The hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic and something colder… something that always reminded me of endings.
I never liked hospitals.
At eighty years old, lying on this narrow white bed, with a thin blanket that never quite warmed my bones, I finally understood something strange about life—
It doesn't feel long when you reach the end.
It feels… frighteningly short.
---
The heart monitor beside me beeped in a slow, tired rhythm.
Beep… beep… beep…
Almost like it was counting down.
I turned my head slightly toward the window. Outside, the evening sun was sinking behind the buildings, painting the sky in that soft orange color my wife used to love.
Used to…
My fingers tightened weakly over the bedsheet.
"Mr. Sharma," the young nurse said gently, adjusting the IV line in my hand. "Are you feeling any pain?"
I looked at her for a long moment.
She couldn't have been more than twenty-five.
Same age… the age when I first thought I understood love.
A faint smile appeared on my lips.
"Pain?" I repeated slowly. "At this age… pain and I are old friends."
She gave me the polite, professional smile that nurses give when they don't really know what to say.
"I'll call the doctor for your evening check," she said softly and walked out.
The door closed with a quiet click.
And just like that—
The room became silent again.
---
Silence is a strange thing.
When you are young, silence feels peaceful.
When you are old…
Silence is loud.
Too loud.
My eyes slowly moved toward the small table beside my bed.
There, placed carefully, was an old brown diary.
The cover was worn.
The edges slightly torn.
I had bought it three days ago… the day the doctor told me the truth in that careful, practiced voice.
"Stage four."
"We will try to keep you comfortable."
Comfortable.
I let out a dry chuckle that turned into a soft cough.
Comfort doesn't mean much when you know the road ahead is short.
---
I slowly reached for the diary.
My hand trembled.
Not just because of age…
…but because of the memories waiting inside me.
For a long time, I just stared at the blank first page.
White.
Empty.
Just like this hospital room.
Just like this house I go back to every night.
A house that used to be full of noise.
Full of footsteps.
Full of her voice.
My throat tightened.
---
"You always said I talk too little…" I murmured to the empty room.
For a moment, I could almost imagine her standing near the window, arms crossed, giving me that look.
That half-annoyed, half-soft look.
The one that used to melt me every single time.
My fingers gently touched the paper.
"I was late," I whispered.
"Late in understanding you… late in understanding love."
The pen in my hand hovered over the page.
Outside, somewhere in the hospital corridor, a child laughed.
For a second—
My chest hurt more than the cancer ever could.
---
Young people think love is in big moments.
Confessions.
Flowers.
Promises.
I used to think the same.
At twenty-one, I thought love was something loud… something exciting… something that made your heart race.
…
I was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Real love—
Real love is quiet.
It hides in small things.
In waiting.
In sacrificing.
In staying… even when life becomes heavy.
My eyes slowly closed.
And for the first time in many years—
Her face appeared clearly in my memory.
Just like the day I first saw her.
My grip on the pen tightened.
---
"If someone had told the twenty-one-year-old me…" I whispered softly,
"…that one day, at eighty, I would be lying alone in a hospital bed…"
"…missing my wife more than my own breath…"
I exhaled slowly.
"…I would have laughed at them."
The monitor continued its slow rhythm.
Beep… beep… beep…
---
I opened my eyes.
Looked at the blank page one last time.
And finally—
I began to write.
> "This is not a love story."
This is the story of how I understood love… when most of my life was already gone.
The pen moved slowly.
Steadily.
As the sun outside the window disappeared completely.
And somewhere deep inside my chest—
Memories from sixty years ago…
began to wake up.