"Sometimes, two souls meet not by accident but by fate — to heal, to grow, and to discover that perhaps, love was waiting all along."

Shivangi's POV

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, unmoving, unwilling. The blank document stared back at me — not just a space waiting to be filled, but a mocking mirror of my scattered thoughts, my fragmented self. I stared, unblinking, as if willing inspiration to pour out of me. But the chaos inside wasn't just emotional anymore.

 It had morphed into something far more insidious. Physical. Tangible. My joints ached as though I'd aged a decade overnight, my abdomen throbbed with a fatigue I couldn't justify, and every time I caught my reflection in the mirror, I recoiled. It felt like looking at someone I barely recognized — someone inhabiting a body that had turned foreign, almost hostile.

The sari I had chosen for the book launch still hung on the back of my bedroom chair, its sequins catching stray sunlight, its silk rippling like a memory I didn't want to revisit. I hadn't dared touch it again. That evening, I had felt bloated, mismatched, undone. So instead, I had worn a simple pale-blue kurta — soft cotton, flowing, forgiving. It didn't cling.

 It didn't judge. It had hidden what I needed hidden. People said I looked elegant. Classy. "Understated grace," one reviewer had posted on Instagram. But I hadn't felt it. Not for a second. I had felt like I was playacting — pretending to be the woman who had written that book, those words, that story.

"Another anxiety attack?" 

I murmured to myself, pressing my fingers to my temples as a dull ache bloomed behind my eyes — not quite a headache, but something more intrusive. More consuming. I had become intimately familiar with this haze, this blurring of reality, where thoughts tangled and clarity became a luxury.

The phone buzzed beside me, slicing through the stillness. I flinched instinctively, my heart skipping a beat as if startled back into awareness.

Dr. Samarth Randhawa:
Hope you're taking your medication regularly, Ms. Khanna. Stay hydrated and don't skip meals. Remember, symptoms can be managed. One step at a time.

His messages were always like this — concise, clinical, yet strangely comforting. He reminded me of calm in a storm. Of safety without expectation. I stared at the screen far longer than necessary, tracing each word as though trying to extract warmth from pixels.

I finally typed out a response, fingers trembling only slightly.

Me:
I'm trying. Today's a slow day.

He didn't reply immediately. I hadn't expected him to. Doctors were busy. Their lives were full of urgent cases, sterile corridors, and beeping monitors. And he wasn't my therapist, after all. He was my gynecologist. My very serious, very professional gynecologist. 

But still... the way he said my name. Shivangi. Not 'patient', not 'Ms. Khanna' — just Shivangi. That softness in his tone had lingered in my mind far longer than I cared to admit.

With a slow breath, my fingers finally found movement again.

"Her body betrayed her, again and again, but she still held her spine like steel, her words like a sword, and her silence like a sanctuary."

I paused, rereading what I had just written. It felt raw. Vulnerable. And maybe that was okay. Maybe for once, raw was real — not polished for the sake of aesthetics, not perfected for applause. Just honest.

I closed the laptop, the screen fading to black, and stepped out onto the balcony. The Mumbai skyline stretched before me — a chaotic mural of contradictions. Towers and slums. Dreams and despair. Everything and nothing, all at once. The city felt like me. Layered. Exhausted. Trying.

I remembered that moment on the launch stage — how I had nearly cried, how the applause had felt too loud, too sudden. How my knees had shaken beneath my kurta as I read the first excerpt, the words sounding foreign in my own voice. 

And then, how my heart had fluttered later that evening when I had seen his message waiting on my phone:

Dr. Samarth:
Saw the live. You were strong. The words were too. I'm glad you didn't let your symptoms stop you.

He hadn't known that I'd almost cancelled last minute. That I had broken down in the washroom ten minutes before the event. That I had considered faking a fever. I hadn't told him I was scared. I hadn't told anyone.

But tonight... the silence felt louder than usual. Heavier. And I needed something more than breathing techniques and journaling. I needed to hear his voice.

Before I could overthink, I called him.

It rang twice.

"Shivangi?"

Just hearing my name — that simple, unhurried syllable — made my shoulders relax.

"Sorry for calling so late,"

 I said softly. 

