Days had passed since Zakirah's appointment at the hospital, but the heavy weight of uncertainty had not lifted. Every minute, every hour, Omar was by her side. His presence was constant, hovering near her like a shadow, always ensuring she was comfortable, that she was okay. He watched her in silence, his eyes never leaving her as she went about her days-though he never showed it, the tension in his shoulders, the deepening frown on his brow, spoke volumes of the worry he carried within him.

Even in the quiet moments, when they would sit together-her curled up in a blanket with a book in hand, him at his desk poring over his responsibilities-he would glance at her, his gaze lingering a little too long, as if checking, silently assuring himself that she was still breathing, still alive.

When she was in another room, even if it was just for a few minutes, he would find himself pacing or glancing anxiously at the clock, counting the seconds until he could hear the soft sound of her voice again. His thoughts never strayed too far from her health. Every little sigh, every breath she took, every glance she gave him was magnified in his mind. His heart would race every time he saw her touch her chest, even if it was only to adjust her cardigan, and he would immediately ask if she was okay.

"Zakirah," he would say in a voice that betrayed the worry he tried to conceal. "Are you feeling alright?"

Sometimes, she would smile softly, trying to reassure him, but he never fully believed her.

"Just a little tired," she would say. "But I'm fine. You worry too much."

He knew she was trying to ease his mind, but it only added to the suffocating sense of helplessness that tightened around him. No matter what he did-no matter how much he threw himself into his work, or how many solutions he sought from the best doctors in the country-he couldn't fix her heart. He couldn't make it stronger.

Zakirah had agreed to the surgery, and the operation date was set. The doctors had explained that it was a necessary step, but the risks weighed heavily on both of them. She had agreed to go through with it because she knew, deep down, that her heart wouldn't wait much longer. But it wasn't just her life on the line. Every moment leading up to it, Omar's tension was unbearable.

He spent hours researching treatments, finding new specialists, looking for any alternative options-anything to delay the surgery, or better yet, to find a way to prevent it altogether. But the doctors were clear: Zakirah's heart had weakened far beyond their expectations, and she needed this surgery now.

As the day of the surgery approached, the tension between them grew even more palpable. There were no words for it. The silence between them felt thicker, heavier, laden with the unsaid. And as much as they tried to carry on with their normal lives, everything felt like it was hanging on the edge of a precipice, ready to fall.

But there was one thing that Zakirah did, perhaps without realizing, that softened Omar's constant worry, even if just for a moment.

She had finished the book she had been working on for months-her first novel under the pseudonym she had used for years. The novel, like all her work, was a reflection of her thoughts, her emotions, and, most importantly, her dreams. She didn't write about her life directly, but her experiences bled through in ways she hadn't intended. And in this story, she had written something for Omar, something she hadn't dared say to him directly.

In the quiet hours of the night, after finishing the final chapter, Zakirah sat in the living room, gazing out at the darkened sky. The moonlight bathed the room, creating a soft glow around her. Omar had already gone to bed, but she couldn't sleep. Her fingers itched to hold the manuscript, to read through it one last time.

She leaned back in her chair and opened the book, her eyes skimming over the pages.

The book was about two people-an emotionally distant man and a woman who had always believed in love, though she had never allowed herself to truly experience it. It was about a woman who, despite all the odds, wanted to live a life of joy, of love, of passion. And it was about a man, who carried a lifetime of scars and secrets, too afraid to reach out, too terrified to trust.

She read the words slowly, allowing herself to get lost in them, knowing that each page held a piece of herself. But it was the last chapter that made her pause.

She had written about them-without mentioning their names, of course, but every word felt like an open confession of the love she had kept hidden from him and the world. The unnamed man in the story-the one who carried his own scars, who loved without words, who feared the very thing he most desired-was him.

She read through the pages, biting her lip to hold back the tears. The story of the man in her novel mirrored everything she feared, everything she longed for, and everything she was too scared to admit. In a way, it was a goodbye-a last confession in case she didn't survive the surgery.

She had written about a love that never spoke its name, but the meaning was clear: this was the last gift she could give him. The words poured out from her heart, a confession of feelings she never thought she could express.

The final pages trembled beneath her fingers, and she whispered softly, almost to herself, "I'm sorry, Omar. But if I don't make it through... this is how I want you to remember me. This is how I want you to know I loved you."

