Chapter One Hundred and Ninety-Five
The lights above her blurred as they rushed her down the hallway. She could not keep her eyes shut.
"Please," she kept saying, her fingers gripping the edge of the stretcher. "Please save my baby."
"We’re doing everything we can," another nurse replied firmly.
The doors swung open and voices overlapped. Someone was giving instructions and there were a lot of movements that only irritated her.
"Stay with us." "Ma’am, can you hear me?" "How far along are you?"
She didn’t know the answer. She wanted to ask how old her baby was. Asli tried to talk, but another wave of pain stole her breath. She forced herself not to black out. She refused.
"I’m not losing this child," she whispered through clenched teeth.
The words burned out of her, more like a vow than a plea. Her instincts screamed to threaten them, to command, to make them know and understand who she was.
But her body wouldn’t obey.
Her limbs felt distant, heavy, like they no longer belonged to her. Her jaw locked, and her tongue felt useless. Even lifting her hand felt impossible. Panic flared, sharp and humiliating. Even bullets could never make her feel this way.
For the first time in her life, she had no weapon. She couldn’t feel her voice. She felt like she had no power.
All she could do was lie there helpless, while strangers held her fate and her child’s in their hands. Their movement quickened.
Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision, slow and heavy. No. She couldn’t allow that. Her fingers twitched against the sheet, nails scraping weakly as if she could claw herself back into awareness.
She forced her eyes wider, trying to focus on the lights above her, on the voices, on anything. If she stayed awake, she could fight. If she fought, she could protect. That was how it had always worked. Going unconscious felt like surrender. Like letting go. And letting go felt too close to losing her child.
She fought it until she couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed anymore.
*****
When she opened them again, the lights were no longer moving, and the pain had dulled into a distant ache. The air smelled cleaner and quieter. She realized she was staring at a ceiling she didn’t remember seeing before.
A doctor stepped closer, his expression calm.
"You came in just in time," he said. "There was heavy bleeding, but the pregnancy is still viable. We’ve stabilized you."
Asli blinked. Still viable. The words didn’t sink in immediately. What did that even mean?
"The baby?" she asked, barely above a breath.
"Your baby is alive."
Her entire body went weak in a different way this time. Not from pain nor was it from fear.
Relief.
A shaky breath left her. Her hand moved slowly to her stomach.
"You’re strong," the doctor continued, as if holding himself from saying anything more. "But you need strict rest. Do not stress yourself. No physical strain. If you want this pregnancy to continue safely, you must slow down."
Slow down. Asli almost laughed at that.
But instead, her eyes closed briefly, and for the first time since the pain started, her body stopped fighting.
"You hear that?" she whispered softly, her palm pressing gently against her abdomen. "You’re still here."
A tear slipped down her temple into her hairline.
She didn’t wipe this one away. That must have moved something in the doctor. He spoke without holding back. "People do things and later regret it. Some are fortunate enough to correct the mistakes while others do not get the chance. I didn’t want to say anything but... You really want this baby. Can I ask you something?" he said carefully.


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