Prologue

Before to start it, a quick thing for you all to know —

I've to edit this prologue due to some personal reasons, so those who have read it before should definitely read the new version again.

Now enjoy this.

*****

After seven years, I stepped back onto the soil of the same country I’d left behind.

To be honest? Nothing had changed that much.

I stood at the airport, luggage at my feet, scanning the crowd. Then I saw him — Dad — walking toward me with Trisha beside him.

"Good morning, Dad", I said, bending to touch his feet.

"Stay happy forever, beta. Keep growing", he said, pulling me into a tight hug. His grip was stronger than I remembered. Or maybe I was just weaker.

"Bhai…!", A sweet voice called from a few steps behind.

Trisha ran to me and threw her arms around my neck. I hugged her back, arms crossed over her shoulders like I used to when she was little.

"I missed you so much, Trisha".

"I missed you too", she said, her smile brighter than the Delhi sun outside.

"Ab ghar chalein ya saari baatein yahin karni hain ?", Dad asked, raising an eyebrow.

(Should we go home now or do we have to do everything here ?).

We both chuckled, and then we were walking out — together — toward home.

The rituals were done. Aarti, tilak, sweets shoved into my mouth before I could even wash the flight off my skin.

Now I was finally sitting in my old room. Quiet. Still. My sukoon.

"Beta, I know you’re tired, but jaake, apne dad ki medicine le aaoge?", Mom’s voice floated in from the doorway.

(Beta, I know you're tired, but Jaake, will you bring your dad's medicine?).

I nodded and got up. Went to my room to throw on something decent.

"Bhai, aapko pata hai na kis hospital mein jaana hai? Kya pata aapko apni mohabbat mil jaye wahan?", Trisha said, leaning against my doorframe. I was adjusting my coat in the mirror.

(Bro, do you know which hospital to go to? Who knows, you might find your love there?).

"Don’t worry, I know. Mom ne bataya hai", I said, not meeting her eyes in the reflection.

(Mom told me).

"Kyun, aap aaj bhi apni mohabbat nahin bhool paaye?", she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

(Why, have you not forgotten your love even today?).

Her question hit harder than it should have. My heart slipped for a second.

I don’t want to recall my past. But it’s true — because of my past, I can’t love anyone else now. There’s just… no space left.

"Itna guroor hai aapko apne pyaar par? Jo door jaake bhi wapas aayegi?", she asked again, softer this time. But the words cut deeper.

(Are you so proud of your love that it will come back even if you go away?).

"Tum guroor ki baat karti ho? Mere bina kuch kahe meri aankhein padh leti thi woh…", I said.

(Are you talking about pride? She could read my eyes without me saying anything…).

And this time, I was back there. In those moments. Moisture pooled in my eyes before I could stop it.

"Bhai…", she said, her voice dropping.

I didn’t answer. Just wiped my eyes and walked out of the room.

Outside, I got into my Porsche and drove away. The engine’s roar didn’t drown out in the past. Nothing ever does.

After a one-hour surgery, I stepped out of the OT. Ripped off my mask, sanitized my hands until they were raw, and walked into my cabin.

Files. More files. The only thing that kept my brain from spiraling.

Just then, Raghav bhai walked in.

"Tum apna lunch bhool gayi thi", he said, setting the tiffin box on my table.

(You forgot your lunch).

"Areyy, iski kya zaroorat thi? Canteen mein kha leti", I said. He frowned.

(Areyy, what was the need for this? I'll eat it in the canteen).

"Kyun? It’s okay", he replied.

(Why? It's okay).

Then his eyes caught the bracelet still lying on my desk. The silver one. His one.

"Yeh abhi bhi yahin hai?", he asked, holding it up between two fingers.

(Is it still here?).

I froze.

"Woh…", I looked at it. No words came out. My throat closed up.

"Abhi bhi waqt hai, Ishu. Mom ko sab bata do", he said, turning around to face me.

(There's still time, Ishu. Tell Mom everything).