The man who was always there when I needed him, the man who watched over me, protected me, even when I didn't ask for it. The one who made me feel like I was the center of his universe-when, in truth, he was the center of mine. He doesn't need to say the words. I can see it in the way he looks at me, in the way he holds me, in the way he cares for me. His actions speak louder than any words ever could. He is my everything, my heart, and my soul.

Zakirah's fingers hovered over the page as she reread the words, her chest tightening with emotion. She had written this for him, for Omar, in a way she never could in real life. She had confessed everything in this book.

And at the very end, in the dedication, she had included something special-a small sketch of Omar, one she had drawn from memory. He had been sitting in his chair one evening, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked on his latest project. She had watched him for hours, as always, admiring how hard he worked and how deeply he cared for everything, from the city he led to the woman who stood by him. And that moment, the way he had looked-focused, determined, yet so undeniably kind-had stuck with her.

In the dedication, she had written:

To Omar-my protector, my love, my heart. Without you, I am nothing. If I don't make it through... remember that you were everything to me. You made me believe in love, and I will carry you with me, always.

The words burned her eyes as she whispered them aloud. The pain in her chest intensified, but it was more than physical-it was the pain of knowing that this might be her last chance to say it. This might be the final goodbye she never truly thought she'd have to say.

The book was released before her surgery, and to her surprise, it gained more attention than she had ever imagined. It went viral online within days, with readers across the country swooning over the tender, heartbreaking love story. Zakirah's words had touched hearts in ways she couldn't have anticipated. She had poured her soul into this book, and in return, she was now receiving love from people she'd never met, from readers who felt the same way about love, life, and loss.

And then came the moment Omar, too, would see it.

He had been busy with his work-always too busy-but something had shifted. He had been glancing at his phone, distracted as always, when an article popped up on his screen. It was about Zakirah's book.

The headline caught his attention: "The Unspoken Love: A Story of Heartbreak and Healing."

With a frown, he clicked on it, unaware of the journey he was about to take.

As he read through the article, the description of the book's plotline, its themes, and the undeniable connection between the characters, Omar's heart began to race. The more he read, the more he felt as though the story mirrored his own life in ways that both terrified and amazed him. The unnamed man in the story-the one who carried his own scars, who loved without words, who feared the very thing he most desired-was him.

He scrolled down, and then he saw it. The dedication. His breath caught in his throat.

To Omar-my protector, my love, my heart. Without you, I am nothing.

His heart pounded in his chest, and he couldn't stop the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips.

Omar felt a rush of emotions wash over him-love, gratitude, fear, and something deeper that he couldn't quite place. He sat back in his chair, staring at the screen, overwhelmed.

The article was full of praise for Zakirah's writing. She had finally shared her heart with the world. But Omar's eyes were locked on one part of the screen.

The comments.

"This is the most beautiful love story I have ever read. I think we all need a man like Omar in our lives."

"If only my partner could love me the way he loves her. The way he protects her... it's everything."

His phone buzzed, a new

notification: A new comment on Zakirah Kabir's book post.

It was a picture-a close-up of the dedication page. But what caught his attention was the caption: "The love of my life-Omar."

Omar's fingers trembled as he set the phone down. The room around him seemed to close in, but his heart swelled. She had written it for him. Every word, every feeling, every confession-it was all for him. The book, the dedication, the emotions-it was all Zakirah.

Omar saw the book and the dedication, his heart stopped. His breath caught in his throat, a deep, suffocating fear creeping through him. He read the words again and again, as if trying to will them away, trying to convince himself that it was just her way of writing, just a fictionalized version of herself. But as his eyes lingered on that final sentence, the reality hit him like a gut punch.

"If I don't make it through... remember that you were everything to me."

The fear surged through him in waves-she couldn't be thinking that. She couldn't be saying goodbye... Omar's chest tightened, and for a moment, the room around him felt impossibly small. The book wasn't just a piece of fiction; it was a cry from her heart, a painful confession of her love, but also her deep, hidden fear that she might not make it through.

The tears he tried to hold back stung his eyes as he gripped the book harder. His mind screamed in panic, the realization of how fragile she truly was sinking in. He couldn't lose her. Not like this. Not after everything.

No, he thought. Not now. Not ever.

But as the weight of her words settled in his chest, so did the painful understanding that Zakirah might not be there for him in the future, and he couldn't bear it.

His hands shook, and for the first time, Omar felt a deep vulnerability he had always hidden away from. This love-this unspoken, silent love-was his greatest fear and his deepest truth. And now, with Zakirah's words haunting him, Omar realized just how badly he needed her to stay.