"I just... I couldn't sleep."

"Symptoms acting up again?"

 he asked, and I could hear the concern laced gently beneath the neutrality.

"No. Just... thoughts."

There was a pause. A breath. A shift in energy.

"Want to talk?"

I nodded instinctively, then caught myself. 

"Yes,"

 I whispered. 

"I do."

And he listened. Really listened. Not like a doctor gathering data, but like a person trying to understand. He didn't interrupt. Didn't offer rushed reassurances. His silence was safe, not awkward. And when I finally stopped talking — when the dam of words had broken and the flood had settled — his voice came low and warm.

"They never teach us this in med school — how much healing starts with just being heard."

I smiled. Not a big smile. Just enough to feel the curve of my lips and know it was real.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Anytime,"

 he said. 

"You're not alone in this."

And that night — for the first time in weeks — I slept. Deeply. Without dreams. Without dread.

Samarth's POV

There are patients you treat and then forget. And then there are patients who linger — not because of the diagnosis, but because something in them reflects something in you. Familiar. Undeniable.

Shivangi Khanna was one of those.

The night she called, her voice was a delicate tremor — like the moment just before monsoon thunder. Fragile, yet powerful. And beneath that tremor, there was something else too. A quiet, resilient strength. It drew me in. Not romantically — not yet. But undeniably.

I had spent most of my life as an island. Not by choice, but by design. Medicine demanded solitude. Sleep became a myth. Relationships felt like interruptions. Over time, I had learned to love the silence between emergencies — to fill the gaps with purpose instead of people.

I didn't believe in love at first sight. But I did believe in energy. In connections that didn't demand logic. And Shivangi... she was that quiet connection. The kind that didn't shout but settled into your bones. 

The kind that simmered beneath the surface and made you wonder what it could become — if you let it.

After our call, I couldn't sleep either. I opened my laptop and found myself watching her latest interview. Not as a fan. Not as a doctor. But as someone trying to understand her better.

"I write because my silence was once used against me," 

she said.

The words hit hard. They weren't just poetic. They were lived. Carved from pain. And I found myself wondering — what silence had she endured? What had she buried in her chest before learning to bleed it onto pages?

By 9 AM, I was at my clinic. Early, as usual. But that morning, the stillness felt different. She wasn't due for another two days, yet I checked the appointment schedule three times. I had never done that for a patient before.

Focus, Samarth. You're projecting.

I shook my head, forcing myself to review other case files. But hers — PCOS. Irregular cycles. Insulin resistance. Symptoms flaring. Emotional volatility. The file was clinical, factual, impersonal.

But the woman behind the file? Anything but.

Two days later, she walked in. No makeup. Simple cotton kurta. Her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and her eyes — though tired — still held that glint. That flicker of fire that refused to die out.

"Hey," she said, voice tentative.

"Hi," I replied, doing my best to remain... composed. Professional. Unaffected.

We began with routine questions. I asked her about her sleep, her appetite, her moods. She answered honestly. No sugarcoating.

"It's like my body is angry at me,"

 she murmured. 

"Like it's punishing me for something I don't remember doing."

I leaned forward slightly, not out of protocol, but instinct.

"Your body isn't your enemy, Shivangi. It's confused. Overworked. Misunderstood. You two need to become a team again."

Her gaze lifted to meet mine. Her lashes fluttered, her lips parted. "You say that like it's easy."

"It's not,"

 I said, and meant it. 

"But it's worth it."

We adjusted her medication. Talked about meal rhythms, portion control, movement without pressure. I gave her notes. She listened. Took it all in.

Then, just as she was about to leave, she turned back.

"Do you think I'll ever feel... normal?"

The word normal hung heavy in the room. Loaded. Painful.

"Better than normal," 

I said slowly. 

"You'll feel powerful. Because you'll know how hard you worked to get there. And no one will be able to take that from you."

She smiled. Small. Wavering. But real. And in that instant, something shifted. Not in a romantic way. Not yet. But something subtle. Quiet. A thread pulled taut between us.

This was more than a treatment plan. More than hormones and prescriptions. This was the beginning of something unnamed.

But we'd both feel it — heartbeat by heartbeat.