Aarav
That Afternoon — Malhotra Family Lunch
Sunday lunches at Aryka's townhouse were sacred—a standing ritual of roasted root vegetables, spiced rice pilafs, and scalding chai that promised to scald your throat if it didn't clear your sinuses first.
The terrace smelled of lemon thyme and cardamom. Karan was already camped at the head of the reclaimed wood table, cross-legged in worn jeans, scrolling through patient files on his tablet like they were bedtime stories. A half-empty cup of chai balanced on a stack of journals beside him.
Aryka moved through the open French doors, placing the last of the dishes with surgical precision, her blouse barely wrinkled, her heels clicking against stone tiles with the confidence of someone who ran a hospital and a household with equal dominance.
"Did Meera spend the night?" Karan asked, not looking up.
I glared. "Do you ever start conversations like a normal human being?"
"That was me trying," he replied, deadpan.
Aryka raised her glass of red wine, her eyes glinting. "You're glowing, Aarav."
"I'm not," I muttered.
"You're brooding with purpose," she corrected. "That's glowing, in your language."
I stabbed a roasted beet with unnecessary force. "She's… different."
"And distant?" Aryka asked, setting down her wine with care.
I said nothing.
Karan finally set down his tablet, steepling his fingers in front of his face. "She scares you."
"She doesn't."
"She makes you feel something you can't control," Aryka added, voice quiet.
"That's why you're rattled."
I exhaled. "She left. This morning. No goodbye. Just a half-smile and a cold exit."
Karan tilted his head. "And yet you're still here. Talking about her."
Because even when she walked out, she left shadows.
She was stitched into the quiet moments between surgeries. In the hiss of my espresso machine. In the way I now noticed the light changing against my walls.
Then my pager buzzed.
Level 1 trauma alert. Multiple victims inbound. Major collision. Queensborough Bridge. ETA: 4 minutes.
Everything shifted.
Karan was on his feet instantly. Aryka grabbed her coat and keys without missing a beat.
"Let's move."
Emergency Wing, Westbridge Medical
The ER exploded into action.
Fluorescent lights glared overhead, bouncing off blood-streaked stretchers as paramedics rolled in victim after victim. The scent of burnt rubber, gasoline, and raw fear clogged the air.
Screams rose and fell. Medical teams swarmed. Every second counted.
I stripped off my sweater and pulled scrubs over my clothes, snapping on gloves, a mask. Muscle memory. Armor.
"Patient One," a nurse called. "Female, late 30s. Blunt trauma to chest and abdomen. BP dropping."
"OR-2," I barked. "Now."
"Patient Three—compound fracture, femoral artery compromised!"
"Omar's got it."
A teenager wheeled in next, her face ash-pale, blood caked in her curls. My stomach twisted, but I kept moving.
"Crash cart," I snapped. "Clamp kit. We're going in, no time for scans."
And then—
Movement.
Behind the frosted divider that separated chaos from the civilian world, a figure stood still as stone.
Meera.
She was dressed in slate blue, hair pulled back, her hand clasped tightly to her chest as if anchoring herself. Eyes wide. Not terrified, but transfixed.
And yet—she didn't move.
She didn't look away.
She watched me as I reached for the scalpel.
Her gaze held mine.
Not just watched. Witnessed.
And I saw something flicker there. Respect. Fear. Want. Wonder.
Then the nurse handed me the scalpel, and I turned back to the girl on the table.
Focus. Cut. Clamp. Save.
But no matter how deep I went into that torn-open body, I couldn't cut her image from my mind.
Meera.
Still and silent behind the glass.
And for the first time since I put on gloves as a boy, I wished I could abandon the table and walk toward something instead of away from it.