Yusuf fiddled with his fingertips as Faajal paced across the hospital lobby. Each fleeting minute seemed like an eternity. Uncertainty about Pran's condition gnawed her. Chanchal was perched next to Yusuf, her face parched and stony. The tang of metal wafted from Yusuf's hands. He had refused to rinse blood off his hands. The gale from the air conditioner, melded with the smell of iodine, burned Faajal until her toes froze.

"Mr Malhotra's awake." A ward boy exited Pran's cabin and carried out files.

Yusuf sprang to his feet and sprinted inside, flinging the door open. Faajal and Chanchal ensued. There Pran lay in a pale white hospital bed. Coils of gauge guarded his injury. A blotch of blood had bloomed on it above his ear. His eyelashes fluttered lazily before squeezing shut. "Where—where, am-" He moaned, spinning his head.

Yusuf grabbed Pran's wrist and settled onto a chair beside the bed. "You hit your head. You fell down three flights of stairs."

Pran finally opened his eyes. His sight slid to Faajal, then to Chanchal, who stood huddled behind Faajal. "You okay?" A laboured whisper dissolved at Chanchal's direction.

Chanchal nodded. Pink inflamed her ears. "Thank you." Her words thrummed across the walls. Her gaze lifted to conjoin with Pran's. Beacons danced in her eyes. Pran's scrunched brows softened. The edge of his mouth wobbled. He eased back against the headboard. "Silly me," He rubbed the bandage. "I was just so close, but my sole slipped-" he exhaled. "I am sorry I ruined the scene."

"You didn't. Prakash will arrange alternative cuts." Faajal said. "He has postponed shooting till you recover."

"But, I can handle once this bandage is off!"

Faajal protested, "I have already phoned your mother to pick you up. Doctors told it could have been worse! You could have had internal bleeding! So, no schedule until recovery."

Pran grunted in an undertone and sipped water from the bottle on the side stand.

Chanchal finally cut her silence. "You needed 5 stitches."

"I saw you scraped your ankle by the stairway. Have you fixed it?" Pran wove his arms on his stomach.

Faajal snapped her eyes to Chanchal and threw an unspoken query. Chanchal bobbed her chin in compliance. The younger had been so deft in shrouding her wound. Faajal demanded to check the cut, but Chanchal staggered back. Faajal thumped her foot on the floor, her face steeling in a pointed glare. Defeated, Chanchal lifted her trouser to display a red slit on her ankle. Scarlet still streaked the raw flesh visible through the slit.

"I guess everyone is getting hurt. It's getting hurt day." Yusuf grinned, placing a hand on Pran's thigh.

Minutes later, they decided to leave Pran to rest. "Chaal chaal abh thik ho ja Peshawar ka sher!" [Get well soon, Peshawar's lion!]

Faajal waved goodbye to Pran and grabbed Chanchal's hand to leave when they were hitched back. Chanchal's dupatta had been caught in the footboard. Chanchal scurried to free it. "Di, aap dono jao! Main chhudwake aati hu." [Di, you two go! I am coming, unlatching it.]

Yusuf scrutinised Chanchal, but left eventually. Faajal followed after. As they crossed the hospital corridor, Yusuf hauled her to a desolate aisle. His head bent down. "Yeh dono ka chakkar dekh rahi hain?" He hissed.

[Are you seeing what's going on between them?]

Faajal nibbled on her lip. " Haan aur lagta hain ki–" [Yes, and I suppose-]

Yusuf swung his irises to finish her speech without words—They were on the cusp of something else, something far tenderer than a relationship between sister's best friend and best friend's sister.

Footsteps resonated towards their way, and they bolted back to the corridor. Chanchal asked, "Di, shall we go now?" The rim of her dupatta was tucked in her grip.

Faajal threw another furtive glance at Yusuf before leaving with Chanchal. They entered their black Rolls Royce as the red Hillman required tending. The engine growled, ready to zoom.

