💔 The Last Hug of Husband

The first time Arman saw Aina, the world seemed to pause.

It wasn’t the kind of love that struck loud or sudden; it was quiet, gentle—like sunlight slipping through a half-open window on a winter morning. She was twenty-three then, a volunteer artist painting murals at the children’s hospital. He was twenty-six, a young businessman visiting to donate medical equipment. Two very different people, drawn to the same place by fate.

She smiled when he asked if she painted every day.

“Only when my heart lets me,” she said softly, her brush moving across the wall. “Some days, it hurts too much to hold colors.”

He didn’t understand what she meant until much later.

Their story grew in whispers, not in fireworks. He would bring her tea every afternoon, pretending it was coincidence. She would tease him about his formal shirts, saying he looked like someone who never laughed. Slowly, laughter began to live between them.

When he finally confessed his feelings, it wasn’t dramatic.

“I don’t know how to say this,” he’d murmured, “but my day doesn’t start until you smile.”

Aina had looked up, eyes shimmering. “Then promise me you’ll keep me smiling, even when I forget how.”

He promised. And he meant it.

Their marriage was small, filled with laughter, paint stains, and hope. Aina turned his cold marble house into a home—plants on the balcony, candles by the window, colors on the walls. Arman learned to cook because she laughed every time he burned toast. She said burnt toast meant passion; he said it meant failure. They never agreed, and that was the fun.

For two years, they lived a dream so simple it felt unreal. Until the day she fainted in the kitchen.

The diagnosis came like thunder in a quiet sky.

Cardiac carcinoma.

A heart cancer so rare that even the doctors spoke softly around it.

Arman sat frozen in the hospital corridor, the words echoing again and again. Money, connections, power—he had all of it, but none of it could fix a broken heartbeat.

Aina was calm when he broke the news to her.

“I guessed,” she whispered, touching his trembling hands. “I’ve felt my heart tiring for months.”

He shook his head violently. “No. I’ll get you the best doctors, the best treatment. I’ll take you anywhere. You’ll be fine.”

She smiled—the same smile that had first drawn him to her. “Maybe, Arman. But if I’m not… promise me you’ll remember me as color, not as pain.”

He couldn’t answer. He only pulled her into his arms. That night, as she slept beside him, he stayed awake watching her breathe, counting every inhale like a prayer.

Days blurred into nights filled with hospital rooms and machines. Arman spent everything he had—money, time, hope. He flew specialists from other countries, donated to hospitals, begged, prayed. Yet, each week, she grew a little weaker, a little quieter.

But she never complained.

“Why do you look so sad?” she’d tease. “You’re supposed to be my sunshine.”

“I’m scared,” he’d admit.

“Then hold my hand,” she’d whisper. “If we hold on tight enough, maybe fear will slip away.”

And so he held her hand through everything—chemotherapy, sleepless nights, endless rain.

One evening, as the sun bled orange across the sky, Aina asked him to take her home.

“I’m tired of hospitals,” she said. “I just want to watch the sunset from our balcony again.”

He brought her home the next morning. The house smelled like the flowers she loved. She walked slowly to the balcony, breathing the warm air. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly. “The world looks so alive.”

“It’s alive because you’re in it,” he replied.

She laughed, resting her head on his shoulder. “You always say the right things.”

He kissed her hair. “I’m just saying what’s true.”

The silence that followed was peaceful, but beneath it, both of them knew—the end was near.

She leaned closer, whispering, “If I go first… don’t close your heart, Arman. Keep painting my colors in your life.”

He closed his eyes. “Don’t say that. We’ll see a hundred more sunsets together.”

She smiled faintly. “Then hold me until the sun goes down.”

He wrapped his arms around her, feeling her heartbeat against his chest. The same heartbeat he had once sworn to protect.

And as the sun slowly disappeared behind the clouds, he realized how fragile forever could be.

That night, while he carried her to bed, she whispered something only he could hear.

“You kept your promise… you made me smile.”

Her eyes fluttered closed, her breath soft.

He sat there, holding her hand, not knowing if she was asleep or gone.

But in that stillness, he felt something deeper—peace mixed with unbearable pain.

The kind of silence that says goodbye without words.

Outside, it began to rain.

Arman looked toward the balcony and thought he saw her standing there—laughing softly, like before. But when he blinked, she was gone.

Only the rain remained, whispering her name on the glass.

He whispered back, “I’m still holding you, Aina… always.”