Eight months passed like this, and I no longer stayed at my aunt's house. I was then in Rokeya Hall. I had made some friends at the university. My workload increased, but I still called Arafat regularly. However, Arafat never called me first. We only talked when I gave him a missed call or called him. The same was true for texting. I thought maybe he was busy.
Because of my exams, I hadn't gone home in a long time. After my exams ended, I returned to my dorm and thought I would call Arafat. His number was unreachable. I logged into Facebook and saw that Arafat's account had been deleted.
I started to worry, and that week, I quickly went home. I stood in front of the bridge, but Arafat didn't come. I decided to go to Arafat's house, even though I didn't actually know where it was. By asking around using Arafat's father's name, I found their house.
When I arrived, a woman came out. I asked her who they were. After some conversation, I learned that Arafat and his father had sold the house and left a month ago. I went to the village school and inquired about Arafat's father, Abdul Alem, but they informed me that he had resigned from his job 10 days ago.
I didn't know what was happening, but I started feeling a deep pain inside. Nothing made sense to me.
I returned home. I didn't tell my father anything. I locked myself in my room, trying to make sense of everything, but nothing came to mind. I felt like I was suffering the pain of separation.
After searching for many days, I still couldn't find anyone-neither Arafat nor his father.
After looking for arafat for months I gave up. The day I gave up, I cried a lot.
A year passed. I no longer thought about Arafat. I was at home because the university was closed due to COVID-19. I spent my days on my phone, making memes. It had been a long time since I stopped drawing.
I spent all day watching manga, dramas, and anime. I had nothing to do; my CGPA at university was just 2.58. I didn't study either. Occasionally, I attended online classes on Zoom, but I often skipped them.
One day, my father called. He informed me that 0-negative blood was urgently needed at the Neurolab Hospital. An elderly person at my father's retirement home had contracted COVID-19, losing his sense of smell. Though he recovered from COVID-19, that neuron wasn't functioning, and he had a slight blood deficiency. He needed O-negative blood.
Since I have O-negative blood, I went to the hospital and donated blood.
After donating blood, I sat outside. Everyone around me was wearing masks.
I felt the presence of someone familiar nearby. I looked around carefully. I saw someone in a wheelchair accompanied by a middle-aged man.
I started running in that direction, feeling weak from the blood donation, but it seemed more important to reach that person at that moment.
I approached and saw an elderly woman in the wheelchair.
Seeing this, I apologized to them.
I stood there in disappointment, out of breath.
I felt a strange sensation around me.
I didn't have the strength to stand, so I sat on a nearby bench.
I looked towards the main entrance of the hospital and saw a patient being brought in from an ambulance. The patient's family members were crying, indicating that the person might have passed away.
They quickly took the patient inside.
I kept my eyes on the entrance for a while, watching the movement of patients.
Suddenly, I noticed someone very familiar. A middle-aged man was pushing the wheelchair, and the person in the wheelchair looked very ill.
I quickly stood up and started running in their direction; they were leaving the hospital. I needed to stop them before they left. I stumbled and fell on the stairs, hurting my hand slightly.
People around me came to check if I was okay. Without answering them, I started running in that direction. By then, they had already left the hospital. I rushed outside but couldn't find anyone. I felt a pang of despair and looked around. In the distance, I spotted them.
I ran in that direction.
With all my strength, I called out to him, and it was Arafat. The same Arafat I hadn't seen in two years, the one I once dreamed of marrying.
Arafat turned around, and so did his father.
I reached them, tears welling up in my eyes.
I don't remember what happened next because I fainted.
When I opened my eyes, I saw my father.
At that moment, I thought seeing Arafat might have been a dream.
As soon as I regained consciousness, I sat up. I had an IV in my hand.
I told my father, "I saw Arafat."
"I know, I saw him too. Arafat is ill. He has a rare disease," my father said.
"What? What's wrong with him? And how do you know?" I asked.
"After you fainted, Arafat's father brought you to the hospital. I saw Arafat there. Arafat recognized me, and I told him about your past relationship. He couldn't believe it. Arafat had never told his father about you. Then he left with Arafat, scolding him a bit before they went," my father said.
"What disease does he have?" I asked.
"A disease called MND. After some research, I found out there's no cure for it. The neurons in the body gradually become non-functional, leading to death," my father said.
"The same disease Stephen Hawking had?" I asked.
Father said with despair, "Yes."
Hearing this, I felt immense pain in my heart.
-----
A few days later, I started looking for a house in a village.
After much searching, I found the address.
It was a tin house with many cows in the yard. I entered the yard. I didn't find anyone.
I slowly went inside the house and saw someone drawing, sitting in a wheelchair.
It was Arafat.
I called out, "Arafat."
Arafat turned his wheelchair with his hand and asked, "Who is it?"
"It's me, Zara," I said.
When Arafat turned around, a strange feeling washed over me.