Chapter 3

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चाँद भी वही, है वही है सितारे

तेरे बाद फीके फीके लगते हैं सारे

आजा लेके तू सवेरे, कर जा दूरी ये अंधेरे

तेरी दूरी तड़पावे सोनिया

तेरे बिन नहीं लागे जिया

तेरे बिन अब तू आजा पिया

तेरे बिन नहीं लागे जिया

तेरे बिन तेरे बिन तेरे बिन

•.¸¸♪•¨*•.¸¸♬

Arjun's pov

I moved into the new apartment four days ago. The walls are bare, the shelves mostly empty, but it feels…..peaceful. The apartment is small, clean and quiet. That’s all I needed. A place close to the hospital, with decent water pressure and no noisy neighbours. I just got tired of the long night commute and late drives home after surgeries. Now, I can wake up at six instead of five. I get to sit down for tea, even if it’s  just for five minutes. Little things. 

The apartment still smells like cardboard and old furniture polish. I haven’t had time to unpack properly, just opened the essentials. Clothes, tea, first- aid kit and Daisy’s stuff.

She adjusted quicker than I have. Right now, she’s curled up on the windowsill, her tail flicking  lazily as she watches pigeons argue on the ledge. Occasionally, she looks over at me with what I’m sure is pure judgement. She’s dramatic like that. But she’s been with me long enough to know the difference between my quiet and my silence.

I found her five years ago, soaked, shivering, hiding under a hospital staff car in the parking lot after a monsoon downpour. I wasn’t planning to keep her. I didn’t even know how to hold a cat properly. But she refused to leave, and I didn’t want her to. So I didn’t.

Now, we’re a team.

She waits by the door when I come home. Yells if I’m late feeding her. Sleeps on the back of the couch while I read. Headbutts me if I get lost in thought too long.

Sometimes, when I talk, she actually listens. Or pretends to.

Most nights, I tell her about the day. Not in full detail—just the edges. The patients who made it. The ones who didn’t. The moment when a heartbeat came back. The cup of tea that went cold on my desk again. The silence that followed me home.

I don’t have many people to talk to. But I’ve never really needed many.

The hospital is a world of beeping machines, sterile halls, clipped instructions, and long hours. But it’s also where I feel... steady. Useful. Present. My hands know what to do, and I trust them. That kind of focus is a gift. And a weight.

Outside of it, everything feels less certain.

I think that’s why I don’t mind being alone. I’ve built a life with clean lines. Simple routines. I wake up early, feed Daisy, make tea, and get to the hospital. I work, I try to help people, I come home. I don’t chase noise. Or chaos. Or things that don’t stay.

Simple.

Predictable.

═══════

The hospital never sleeps, but neither do I–not really. The smell of antiseptic hits me like a second alarm clock every morning, sharper than any beep from the monitors. I’ve been doing this long enough that cold, sterile corridors feel almost like home. 

I pull on my scrubs, tie the surgical cap tight, and go through the motions. Scalpel, clamps, suction, my fingers know these tools better than I know myself some days. In the operating room, there’s no room for messiness, no room for feelings. Just precise cuts, steady hands, and life hanging in the balance. 

As I made my way to the OR, the hum of the hospital's machinery and the soft beeps of monitors created a soothing background noise. I exchanged a nod with the anesthesiologist, Dr. Patel, and the nurses, familiar faces I'd worked with before.

"Scalpel," I said, my voice low and even.

The nurse handed me the instrument, and I made the first incision, the blade gliding smoothly through the skin. My hands moved with precision, the years of training and experience guiding my every move.

The patient's anatomy was slightly different from what I'd expected, and I made a mental note to adjust my technique accordingly. I worked in silence, the only sound the soft rustle of my gloves and the steady beep of the monitors.

As I dissected the tissue, I encountered a small bleed. "Suction," I said, my eyes never leaving the surgical site. The nurse quickly responded, and I suctioned out the blood, getting a clear view of the area.

The key to a successful hernia repair was to identify and ligate the hernial sac. I carefully dissected the surrounding tissue, my hands moving with deliberate slowness. The sac was more fragile than I'd anticipated, and I had to be gentle to avoid damaging it.

"Forceps," I said, and the nurse handed me the instrument. I grasped the sac, carefully ligating it with a suture. The next step was to close the defect, and I began to place the mesh graft.

The mesh had to be positioned precisely, and I took my time, ensuring it was evenly spread and securely fastened. The patient's tissue would grow into the mesh, strengthening the abdominal wall.

As I closed the incision, I felt a sense of satisfaction. The procedure had been complex, but I'd executed it flawlessly. The patient's vital signs were stable, and I nodded to the anesthesiologist.

"Everything looks good," I said. "Let's get her to recovery."

