beside her.

Not behind her.

Just walking with her, like a shadow with no words.

They didn’t speak as the white-sheeted stretcher was wheeled past them.

They didn’t speak as the ambulance pulled away.

And they didn’t speak when the silence between them began to scream.

---

Outside, dusk was settling over the city. The hospital lights flickered on, bathing the street in sterile gold.

Aanya stood by the ambulance, arms crossed, watching the last physical piece of her mother disappear into the back of the van. A hollow ache sat in her chest, deeper than grief. It was disappointment. Anger. Regret.

She should have seen her sooner.

She should have been told sooner.

She should have known her mother was sick at all.

But her brothers hadn’t told her. Not even Aarush. Especially not Aarush.

Aanya turned to him now, her voice low and shaky.

“You knew, didn’t you?”

He blinked, startled.

“You knew she was sick. You all knew. And no one said a damn word.”

Aarush looked at her, his lips parting as if to speak—but no sound came out.

“I’m not a child anymore,” she whispered. “You didn’t have to protect me. You just had to tell me.”

Aarush lowered his gaze, his throat moving as he swallowed hard.

And still, he said nothing.