From Hero to Hollow

She once stitched broken bodies back to life.

She once steadied trembling hands in the darkest of nights.

She once made strangers believe survival was possible.

But when her own heart fractured, no one noticed.

And when she reached for healing — it came in the form of a needle.

1. The Angel in Scrubs

In the frantic chaos of Karachi’s trauma ward, there was one steady flame: Fareeha Akhtar, 30.

Doctors leaned on her calm. Patients clung to her warmth. Colleagues whispered about “her touch” — how her hand on a patient’s arm could ease fear better than morphine.

She was the nurse who never said no to an extra shift. Who volunteered for emergency duty. Who showed up, even when her body begged her to rest.

But heroes are fragile too. And sometimes, the cracks appear in silence.

2. The Man Who Saw Her

He wasn’t a patient. He wasn’t a doctor. Just a man in the corridor with eyes that lingered a little too long.

Asfand.

Handsome. Magnetic. Dangerous in the way charm often is.

He listened to her stories. He made her laugh after 18-hour shifts. He filled the air with promises of forever — a house, children, a future not painted in hospital white.

Fareeha, so used to giving, finally felt what it meant to be received.

But then, he vanished. No calls. No explanations. Just absence.

And in that void, the healer began to bleed.

3. The First Needle

At first, it was harmless. One vial to fall asleep. One dose to stop the panic that clawed her chest.

Then it became two. Then three.

She began hiding syringes under her mattress, inside books, even in her purse. The same woman who once preached recovery to addicts now whispered lies to herself: “Just tonight. Just to get through.”

Her hands trembled while inserting IVs. Her smile became brittle, her laughter rehearsed. Patients still saw an angel. Her colleagues began to see a ghost.

No one asked if she was okay. And she didn’t know how to say: I’m not.

4. Collapse

It happened on a Tuesday.

Her body gave in beside a patient’s bed. Lips pale. Pulse racing. A syringe still hidden in her locker.

The tests betrayed her secret: Propofol. Diazepam. Enough to silence her, if only for a night.

Her badge was taken. Her shifts suspended. Her family left to face the truth she could no longer hide.

When her mother wept, Fareeha whispered the only explanation she had:

“He left me… and I had nothing left to live for.”

5. Rehab — The Hardest War

She didn’t walk into rehab. She was carried. Sedated. Broken.

The first nights were violent. Convulsions. Sweat. Screams for a man who wasn’t coming back.

Counselors tried to reach her, but grief builds high walls. One told her gently:

“Your body is healing faster than your heart.”

And he was right. The drugs slowly left her veins. But the emptiness? It stayed lodged in her chest, heavier than any addiction.

6. A Life Unlived

She never returned to the hospital.

Instead, she shrank back into her childhood bedroom. Posters of singers she no longer listened to. A bed too small for a woman who had carried so much.

Sometimes she smiled at the birds outside her window. Other times, she replayed Asfand’s voicemails until her chest ached.

She never spoke of love again. Never wore her white coat again.

She was alive. But not living.

7. The Quiet Goodbye

One morning, her mother knocked.

No answer.

Inside, Fareeha lay still. Not overdosed. Not lifeless. Just… hollow. Eyes open, as though waiting for something — or someone — that would never come.

There was no dramatic end. No scandal. Just a heart that carried too much pain for too long — and quietly stopped.

At her funeral, there were no headlines. No crowd. Just a framed photo of a smiling nurse who once believed love could heal anything.