Aya

Chapter 51- White Walls And Old Wounds

Aya's POV

I hate hospitals.

I have always hated them.

Hospitals take things from me. They steal pieces of people and leave behind echoes that never quite fade. I lost my mother in a hospital. I lost two years of my life—my memories, my sense of self—in another one. And now I am here again, sitting under harsh white lights, waiting to find out if my brain is still betraying me... or if it plans to take something else this time.

I hate the way hospitals smell sharp antiseptic mixed with something metallic and cold. I hate the way the walls feel too clean, too empty, like they're waiting to swallow your pain and give you nothing back in return.

I sit stiffly in an uncomfortable chair, staring blankly at the doctor's desk while he types endlessly on his computer. The tapping of the keyboard feels loud in the silence. Zahid sits across from him, answering questions I refuse to answer.

Because my mind isn't here.

My mind is at home with my children. With Asad's soft arms around my neck. With Humairah's chatter. With Aden's tiny fingers curled into mine. They went home with Baba and Dada after they came to pick us up at the airport, and even though it's only been hours, my chest already aches with their absence.

I just want to go home.

Which brings me back to my earlier conclusion.

I hate hospitals.

"All right, sir," the doctor finally says, breaking me out of my spiral. "Based on the reports from her previous physician, we'll need to admit your wife for observation. We'll schedule the CT scan for first thing tomorrow morning. The hospital is quite swamped at the moment, but I've pushed her up the list."

Admit.

The word hits me like a slap.

Another day.

Another night.

Before Zahid can respond, I speak my voice tight, hopeful despite myself.
"Can... can I just come back tomorrow morning instead?" I ask. "I'll come early. I promise."

The doctor opens his mouth, but Zahid beats him to it.

"That won't be necessary," Zahid says calmly. "Go ahead and admit her."

Just like that.

As if I hadn't spoken at all.

Annoyance burns through me. I lean back in my chair, folding my arms tightly over my chest, jaw clenched. The doctor glances between us—me, clearly displeased, and Zahid, unbothered and unmoved.

A small, amused smile tugs at the doctor's lips. "All right then. The nurse will be here shortly to prepare her IV and take her to her room. As for room packages, we have—"

"We'll take the presidential suite," Zahid cuts in smoothly.

The doctor freezes.

"I—I'm sorry, sir," he stammers. "That suite is reserved strictly for the president and his relatives. But we do have an executive—"

"Put it under Zahid Tahir Galadanci," Zahid says evenly. "There won't be a problem."

The poor man looks like he's about to faint.

I almost feel bad for him.

Almost.

I open my mouth to tell Zahid how unnecessary this is how it's just one night, how I don't need luxury, how I just want to go home but the doctor speaks again.