Abhay stepped into the hospital at dawn, his shoes echoing down the half-lit hallway. He’d always loved the silence of early shifts. But today, something tugged at his thoughts—Savitri Amma.
Was she okay? Had she eaten?
He shook his head. No time to breathe. No time to think. He had patients to see. Feelings could wait.
Just then—
A knock.
"Nurse Jaya, sir. Emergency. Pregnant woman—seizures. Ward 9."
In seconds, the doctor in Abhay took over. He was all action.
“Magnesium sulfate, stat,” he barked, striding in. “Prep for IV—secure her airway.”
Her blood pressure was spiking. Abhay didn't flinch.
“Labetalol—start low, monitor closely. Keep oxygen on standby. Fetal monitor—now.”
The nurses moved like clockwork. It was tense—but he was calm, firm.
"Draw blood. Check electrolytes—sodium, calcium, glucose."
Results came quick. Metabolic imbalance confirmed.
“Seizures stopping,” Jaya whispered.
“Good. Call OB-GYN. ICU on standby. And book a CT. No delays.”
Abhay exhaled, just once. Crisis contained—for now.
He stepped out, already checking his rounds list on the hospital iPad.
Ward 3, post-surgical recovery. Ward 5, diabetic monitoring.
One by one, he moved through the hospital’s waking rhythm—asking, updating, listening.
Familiar pace. Familiar calm. But in between charts and vitals, her name kept brushing his mind—Savitri Amma.
Ira's POV :
It’s been five days since Amma came home.
Five days… and not once has she forgotten to make me feel loved.
Not once has she made me question my place.
Unlike my own mother—
who made me feel like a burden,
like I wasn’t meant to be born,
like dying would've been easier than existing.
Just yesterday, I snapped at someone over a call— anger, sharp and loud.
And Amma? She walked over quietly,
gently placed her hand on my head,
and asked, “Are you okay, beta?”
“Can I do something to help?”
“Can I ease your stress somehow?”
She couldn’t fix my problems.
But she cared. She asked. She stayed.
And for me… that was enough.
More than enough.
Maybe the safest I’ve ever felt — after Nani.
And now, I don’t just want to survive.
I want to live. For her.
These thoughts stayed with me as I flipped through the custody documents.
Neelu’s signature was already there—bold and heavy, like guilt turned into ink.
She had called me yesterday before lunch. Said she was willing to take Amma back.
But her in-laws and husband said no. Financial strain.
So she did the next best thing—handed Amma over to me.
The documents were clear.
Neelu aka Neelima and her brother had relinquished all rights.
They couldn’t make any legal claims unless Amma, in full memory, chose to return.
Until then—her care, her rights, her life—rested in my hands.
Not by birthright. By choice.
And today… someone else needed to know.
Doctor Abhay, I will personally and tell him all these...
He should know she’s safe.
That someone wants her.
That someone is choosing her.
I glanced at the clock. Visiting hours would start soon.
I gathered the papers, placed them neatly in a folder, and looked at Amma from across the room.
She was humming. Threading wool through a broken slipper like it was the finest embroidery.
And my heart ached.
With love. With pride.
I stood up.
I had a doctor to visit.
Ira walks into the hospital, seeking closure or clarity. When she reaches Abhay’s cabin door—she hesitates. Then knocks.
He looks up—and for a second, he freezes.
She had never come here before. Not like this. Not in his space.
Still, he says, “Come in,” too quickly. Too professionally.
Inside, she sits. Unfolds the paper. Hands it to him.
And says:
“I thought you should know. Officially… she’s mine now.”
He took the paper—silent, unread.
His eyes, though, stayed on her face. That smile... it wasn’t just relief.
It was belonging. Purpose. Maybe even pride.
“I can’t promise I’ll do everything right,” she added, softer now.
“But I’ll do my best. She’s... home.”
He nodded, finally looking down at the document.
And for a brief second—just one—his lips curved.
A smile.
“Good,” he said. “She deserves someone like you.”
Ira hesitated, fingers tapping lightly on the folder in her lap.
“There’s just one thing,” she said. “I’m… scared.”
Abhay looked up. “Of what?”
“She has Alzheimer’s. I don’t know how to care for that yet. I want to bring her for a follow-up, but… the hospital might trigger her. Stress her. I’m worried it’ll remind her of the day everything happened.”
A pause.
“I mean… if it’s okay, could I text you? Just if I need help. Or guidance. Not often, just—”
Abhay reached into his coat, already pulling out a card.
“Of course,” he said, scribbling something on the back. “Here’s my number. Personal one. Call anytime.”
She smiled, sliding the card into her bag like it was something precious.
She said, “I’ll text you. So you have my number too.”
Abhay smiled faintly, that rare, real kind.
“Looking forward to your message,” he said.
Ira stood, smoothing her kurti awkwardly.
They both hesitated—then, at the same time, reached out for a handshake.
It was brief… but not cold.
Warm. Steady.
Like an unspoken promise of being there.
Ira’s thoughts:
I don’t know him… not really.
And still—my heart beats faster near him.
Safe, somehow. Unusual… but unique.
She stepped out of his cabin, the card still tucked safely in her bag.
A soft smile curled on her lips as she whispered to herself,
“Looking forward to talk to you, Dr. Abhay…”
“I want to know you. You’re becoming something… special.
I don’t understand this feeling yet, but I know I like it.”
Inside the cabin, Abhay watched the door for a moment longer than necessary.
Then looked down at his desk, hiding the quiet smile that had crept onto his face.
"Strange girl," he murmured softly—
“And I’ll have her number soon,” he thought.
Strange how that one thought could make the morning feel a little less heavy. And for reasons he didn’t want to name yet… that made him oddly happy.
Later That Night :
At his home, Abhay lay on his bed, lights dim, a medical journal half-read and resting on his chest.
His mind kept thinking about — the way Ira spoke about Amma. To her determination. Her softness. Her strength.
She didn’t just take responsibility… she chose it. That made him proud. And curious.
A vibration.
He looked at his phone.
Message from: Ira :
Just one word:
Hey!
And still, it made him smile.
At her place, Ira was curled under her blanket, the room quiet, the lights low.
On her screen, the message was typed, cursor blinking beside one word—“Hey!”
And just above it, his name glowed softly:
Doctor Sahab 🩺
Not "Abhay", not "Doc", not even "Sir".
Just… Doctor Sahab.
Because that’s what he felt like to her—safe, dependable, a little intimidating, and yet... oddly comforting.
Her thumb hovered over the send button.
She stared at it. Bit her lip. Changed it to “Hi.” Then again to “Hey!”
She sighed, laughed softly to herself, and finally tapped Send.
Then tucked the phone under her pillow, cheeks warm.
Ira’s thoughts:
Why am I nervous? I don’t even know him properly.
But something about him feels… steady. Like I could fall apart and he’d still be there.
I like that.
I like him?
Maybe.
She smiled into her pillow, whispering to herself—
"Goodnight, Doctor Sahab."
Back in his room, Abhay read the message again. Smiled wider this time.
And typed back:
“Hey. I was hoping you’d message.”
Then placed the phone on the table and stared at the ceiling, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"Strange girl," he murmured. "What are you doing to me?"
and slept a little lighter that night.
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