"I can’t, bhai. Mujhse nahi hoga", I replied, my gaze fixed on the floor. On my shoes. Anywhere but him. Anywhere but the bracelet.

(I can't).

"You still love him. Kyun apne aap ko aur dard de rahi ho ?", he said, tilting my chin up with his hand.

(You still love him. Why are you hurting yourself more ?).

"Dard nahi. Apne aap ko ek nayi zindagi de rahi hoon", I replied.

(I am not giving you pain, I am giving you a new life).

My voice was steady. My heart was shattered.

"Anyways, I’ve to go. Meri night shift hai", he said and I nodded.

(Anyways, I've to go. I have a night shift).

"Khayal rakhna apna", he said, pulling me into a hug.

(Take care of yourself).

"Aap bhi", I whispered into his shoulder.

(You too).

He left. I sat back down and stared at the files again. Letters blurred together.

Then — knock.

"Come in", I said, without looking up.

I gave the permission to open, and I froze.

My eyes caught the same figure that was busy talking on the phone. Broad shoulders in a charcoal suit. Neatly combed hair that used to be messy on purpose. A trimmed beard along a jawline. He turned around and —

And our eyes met.

My mind stopped working. Full shutdown.

The suit — he used to hate suits. The hair — he used to run his hands through it until it stood in every direction. The beard — new. But the eyes…

"Aaj bhi siyaahi se range wali aur gehri".

(Inked yet deep, exactly the same).

He was the same person I asked for in every prayer, every diya, every sleepless night for seven years.

Lekin is tarah se meri duaon ka jawab mile, yeh nahi socha tha maine.

(But I had not thought that my prayers would be answered in this way).

He wasn’t moving. Wasn’t lowering his gaze like he always used to do when he got caught staring. He just… stood there. Looking at me like the seven years were seven seconds.

I pushed my chair back. The legs screeched against the floor. I stood up. My hands were shaking.

He ended the call. Slipped the phone into his pocket. One motion. Smooth. Controlled.

We were ten feet apart. A desk, seven years, and a thousand unsaid words between us.

"Shreyansh", I breathed. I didn’t mean to say it out loud.

His jaw ticked. Just once. But I saw it. I always saw it.

"Ishani", he said. My name escaped his lips after years.

Softly.

Almost like a prayer.

My heart trembled.

My name. Not Ishu. Not Tomato. Just… Ishani. Like he was testing if it still fit in his mouth after all this time.

The room felt smaller. The air felt thicker. The world around me blurred. His gaze was fixed on me just as mine was fixed on him.

There were thousands of questions in those dark eyes. Questions I was afraid to answer. Questions I had spent seven years running away from.

My fingers tightened around the edge of the table. He slowly walked towards my desk. Each step felt heavier than the last.

As if he too was struggling to believe that I was really standing in front of him.

There was a time when hearing my name from him was enough to make my entire day beautiful.

Today it was enough to break me. I lowered my gaze. Because if I looked at him for one more second, I would cry.

"Please sit," I said professionally.

My voice sounded unfamiliar even to me. Cold, distant, formal.

As if we were strangers. As if we had never shared dreams.

His jaw clenched.

I noticed it.

He pulled a chair and sat down opposite me. For a few moments silence filled the room.

Painful silence.

The kind that screams louder than words

I opened his prescription file.

"Patient's name?" I asked.

His eyes widened. I knew they would. He gave a bitter smile.

"Namik Oberoi, my father", he said looking down.

The same voice, The same calmness, The same effect on me.

I quickly looked at the file.

"Problem?", I asked.

"I'm here for my father's medicine", he said his gaze was still fixed down.

I nodded.

"Reports ?", I asked, putting all the files aside.

He handed me the documents. Our fingers accidentally brushed.

A tiny touch.

Barely a second.

Yet it felt powerful enough to bring back seven years of memories.

I immediately pulled my hand away.

He noticed.

He always noticed everything about me.

I started checking the reports.

"Mr. Oberoi, these medicines can continue for another month", I said looking at him.

He let out a small laugh.

"What ?", I asked.