Chanchal squirmed in her seat, her forehead wet despite the air conditioner being turned on. A tiny fringe of her dupatta slipped from her hand, its lace—torn off. Stray threads jutted from the frayed edge.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

3 days had passed, and Pran had his bandage removed. He was all set for filming the finale. When shooting resumed, Faajal and Chanchal were the first to arrive, followed by Pran.

"Did you guys miss me?" Pran cocked his brows. His hand flipped his hair as he leaned on a wall. Faajal chuckled, applying rouge on her cheekbones. "Have your stitches been cut?"

"2 have been cut," he rubbed the back of his head. "Now, I understand how you felt."

The attack of the Sultan dacoits flashed in her mind. 8 years ago. Her finger unconsciously shifted to the rift in the back of her head. It had almost mended, save for the thin, rough streak.

Nimmi hustled to their room. "GUYS, GUYS!! There's news!" Her breasts rose and fell frenetically.

All focus shifted to her. Silence rang in the once word-filled room. Nimmi intook a deep breath and relaxed her muscles. "Filmfare has announced its nomination list."

A gasp fled from Faajal's lungs. Time slowed into a single beat. Pran dropped his playfulness to sincerity. A lump hung above his Adam's apple.

"And," Nimmi lengthened the silence between her words, testing their patience.

"Nimmi, for God's sake, TELL US!" Pran flapped his hands.

"Rajan Saxena and Pran Malhotra have been nominated for best actor, and Madhu Sharma has been nominated for best actress!" She bounced on her heels, laughter chiming from her lips.

It took Faajal 3 seconds to process Nimmi's revelation—she, she was nominated! "Did you check it properly?" Faajal's voice juddered. Her nails cut through her kameez. Nimmi nodded. "It's on Filmistan's magazine!"

Laughter burst from Chanchal, and she hugged Faajal from behind. Faajal threaded her arms with the younger's and at last, partook in her joy. Mirth lightened her skin in stardust. Her insides reveled as if she had swallowed sunbeams. Her lips parted in the widest smile she could form. Her dedication had paid off. She had proved that acting wasn't just her livelihood, it was her soul. It was the medium of unraveling her capability to the world. Ravinder would understand now that the girl he had forced to labour at 12 wasn't a mere junior artist anymore. She wasn't the girl anymore whose talent was sold for money, but an esteemed artiste.

Yusuf entered the studio half an hour later. His brown hair was mussed, and his skin seemed barely tended. "What's up with that look? Are you sick?" Pran remarked.

Yusuf clucked his tongue in denial. "Woke up late. Unwelcome guests had poured into home last night. Abbu's relatives." He grabbed a towel, a toothbrush and toothpaste. "If I had stayed there to freshen, those lice would have bit off my head." He went to the bathroom.

"Well, we have news for you." Nimmi squeaked.

Yusuf squeezed a dab of toothpaste on his toothbrush and stepped out. "What? Am I to be sued again?"

Faajal struggled to contain the laughter gargling in her throat. Yusuf had been legally sued 2 weeks ago for a girl had sucided seeing his postcard of 'Do Kalakarein'. She had claimed that he looked too majestic in a swimsuit that she couldn't endure. Thus, the girl jumped from the Qutub Minar and plunged to her death. The high court filed a suit against Yusuf and compelled him to pay 30 thousand rupees penalty.

Chanchal bit her lip, guilt evident on her. After this occurrence, Pran had certified her as a professional jinxer.

Nimmi titled to Faajal. "Faajal, you tell your loverboy."

Faajal sighed and wore a gleam in eyes. "You have been nominated for the Filmfare awards!" Her tone was calm, but her inner excitement caused a slight tremor.

Yusuf paused for a split second. His eyes even stopped blinking. Foam trickled down his chin.

"Yuck, Yusuf! Watch your mouth." Pran grimaced.

