One thought.
That was all Rohan had as he drove toward her house.
" Today !! I tell her the truth today "
He turned onto her street.
And stopped.
People. Everywhere.
Phones raised. Voices low. That particular stillness that settles over a crowd when something has gone terribly wrong.
What now.
He rolled down his window. "What happened?"
"Accident," a man said.
Rohan started to pull forward.
And then he saw it.
Through the window.
On the ground.
A bracelet.
Soaked in red.
He knew that bracelet.
The memory hit him before he could stop it — her hand in his, the rain falling, the empty mall — and the bracelet he had noticed without meaning to. Small. Familiar. Hers.
The cold came before the understanding.
He got out of the car.
Slowly at first.
Then not slowly at all.
He pushed through the crowd — shoulders first, no apologies, no stopping —
And then he saw them.
Raha.
Her mother.
Both on the ground.
Both still.
Both covered in blood.
The world dropped out from under his feet.
One second of stillness.
Just one.
Then he ran.
He dropped to his knees beside Raha — grabbed her — his hands shaking so badly he could barely hold on.
"Raha—! What happened — what happened to you—"
No answer.
"Raha! Raha!"
He moved to her mother. "Aunty — aunty, can you hear me—"
Nothing.
He was crying.
He didn't notice at first.
Then he did.
And he couldn't stop.
So he stopped trying.
He knelt in the middle of the road — covered in their blood — and sobbed openly, his voice cracking apart on her name, not caring who was watching, not caring about anything at all except the girl who wasn't moving.
The ambulance came.
Rohan forced himself upright.
Dragged his hands across his face.
Tried to pull himself together.
It didn't work.
He rode with them to the hospital — clothes soaked through, hands still shaking, eyes still wet — and when the doctors took them away he sat down in the corridor outside the ICU and did not move.
He pressed his face into his hands.
And cried.
At school, Shawn sat near the gate.
Watching.
Where is she? She should be here.
The bell rang.
He went to class.
Two boys were talking behind him — low voices, casual, like it was nothing —
"—that mute girl from Section A—"
"—accident this morning—"
Shawn's chair scraped back so hard the whole class turned.
"Raha?"
The boy nodded. "Her and her mother. City Hospital."
Shawn was already gone.
He drove with his foot flat on the floor, phone against his ear.
Pick up. Pick up. Pick up—
Rohan didn't answer.
Of course he doesn't.
Shawn threw the phone onto the passenger seat.
How bad is it? Is she okay? Is aunty okay?
He drove faster.
City Hospital.
He ran.
Through the entrance, scanning every corner, every face —
He found Rohan at the far end of the corridor.
Slumped against the wall.
Covered in blood.
Head down. Shoulders shaking.
Shawn stopped.
Just for a second.
Then he crossed the corridor in three steps. "Rohan — where is Raha?"
Rohan looked up.
His eyes were destroyed. Red. Wet. Completely lost.
He raised one hand.
Pointed at the door.
"Ra—"
His voice broke in half.
"Raha—"
That was all he had.
He looked back down.
Something cracked open in Shawn's chest — sudden and unexpected and painful.
He turned away before his eyes could betray him.
They already had.
He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth and walked to the ICU door.
Through the small window —
Raha.
Lying still.
Oxygen mask.
Eyes closed.
No.
Shawn pressed his palm flat against the glass and stood there, not breathing properly, not thinking properly, not doing anything properly.
Behind him — Rohan. On the floor now. Blood on his hands. Crying for a girl he had spent weeks pretending not to care about.
Look at him, Shawn thought.
Look at what she does to him.
Look at what she does to all of us.
The door opened.
Rohan was on his feet before the doctor had fully stepped out.
"Tell me. How are they?"
"Critical," the doctor said carefully. "Both of them. Significant blood loss." A pause that lasted too long. "One patient has sustained a severe head injury. Internal bleeding. She needs emergency surgery. Immediately."
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
"Who?" Shawn's voice came out barely above a whisper. "Whose head—"
The nurse checked her clipboard.
"Mrs. Anna Enderson."
The name hit the corridor like a stone.
Neither of them moved.
Then Rohan turned on the doctor. "Then operate! What are you waiting for—"
"Sir." The doctor's voice was firm. "Surgery requires payment authorization first. Without it—"
Shawn stepped in front of Rohan.
"The money is handled," he said clearly. "Do what you need to do."
The doctor nodded.
Rohan caught his arm before he could go.
"Raha." Just her name. Barely a voice at all. "How is Raha?"
The doctor hesitated.
"I can't say yet."
He left.
Rohan turned back to the door.
To the glass.
To her.
Raha. Oxygen mask. Eyes closed. So terribly still.
He pressed his hand against the door.
And then — quietly, completely, without a single thought for who might be watching —
He began to cry again.
Shawn watched him.
He had seen Rohan Watson be a lot of things.
Angry. Cold. Untouchable. Cruel.
He had never seen him like this.
Broken.
"Raha," Rohan whispered against the glass.
Just her name.
Nothing else.
Shawn looked away.