"Mr. Oberoi ?", he said, this time turning his gaze at me.

I froze.

His eyes turned moist.

"Seven years ago I was Shreyansh for you", he said and the file skipped from my hand.

I looked away, because I had no answer.

What answer could I possibly give? That I still remembered every promise? That I still remembered every dream? That I still carried his bracelet in my drawer?

No. I couldn't.

And I was still living with that choice.

"I think we're done," I said quietly, putting my coat on my chair.

He didn't interrupt, he just simply nodded.

I couldn’t stay in that cabin. Not with him standing there, all steel and cedarwood and unshed tears. Not when the air between us felt like it might catch fire.

"I'll… get the medicines from the pharmacy myself", I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I didn’t wait for him to respond. Just grabbed my coat and walked past him, toward the door.

He followed. Of course he followed. Two steps behind me, silent, like a shadow I’d carried for seven years.

The hallway was busy — nurses with charts, interns rushing, the constant beeping of monitors. Normal hospital chaos. But all I could hear was his footsteps behind mine. Measured. Controlled. The same rhythm he used to walk beside me to college, back when we didn’t need words.

We reached the elevator. I pressed the button. The metal doors slid open with a soft ding.

We stepped in. Alone.

The doors closed.

And suddenly, the whole world narrowed to this tiny box. Him. Me. Seven years of silence pressing against the walls.

I stared at the floor numbers, counting. Third. Second. First. My heart was beating faster than it should for a doctor who’d handled code blues without flinching.

Then it happened.

My dupatta — the pale blue one I’d thrown on this morning without thinking — slid off my shoulder. Slow, like it was waiting for this moment. Like it remembered.

I gasped. Moved to catch it.

But before the fabric could even brush the ground, his hand was there.

He picked it up.

One smooth motion. No hesitation. No awkward fumbling. Like his body remembered this before his brain did. Like it was muscle memory.

He held it out to me. Our fingers didn’t touch this time. He was careful about that.

"Thank you", I said, taking it from him. I couldn’t look at him. Looked at the elevator buttons instead. At my shoes. Anywhere but his face.

He just smiled.

Not the polite, distant smile he’d given me in the cabin.

His smile. Small. Crooked on the left side. The one that used to show up when I did something stupid like trip over nothing and blame the floor.

My chest hurts.

And I’m not going to lie — whenever my dupatta slides down from my shoulder, he always picks it up.

College. Library. Rainy days under one umbrella. Late-night study sessions where I’d fall asleep on his notes. Every single time, his hands were there before the fabric could touch the ground. Like he had some unspoken rule: Ishani’s dupatta doesn’t kiss the floor. Not on my watch.

Some things don’t change. Even after seven years. Even after goodbyes and countries and silence.

The elevator dinged again. Ground floor.

The doors opened.

I stepped out first. Too fast. Needed air that didn’t smell like him.

But he was right behind me. And then —

Our eyes met.

Really met.

Not the shocked, guarded collision in my cabin. Not the quick, professional glance over a prescription.

For the first time in seven years, we shared an eye contact that wasn’t laced with anger or formality or pain.

It was just… recognition.

Like two people finding each other in a crowded room. Like coming home after a war.

His inky eyes searched mine. No walls this time. No steel. Just Shreyansh. The boy who used to read my eyes without me saying a word.

And I knew — he was remembering too. The dupatta. The library. The thousand times before this.

My breath caught.

Seven years.

And in one look, it all came rushing back. The pharmacy counter was three feet away.

But neither of us moved.

Because for the first time since he walked back into my life an hour ago, we weren’t Doctor and Patient.

We weren’t strangers.

We were just… Ishani and Shreyansh.

And my stupid, traitorous heart forgot that we were supposed to be over.

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THE PROLOGUE HAS ENDED AND IF YOU LIKED IT THEN DON'T FORGET TO DROP A COMMENT AND VOTE.

Also tell me what changes should I do to make it more better, till then take care and good bye we will meet in the next part.

Happy reading

Yours, author riitu 🎀

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