Yusuf sucked a mouthful of air as if he had been retrieved from underwater. "Is it–"

Faajal smiled, nodding. Yusuf cried in ecstasy, his eyes curving into crescents. He leapt on Faajal and squashed her within his embrace. "Oh, oh! Me, me!" His nose nuzzled against her hair. She buried her face in his shoulder, flowers blooming through the ridges of her ribs. Then, Pran received his bear hug. Yusuf promised Chanchal a magnanimous treat after the award event. Nimmi folded her arms, raising a brow. "I brought the news. What for me?"

"Chanel No. 5," Yusuf spoke in a singsong voice, languid and rich.

"Yusuf bhaiya, phir mere liye bhi ek Chanel—" Chanchal pitched. [Yusuf bhaiya, then also a Chanel for me–]

"Jo jee chahe le lo! Agar ho sake toh Taj Mahal bhi mangwa lo!" [Take anything you wish! If possible, order the Taj Mahal too!]

Chanchal shrieked. Yusuf returned to the bathroom to rinse his mouth.

"Now, I want this shooting to end soon! The season of Filmfare is coming soon. It's been days since I visited the salon." Nimmi huffed.

Loud coughs boomed from the bathroom. Everyone's smiling faces faded into shock. Silence followed. Then, another feat of cough erupted louder than before. They sounded like they were raking through the lungs, razing every flesh and bone. Faajal flung the bathroom door away and caught Yusuf hunched over the basin. His lower spinal columns floated beneath his shirt. With each expulsion, his face crumpled. His nails dug into the ceramic basin. Wheezy breaths swooped through his throat. Then, blood spurted on the basin. Faajal dashed to him and patted his back, horror piercing her. Hot and sour. Red stained the white basin. Another torrent of scarlet splattered from Yusuf's mouth. At this point, he couldn't breathe through the gush of blood. He growled, but surges of blood cascaded until the basin was filled to the brim.

Everyone had gathered by the door, their anxious gazes pinned on the ropes of blood on Yusuf's lips. Moaning, he gazed at Faajal, who clasped his arm, petrified. His arms were debilitated. Wordless glances roamed the faces watching in terror.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

"YOU'RE GOING TO THE HOSPITAL! THAT'S IT AND THAT'S FINAL!" Faajal stormed after Yusuf. But her words fell on deaf ears. He quickened his pace. Her feet gained speed. She had had enough of his negligence. Whenever she had warned him about his fatigue and nosebleed, he had shirked it. But after today's incident, no way she would stay mute. Her rapid steps advanced into a bolt and she steeled at his front, blocking his way. Yusuf let out a sharp breath. No drop of blood remained on his mouth, yet the grooves of his lips were red.

"I have talked with Prakash, and he agreed. Your health comes first!" Her words must have held weight because Yusuf's defiant stare collapsed. His jaw worked.

"Then, for one term." He raised a finger. "I am checking a doctor next week. I have photoshoots this week"

"Yusuf!"

"Else, I am not going."

Faajal clenched her cheekbones and flounced away. She had the solutions ready. Picking the receiver, she dialled Yusuf's home.

A warm female voice resounded from the other side. "Hello, who is speaking?"

Faajal smirked, "Mammy, it's me, Faajal."

"Haye, meri gudiya! Ki haal hain teri? Bol, main tuhadi layi ki kar sakdi haan?" Farozan cooed. [Haye, my doll! Say what can I do for you?]

"Koi ziddi ho raha hain, aur te tenu ehde di sudhar karni hain." [Someone is getting stubborn, and you have to fix him.]

After they completed shooting, Prakash treated them with a cake the size of a table. As Faajal picked her slice and sat next to Chanchal, she noticed the lace of Chanchal's torn dupatta in Pran's hand. He was at a corner with his piece of cake in one hand and fiddling with the lace in the other. His finger traced the patterns, his gaze reverent as if he were holding a priceless keepsake. Her probes weren't probes anymore, but the actuality.

