Shivangi's POV

The faint scent of antiseptic mixed with jasmine floated in the air, an oddly soothing fragrance in Dr. Samarth Samarath's clinic. It was a quiet space, clinical yet not cold — as if the faint aroma was his subtle way of softening the sterile edges.

 I sat on the examination table, my fingers nervously drumming on the thin paper sheet beneath me. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, steady and constant, like a heartbeat in the background.

Every time I came here, my nerves fluttered with the same mix of hope and dread. But today, as I waited for Samarth to enter, I tried to focus on something else — the soft light filtering through the blinds, the faint rustle of papers on his desk, the muted colors of his medical degrees hanging on the wall.

The door opened quietly, and Samarth stepped in. His white coat was crisp, the stethoscope slung casually around his neck, but it was his warm smile that made the room feel less intimidating.

"Shivangi," 

he greeted, voice calm and low. 

"Good to see you again. How have you been holding up since our last visit?"

I swallowed my nerves and tried to sound steady. 

"Some days are good, some not so much. The medication helps, but there's this shadow of fear that never quite goes away."

He pulled up a chair and sat down across from me, folding his hands loosely on his lap.

 "Fear is natural," he said. "What's been worrying you the most lately?"

I hesitated, my gaze dropping to my hands. 

"You know, I'm a writer. Behind my laptop, with my stories and characters, I feel fearless. Bold even. But this..."

 I gently pressed my palm against my stomach. 

"This diagnosis, PCOS, it's like my own body is a stranger I don't recognize. It's like losing control over myself."

Samarth nodded, his eyes soft with understanding. "It's a hard thing to face. But that strength you have as a writer — that boldness you channel in your stories — it can be your anchor here, too. Writing is a way of taking back control, isn't it?"

I managed a small smile, a flicker of warmth rising in my chest. 

"Yes, exactly. In my books, I create worlds where women fight and win, where they aren't defined by what their bodies can or cannot do. Maybe that's why I keep writing — to remind myself who I really am."

He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. 

"Then maybe this diagnosis doesn't have to be a wall. Maybe it's a plot twist. Unwanted, yes — but not unbeatable. You get to decide what happens next."

I blinked at him, surprised by the analogy. "A plot twist?"

He gave a small, thoughtful smile. "You've probably written a few in your time, haven't you? Characters who feel lost until they find the strength they didn't know they had. Why should your story be any different?"

The lump in my throat returned, but this time it wasn't from fear. It was something softer, something kinder. 

"Sometimes it's just hard to see myself as the heroine."

Samarth's voice dropped a notch, gentler now. "That's the thing about heroines — they rarely see themselves that way until the end of the story. But others do. I do."

Our eyes met for a second too long, and I quickly looked away, the flush on my cheeks betraying me.

He leaned forward slightly, intrigued. 

"Tell me about your books. What worlds do you create?"

I felt a rush of excitement at the chance to share. 

"My last book was contemporary — about a woman struggling to find her voice in a chaotic world. But I'm working on something new now — a fantasy romance. It's about a girl who stumbles upon a hidden realm, full of magic and secrets, where love and power are tangled. It's about facing the truths people are scared to speak aloud."

Samarth smiled, clearly impressed.

 "Fantasy is a wonderful escape — and a powerful way to explore complex emotions. Sounds like a fascinating story."

"It helps me understand myself better, too," I admitted, my voice softer now.

 "Writing her story is like mapping my own fears and hopes. It feels like a kind of healing." I glanced at him. "Do you read fiction? Or do you have any favorite stories?"

He chuckled quietly.

 "I don't read much fiction, honestly. Most of my time is spent buried in medical journals and patient files. But I admire stories that give people hope and strength."

"That's what I want my books to do," I said, looking down briefly. 

"It's easier to be brave on paper. In real life, sometimes I feel... fragile."

His eyes held mine steadily. 

"Fragility isn't weakness, Shivangi. It's a sign you're human. Courage isn't about never being afraid; it's about moving forward despite that fear."

His words wrapped around me like a warm blanket. I felt safer here, more seen than I expected in a doctor's office.

"I wish I believed that more often," I confessed.

He nodded knowingly. "It takes time — and the right support."

I took a breath. "Thank you for being patient with me."

He smiled, a slight tilt of his head. "It's my job, but also a privilege."

There was a gentle pause, the quiet hum of the room filling the space between us. It was a rare moment of stillness in my otherwise chaotic mind — a chance to breathe, to be present.

Curiosity nudged me forward.

 "What about you, Samarth? What keeps you going through long hospital days and nights?"

He blinked, taken slightly off guard by the question. "A sense of responsibility," he answered after a moment.

 "The drive to help people. But sometimes..." His voice grew quieter, 

"I wonder if I've given up too much. Personal time, relationships, moments with family. Medicine demands a lot."

"I imagine it does," I murmured. "Sometimes I envy your world — where you can heal people directly. My work is different. I create worlds, but I don't hold anyone's life in my hands."

He smiled gently. "It's not so different. Healing can take many forms. Sometimes a story can save a life."

I felt a little shy but boldened by his sincerity. "It's not easy for me either. The pressure to succeed, to live up to my readers' expectations... and now this diagnosis. It makes me feel vulnerable."

He reached out, resting a comforting hand over mine. "You're stronger than you realize."

The simple touch sent a flutter through me. I looked down, then met his eyes, and saw something sincere — something quietly real.

"Tell me more about your heroine in the fantasy book," 

Samarth encouraged.

 "What kind of challenges does she face?"

"She's haunted by her past but has to embrace her power to fight those who want to silence her," 

I explained, growing animated. "She's scared but determined. She learns to trust herself, and slowly, those around her."

He nodded. "Sounds like a story of growth, of healing."

I laughed softly. "Maybe I'm writing my own therapy."

"Sometimes that's the best kind," he smiled.

Our conversation deepened, weaving through dreams and fears, stories and healing. The clinical walls faded, replaced by a quiet connection blossoming between two people quietly bearing wounds unseen by others.

Then I teased lightly, "So, Doctor, do you have any secret hobbies? Any hidden talents besides medicine?"

He raised an eyebrow, amusement lighting his eyes. "Secret hobbies? Well, I'm surprisingly bad at cooking but excellent at eating."

I grinned. "I could've guessed that! So, no magic spells or hidden kingdoms for you?"

He chuckled. "Only the magic of healing, I'm afraid. Though, your fantasy worlds sound a lot more exciting."

"I'll invite you to read it once it's done," I said playfully.

"Looking forward to it," he said with a wink.

As the appointment drew to a close, Samarth gave me practical advice on managing symptoms and reminded me of the next checkup. But what lingered was the warmth of our talk — the shared understanding, the slow burn of something tender and real.

Walking out of the clinic, the spring sunlight felt different somehow — softer, promising. Maybe this journey wasn't just about managing a diagnosis. Maybe it was about finding strength, hope, and trust. And maybe, just maybe, about discovering something new — in myself, and in him.