The nurses and anesthesiologist nodded, and we worked together to transfer the patient to the recovery room. I dictated my report, detailing the procedure and any complications that had arisen.

As I finished up, I reviewed the patient's chart, ensuring that all the necessary orders were in place. I scribbled a few notes, my handwriting precise and legible.

The surgery had been a success, and I felt a sense of pride and accomplishment. It was moments like these that reminded me why I'd become a surgeon – to help people, to make a difference in their lives.

I stripped off my gloves and gown, disposing of them in the designated bin. The OR was clean and sterile, ready for the next procedure. I nodded to the nurses and anesthesiologist, acknowledging their help.

"Good job, team," I said. "Let's keep up the good work."

As I left the OR, I felt a sense of calm, knowing that the patient was in good hands. The hospital was a place of healing, and I was proud to be a part of it.

I made my way to the surgeons' lounge, where I'd review the patient's charts and prepare for the next procedure. The lounge was quiet, the only sound was the rustle of papers and the occasional beep of a pager.

I sat down, pulling out the patient’s chart and reviewing the details of the case. The surgery had been a challenge,but I'd risen to it. I was a surgeon, and this was what I did best. 

—

The elevator doors were just about to close.

I reached out, slid my hand between them without thinking. They opened with a soft hiss. I wasn’t expecting anything. Just a quiet ride up after a brutal shift. I hadn’t eaten. My brain was fried. My shoulders ached. 

And then time just stopped.

I saw her.

Saloni.

The world blurred around her and I swear to God, I could hear the stupid violins. Some imaginary wind blew her hair slightly, even though we were indoors. The ding of the elevator echoed like thunder in my ears. Her eyes met mine for a second and every neuron in my body imploded.

She looked the same. Same height. Same eyes. Just older, yes but somehow still exactly how I remembered her. 

I looked away.

Not because I didn't recognize her.

Because I did.

Every cell in my body screamed her name. Ten years had passed and I still know how her presence felt in a room. Still know the shape of her silence. I still know that when she looked down and bit her lip like that, she was holding something back. 

I froze. My hand hovered near the panel like I was trying to remember how numbers worked.

“Where is my floor? Where do I live? What is this building? Who am I?  

My brain was short-circuiting and I hated how familiar that felt. 

Same reaction as always.

Same stupid, helpless flutter.

Same girl. Same everything.

Don’t look at her, don’t even breathe weirdly.

I pressed the “11” button with the cool detachment of a man who definitely wasn’t seconds away from having a cardiac event. 

I could feel her beside me, like a gravitational pull I was pretending not to notice. My heart was punching my ribs. My lungs had completely forgotten how oxygen worked. 

Ten years. Ten whole years.

And she was right next to me. 

Not a memory. Not a dream. Not the girl from the old diary page. The real thing.

“Focus, Arjun! You’re 27. You're a surgeon now. You have a beard now. You’re calm. You're  composed—

She smelled like rain and jasmine and a thousand unsaid things.

I wanted to speak. Ask her how she was. Ask her why she left. Ask if she ever thought of me.

“I missed you.” 

“Do you still hate coriander?"

“Do you still like those orange flavored candies?”

“Did you miss me, even once?”

But I couldn't dare to ask.

I felt seventeen again. Useless. In love. Standing beside her, saying nothing, because my feelings were always too big to fit into words.

I was supposed to be over this.

I had practised this moment in my head for years. I’d always imagined being cool. Detached. Unbothered. The kind of man who could nod politely and move on.

So I did what any emotionally unstable, still-devastated man would do.

I pretended I didn't recognize her.

My entire body was screaming, “SAY SOMETHING, YOU IDIOT.” My brain replied, "Absolutely not. Stay mysterious and tragic” 

She didn’t say anything either.

When the elevator dinged for the fifth floor, she practically ran out. I heard the click of her heels, the rush of air as she passed. 

I stood there like an idiot as always. 

Didn’t follow. Didn’t breathe for another five seconds. 

Just kept staring ahead, hands in my pockets, pretending this meant nothing. 

While my entire chest felt like it had been cracked open, stuffed with fireworks and lit on fire. 

Cool. very cool. 

The doors slid closed again. 

And I let out the quietest, most dramatic exhale of my life.

I don’t remember unlocking the door. 

I just remember the way my heart was still pounding, the way the elevator air had felt thick. Too full. Too her.

I didn’t even take my shoes off.

I just walked in, shut the door behind me and collapsed straight onto the floor like my soul had left my body. 

The cool tiles pressed against my cheek. I stared blankly at a dust bunny under the table.

I was going to be fine.

Really.

Totally fine.

Just…needed to lie here for a minute. Or maybe die here. Either worked.

From the hallway, I heard the unmistakable sound of tiny, disapproving paws. 

Daisy. 

She padded into the room like she paid rent, stopped in front of me and gave me that slow, silent blink that said, “oh, it’s this kind of meltdown.” 