Eating her share of cake, Chanchal walked close to Pran and placed her cutlet on his plate.

"What?" Pran frowned.

"I don't like it," Chanchal answered flatly and trailed away.

"But, you have already bitten on it! Yew!"

"Then, leave it." Chanchal stepped back to take it away, but he refused. Pran hesitated for a moment before shoving his teeth into her bite marks.

Yusuf emerged beside Faajal after prattling with the producer. "The cake is good."

Faajal didn't respond. He rolled his eyes. "I told you I will go, nah?"

She still didn't utter a sound, tilting her head away from him.

"Faajal, this is too much, yaar!" He sulked childishly.

Suddenly, three figures poured into the set and scrambled to Yusuf. They clutched him from all sides and hauled him out. Farozan held his arms, while Anas and Yaqoob guarded so Yusuf couldn't escape.

"What the HELL is THIS!" Yusuf grunted, writhing in Farozan's grasp.

Anas rolled his bottom lip into a witty smile. "Cardiologist Rustom Jai Vakil awaits you, bhai. He has flown all the way from Delhi to Bombay for you."

Yusuf glared at Faajal like a deer at its hunter. Faajal bobbed her head. An awkward hush swept the room. Yusuf protested to Farozan in Pashto, "Ammi, za khair yam! Kha pe khkaregi, sardi shwa kha lare pa de khoon rasha!" [Ammi, I am alright! You know I get minor bleeding when I catch a cold!]

His protests failed to his pure Punjabi mother's tenacity. She shoved him into his Mercedes and they drove away.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Faajal tore the 8th page in a row, trying to deliver a shayari. But anxiety and vile ponderings tainted her ability to write tonight. The sight of his blood vomit flashed in her mind. The more she fought it, the more vivid it got. That hacking cough, that flood of crimson. Yusuf should be home by now. She wanted to know what the doctor said. Calling him was as futile as telling a lion to eat grass. Where would she call then?

A memory rang in her head. She had seen an advertisement for Rustom Jai Vakil in the newspaper Meher was reading last week. She could get his number and ask him directly. She hurried to Meher's room and slung open the door. Instead of Meher, Gurbani and Saira were flopped on the bed. They jerked back. Saira quickly zipped the back of her maxi. Gurbani shoved a tube of ointment under her thigh. "Aren't you asleep yet?"

"Just came here to fetch something." Faajal lowered her gaze elsewhere. She drew out the drawer of the dressing table and sifted through the pile of papers. Finally, she found the newspaper. Tucking the newspaper to her chest, she paced away.

Faajal's hand quivered as her fingertip rested on the dial buttons. She could sense her pulse leap to her ear. One button was pressed. Then, another. Then, another.

The phone rang before someone asked, "Hello, Rustom Vakil speaking."

"Doctor Vakil, I am Madhu Sharma." Faajal steadied her tone.

"Madhu Sharma? Yusuf Khan's—"

"Yes, yes. Well, he has visited you this evening, I suppose."

"Yes, he has."

Faajal took seconds to process her words. "I wanted to ask you about his health. You must be aware of his episodes."

"Madhu, it's our policy not to share patients' details."

"Doctor, please. You know what I am to him." Her finger twirled around the telephone's cord.

The doctor huffed. "I couldn't come to a conclusion, but by his symptoms, I am afraid he has VSD. Nosebleed, fatigue, shortness of breath, occasional chest pains, and then this blood vomit, high blood pressure, unsteady heartbeat. All of these indicate one thing." 

A bolt of ice cracked her spine, fearing his explanation. Words died in her throat.

"VSD means ventricular septal defect, a congenital heart defect. He has a hole in the wall of the lower chambers of his heart."

Faajal's heart skipped a beat. Her breaths came to a dead halt. 

He had a hole in his heart.

A/N:  Sorry for the delay, pretty people. I was on a trip. If you enjoyed this chapter, please vote and comment! It gives your author motivation!