“I’m here now,” I said fiercely, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “I don’t care about the divorce papers. I don’t care about the past. I am not leaving you alone in this hallway, Maya. I will find the money. I will talk to the doctors. We will fight this together.”
For a split second, a glimmer of hope appeared in her dull eyes. But it was quickly replaced by a profound, heartbreaking exhaustion.
“Arjun, don’t do this to yourself. You don’t owe me anything anymore.”
“I owe you my life,” I said, my voice breaking. “I threw away five years of our marriage because I was a coward who couldn’t handle grief. Please, Maya. Let me be a man for once in my life. Let me stay.”
Before she could answer, a stern-looking doctor in a white lab coat emerged from a nearby consultation room. He held a thick medical chart in his hands, his face grim. He looked at Maya, then noticed me kneeling beside her.
“Mrs. Kovács?” the doctor called out, using her maiden name. He paused, looking at me. “Are you a relative?”
“I’m her husband,” I stood up immediately, correcting him without a second thought. “What’s happening, Doctor?”
The doctor sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He didn’t bother correcting me about our marital status. He looked down at the chart, then back up at us, his eyes filled with a heavy, professional solemnity.
“I’m glad you’re here, sir. We just got the results of the emergency blood panel we ran this morning, as well as the updated donor registry sweep.”
The Breaking Point
The air in the hallway grew cold. Maya gripped my hand tighter, her fingernails digging into my skin. I could feel her heart hammering through her pulse.
“Doctor, please,” I said, bracing myself. “Tell us.”
“The chemotherapy has severely compromised her immune system, and her blast cell count has spiked dramatically over the last forty-eight hours,” the doctor said bluntly. “We don’t have weeks to wait for a international donor match anymore. If we don’t initiate a transplant within the next seventy-two hours, her organs will begin to fail.”
“Seventy-two hours?” My voice was a choked whisper. “But you said you haven’t found a match!”
“We haven’t found a perfect match on the public registry,” the doctor replied, his voice dropping an octave. “However, an hour ago, an emergency partial-match alert came through. There is a potential donor currently in the city who is a rare haploidentical match. It’s a risky procedure, but it is her absolute last chance.”
Hope flared wildly in my chest. “Who is it? Can we contact them? I’ll pay them whatever they want!”
The doctor looked at me, a strange, unreadable expression crossing his face. He looked at the chart, then directly into my eyes.
Part 2
“We don’t need to look far, Mr. Arjun. The system flagged the donor because their medical records were already in our hospital database from a previous family-planning screening years ago.”
The doctor paused, the silence in the corridor suddenly becoming deafening.
“The match… is you, Arjun. You are the only person who can save her life.”
I froze. My mind raced back to three years ago, when we had gone through rigorous genetic and blood testing after our first miscarriage, desperately trying to find answers. The hospital had kept our records.
“Me?” I breathed, a sudden wave of profound relief washing over me. “Take it. Take whatever you need from me. Let’s do the surgery right now!”
But the doctor didn’t look relieved. In fact, his face grew even darker. He didn’t look at me; he looked down at the paperwork in his hand, his fingers tightening against the clipboard.
“It’s not that simple, sir,” the doctor said, his voice laced with a terrifying hesitation. “While your bone marrow can save her, the pre-op screening we ran on your friend Rohit earlier today—where you also submitted a standard blood sample as a potential directed blood donor for his post-op recovery—revealed something else.”
The doctor stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a blade slicing through the night.
“We cannot use you as a donor, Arjun. Because the lab results indicate that if we perform this extraction on you in your current medical state… you will not survive the procedure. And there is something else you need to know about Maya’s condition that she hasn’t told you.”
My breath hitched. I looked at Maya, whose face had gone completely ghost-white, her eyes wide with a sudden, absolute terror as she stared at the doctor.
“Doctor… no… please don’t,” Maya whimpered, trying to pull her hand away from mine.
What was the doctor talking about? What medical state was I in? And what was the final, terrifying secret Maya was still hiding from me?
