Different storms

 BACKSTORY 

Kayadu, 32, is married to Harsha and shares a close bond with her elder brother Anirudh. She had recently found out she was a couple of months pregnant—early enough that it wasn’t visible yet, but far enough for it to feel real to them. They hadn’t told many people; it was still something quiet and personal.

On the day of the accident, Kayadu stepped out alone for a routine checkup. It was an ordinary day—nothing that felt risky or important.

Anirudh had planned to go with her but couldn’t at the last moment.

Harsha received a call from her while he was at work but decided to call back later.

Neither of those moments felt significant then.

On the way, Kayadu met with a road accident and was brought to the hospital. She survived—but the pregnancy did not.

Anirudh reacts with anger and blame because he believes he should have been there.

Harsha goes silent because he is stuck on the one moment he didn’t respond—the call he didn’t take.

Both are grieving the same loss—just in different ways.

THE SCENE 

ICU Corridor, 9:10 PM

Some nights in the hospital don’t pass.

They stay.

One night has stayed with me because of three names—

Kayadu.

Anirudh.

Harsha.

I never saw Kayadu conscious. By the time I reached the ICU corridor, everything had already happened. An accident. Emergency admission. And somewhere in between—

A pregnancy that didn’t survive.

She wasn’t that far along. But far enough to have dreams. Plans. Names, maybe.

The doctor stepped out, slower than usual.

“I’m sorry… the patient is stable. But we couldn’t save the pregnancy.”

There’s a different kind of silence that follows that sentence.

It doesn’t explode immediately.

It hesitates.

And then—

Anirudh did.

“What do you mean you couldn’t save it?!” he shouted, his voice sharp enough to cut through the corridor. “You said she was okay! You said everything was under control!”

His anger came fast, like it had been waiting.

“What kind of hospital is this? What were you even doing inside?!”

He stepped forward, then back, pacing like he couldn’t stay still in his own body.

“She trusted you! We trusted you!”

A nurse tried to calm him, but he shook her hand off.

“No—don’t tell me to calm down! Don’t!”

His voice cracked, just slightly.

“I told her not to go out today… I told her to rest…”

There it was.

The shift.

“I should’ve gone with her,” he muttered, quieter now but heavier.

“I should’ve just gone…”

The anger didn’t leave.

It turned inward.

Grief, loud and restless.

And beside him—

Harsha.

Still.

Unmoving.

If Anirudh was trying to push the reality away, Harsha looked like he was holding it in place—refusing to let it spread.

His eyes were fixed on the ICU doors.

There were tears there.

Not falling.

Just… waiting.

He didn’t react to Anirudh’s shouting. Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t defend anyone.

He just stood there, carrying something quietly.

Grief, contained.

Security eventually guided Anirudh to sit down. His voice dropped, but it didn’t stop.

“I should’ve been there… I knew something felt off… why didn’t I just go…”

Now it wasn’t anger.

It was guilt.

Raw and repetitive.

After a while, someone led him away to make a phone call.

And suddenly—

Harsha was alone.

The corridor felt too open.

I looked at him again.

That’s when the first tear fell.

Slow.

Unnoticed.

He didn’t wipe it.

Another followed.

And then another.

No sound. No movement. Just quiet proof that something inside him was breaking—carefully, almost politely.

I walked toward him.

“Harsha…” I said, then quickly corrected,

“Sir… I’m Meera. ”

He didn’t respond immediately. His jaw tightened, like he was trying to hold everything back where it belonged.

“I just wanted to ask if you’re okay.”

He nodded.

“Yes.”

Too quick.

Too practiced.

A pause.

Then, softly—

“Anirudh is right.” he said with almost a week voice

I frowned slightly. “About…?”

“I should’ve been there.”

A breath.

“She called me before leaving the house.”

My chest tightened.

“I saw the call,” he continued. “I was busy. I thought I’d call her back later.”

A hollow exhale.

“I didn’t.”

Silence.

Heaviness fills the air around us.

“I keep thinking…” he said slowly,

“…if I had just picked up… maybe she wouldn’t have gone out. Maybe she would’ve stayed. Maybe…”

He stopped.

Didn’t finish.

A tear slipped down again, and this time he wiped it quickly—almost instinctively.

“I can’t go inside like this,” he said, shaking his head slightly.

“She’s going to ask me…”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“...what happened.”

Not where the baby is.

Just what happened.

Because sometimes the truth is too large to even name.

I felt my throat tighten, but I kept my voice steady.

“You don’t have to explain everything right now,” I said gently. “You just have to be there with her.”

He finally looked at me.

There was fear in his eyes.

And guilt.

And something else—

Helplessness.

“I don’t think I’ve accepted it yet,” he admitted.

“It feels like… if I don’t say it… it won’t become real.”

I nodded, almost in an agreement.

Some grief delays itself.

The ICU doors opened slightly. A nurse called his name.

“Harsha… you can come in.”

He straightened, wiping his face more carefully this time—like he was putting something invisible back into place.

Before he walked, he said quietly—

“We hadn’t told many people yet.”

A pause.

“It was supposed to be a surprise.”

That hurt more than anything else he had said.

Because it meant the joy had just begun.

And ended before it could even be shared.

Harsha walked toward the ICU.

Down the corridor, Anirudh’s voice echoed faintly—tired now, but still searching for someone, something, to blame.

Two men.

The same loss.

One trying to fight it.

The other trying to hold it together long enough to not fall apart.

And Kayadu—

She was inside, about to wake up to a silence she didn’t choose.

Today I learned—

Grief doesn’t always arrive fully formed.

Sometimes it starts as anger.

Sometimes as guilt.

And sometimes…

as a quiet denial that delays the moment everything becomes real.