“Don’t judge me.” I mumbled. 

I sighed into the floor. “I saw her.” 

No response. Just feline silence and a faint purr of either apathy or amusement. 

“Saloni. In the elevator.”  

Still nothing. 

I could feel Daisy kneading my shoulder with her paws. Probably looking for weakness. 

“She still looked the same.” I whispered. 

And suddenly it wasn’t funny anymore. 

My chest tightened. 

“She still looks like the girl who ruined me at seventeen. Like the only person I ever– 

I cut myself off, breath hitching. 

My fingers curled against the floor. 

I hadn’t forgotten anything. 

I still knew the way her eyes flicked to the corner of a room when she was trying not to cry. Still knew she hated loud noises and people who chewed with their mouths open. Still knew exactly how it felt to have her smile in my direction and feel the whole world tilt just slightly in my favor. I still knew her.

"I thought I moved on. I thought I healed. I really did."

Silence.

"But one stupid elevator ride and here I am back here, lying on the floor with my cat like a rom-com extra"

Daisy meowed. It felt sarcastic.

"She probably thinks I didn't even recognize her."

I groaned, turning over dramatically onto my back.

"Which is insane because I've literally spent years pretending I didn't miss her. Practicing conversations in my head. Replying that day like it was on loop. And then she shows up and my body's like 'congratulations, you're now a mute who sweats in elevators."

Daisy yawned directly on my face.

"Thank you for your support, princess."

I stared at the ceiling,blinking.

"God," I whispered, my voice rough. "I hope she didn't see my hands shaking,"

Daisy gave me a slow paw-pat on the chest. Either comfort or insult. Possibly both.

I stared at the ceiling again and for a moment, I let myself feel it. The ache. The weight of it.

Because no matter how much time had passed, no matter how neatly I'd folded that old chapter, she was still the part of my life that felt unfinished.

Saloni.

She was right there. In the same building. Breathing the same air. And I didn't know whether to be grateful or terrified.

All I knew was. I didn't stop loving her.

Not even for a moment.

I just got better at pretending I did.

DING DONG.

The doorbell cracked through the stillness like a slap.

I didn't move at first. Just stared at the ceiling, blinking.

The bell rang again. I pushed myself up and shuffled toward the door.

I wasn't expecting anyone.

Which is why I opened the door without checking who it was.

And there she was. Again.

Saloni.

I blinked.

She froze.

And for a second, I swear we both short-circuited like two ancient laptops trying to run zoom. She looked.....stunned. Like I'd ghosted into existence just to mess with her day.

Honestly? Fair. I felt the same.

She started talking. Or talking might be too generous a word. It was more like a high-speed, slightly-panicked monologue sponsored by secondhand embarrassment and emotional whiplash.

"Hi . um. I am Saloni. I live right next door. Which is obvious I guess...."

Oh God.

She was nervous.

Saloni never rambled. Not like this. Back in school, she always had the right thing to say. Poised, composed, charming in that 'school debate champion' kind of way. But this? This was....babbling.

It was adorable.

Which I hated.

"Anyway. Kheer."

She said it like it was a threat.

I stared at her. At tiffin. At her hand slightly trembling as she shoved it toward me like she was disarming a grenade. The smell of cardamom and nostalgia wafted into the hallway and knocked directly on the door of my trauma.

My mouth opened. Then closed.

Everything in was screaming,"say her name. Ask why she is here. Say something real."

But I just nodded and said,"Thanks."

Thanks.

Cool. great. Truly poetic.

She looked like I'd punched her in the soul with a single syllable. I didn't mean to but what was I supposed to say?

"Hey. wow, you look like someone who ruined me emotionally but in a really formative, poetic way."

"Hii. You still take the air out of my lungs."

She launched into another awkward little ramble. Something about the lift being broken. The tap water having PTSD. I wasn't really listening. Not because I didn't care because I cared too much and I didn't know what to do with it.

My brain was doing that thing where it played old scenes on loop. Her laughter. Her falling asleep during that awful math class. Her hand in mine the day before she left.

I looked at her now and tried to reconcile the past with the present. Same eyes. Same voice. Same everything. But also not.

This version of her was......sharper. Like life had sanded her down and rebuilt her out of steel. Still warm underneath. Still her. But there was a distance now. A hardness that hadn't been there before. And I hated that I wanted to reach across it.

She turned to leave, muttering something I didn't quite catch.

I stood there, holding a tin of kheer and a thousand of unsaid things.

Ten years.

And now this.

My stomach twisted.

I shut the door slowly and leaned back against it.

Cool, Arjun. Real smooth. You nailed the "emotionally constipated stranger" vibe.

Meanwhile the girl who once– still meant everything was five feet away and slipping through my fingers all over again.

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