After dinner, the household slowly retreated into silence, each member disappearing into their own rooms, leaving behind only the faint clatter of dishes being cleared away. In her chamber, Arhaana sat before the tall mirror, the warm glow of a lone lamp softening her reflection. Her delicate fingers moved slowly, unclasping the heavy earrings that had tugged at her ears all evening. One by one, she removed each ornament—the necklace, the bangles, the rings—placing them carefully on the velvet-lined tray before her.
As the jewelry came off, her face appeared lighter, almost vulnerable, no longer hidden behind the glittering armor she had worn at dinner. Her gaze lingered on her own eyes in the mirror. They seemed restless, holding unspoken thoughts. A sigh escaped her lips as she tucked back a loose strand of hair, her mind wandering to the words left unsaid at the table, the emotions she had kept carefully buried beneath her smile.
The silence of the room pressed closer, broken only by the soft rustle of her silk dupatta sliding off her shoulder. In that quiet, she wasn't just undressing from her ornaments—she was peeling away the roles she had played throughout the day, layer by layer, until only her unguarded self remained, staring back at her from the mirror.
Then her eyes fell upon the note, resting on the corner of the dressing table. It was kept so carefully, so precisely aligned, as though even the gentlest breath of wind might disturb it, scratch it, or steal it away. The paper seemed to hold a weight far heavier than its fragile folds—like a secret waiting to be touched, yet demanding reverence.
Her hand hovered in the air for a long moment, trembling with hesitation, as though the space between her and the note carried the weight of a thousand questions. At last, she reached for it, her fingers grazing the crisp edge of the folded paper. In the mirror, her reflection seemed to study her anxiously, as if it too feared what lay ahead.
The neatly written number stared back at her, every digit carved into the paper with quiet importance. It wasn't just a number—it was a bridge to the man who was soon to become her husband, a stranger who was about to step into the most intimate corners of her life.
Her heart thudded unevenly as she reached for her phone, her breath shallow. She had never spoken to him alone before; the very thought made her palms damp. Yet, behind the veil of nervousness, there was a spark of curiosity—What kind of man was he? Would his voice sound kind? Would he try to understand her silences?
With trembling fingers, she began to dial, each press of the keypad echoing in the quiet room, sounding louder than it should—like the ticking of a clock that marked the beginning of something she could neither stop nor escape.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Each tone stretched the silence, making her heartbeat louder in her ears. Just as she thought he might not answer, the line clicked.
"Hello?" A calm, deep voice spoke, steady yet cautious.
Arhaana froze. For a moment, words deserted her. She clutched the phone tighter, her throat dry. Finally, in a voice barely above a whisper, she managed,
"Hello... it's me. Arhaana."
There was a pause—just long enough for her nerves to spike again—before his tone softened.
"I know," he said gently. "I was hoping you'd call."
Her chest tightened at the unexpected warmth in his words. She had imagined the conversation a hundred different ways—stiff, formal, filled with awkward politeness—but this was different.
"Are you... doing som..something?" Arhaana asked, her voice hesitant, almost tripping over the words. She bit her lower lip the moment the question escaped, scolding herself silently for sounding so foolish.
There was a faint rustle on the other end, followed by his gentle reply. "Uhh... just office work," he said, flipping through some papers. His tone wasn't irritated—if anything, it was calm, patient.
Arhaana's fingers tightened around the phone. "It's okay," she said softly, her voice laced with shyness. "We can talk some other day. You should... you should finish your work."
For a second, silence lingered. Then his voice came back, quick and a little hurried, almost afraid she might hang up.
"No—wait. Just give me two minutes, I'll wrap it up."
Her heart skipped. The way he said it—firm yet gentle—carried something unspoken, something that told her he wanted this conversation as much as she did.
She held the phone close, hearing faint shuffles and the click of a drawer as he hurried to put his work aside. The quiet stretch of seconds made her pulse thrum faster. For the first time in years, she was nervous about a simple conversation.
Then his voice returned, a little breathless, as though he had rushed back.
"Done. Now... I'm all yours," he said softly, and though his words were simple, they carried a warmth that made her cheeks flush.
Arhaana lowered her eyes, though he could not see her. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to," he cut in gently. "Work can wait. You can't."
Her lips curved into a small, involuntary smile, one she tried to hide even from herself. She fidgeted with the edge of her dupatta, searching for the right words, but all that spilled out was, "I... don't know what to talk about."
He chuckled lightly, the sound deep and reassuring, easing some of her nervousness. "Then let me start. Tell me... do you always bite your lip when you're nervous?"
Her eyes widened, her free hand instinctively flying to her lips. "How... how did you—?" she stammered, flustered.
"I noticed," he said, amusement lacing his voice.
For a moment, she didn't know whether to be embarrassed or relieved. But as his laughter faded into a calm stillness, she realized—this didn't feel like a conversation between strangers anymore. It felt like the first fragile thread of something that might grow.
Arhaana's fingers toyed with the corner of the bedsheet as she searched for words. Her voice came out soft, almost apologetic.
"I... don't really talk much. I might bore you."
"Then let me be bored by you," he replied instantly, the playful seriousness in his tone making her heart flutter.
She bit back a smile, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. "You're strange."
"And you're honest," he countered gently. "I like that."
The line went quiet for a moment, not heavy or uncomfortable, but filled with an unspoken awareness. She could hear the faint rhythm of his breathing, steady and calm, and somehow it steadied her too.
Her lips curved into a small smile. "You did look a little... tired."
"And you," he said gently, "looked beautiful. Even when you were tired."
Arhaana's breath caught, and she quickly lowered her gaze though he couldn't see her. "Don't say things like that..." she whispered.
"Why not?" he asked, his tone calm, honest. "It's true."
Silence stretched again, but this time her heart beat a little faster, not from nervousness but from the unfamiliar warmth in his words.
Her heart softened at that. She wasn't used to someone noticing the small effort behind her actions. For the first time that evening, the nervousness in her chest eased, replaced by a quiet comfort.
Her heart softened at that. She wasn't used to someone noticing the small effort behind her actions. For the first time that evening, the nervousness in her chest eased, replaced by a quiet comfort.
There was a pause before he spoke again, his voice low.
"It felt... nice, sitting beside you today."
Her lips curved faintly. "Even if we hardly talked?"
"Yes," he said simply. "Even then."
Silence lingered, both of them smiling quietly into the phone, neither sure what to say next.
"Goodnight, Arhaana," he said at last, her name careful on his tongue.
She whispered back, "Goodnight."
Neither of them hung up right away—holding the line just a few seconds longer, as if letting go too soon would break the fragile newness between them.
After the call ended, Arhaana set her phone aside, the faint smile still lingering on her lips. She slipped under the covers, her body heavy from the long day, but her heart unexpectedly light.
For the first time in a long while, she felt her thoughts quieten. No worries of tomorrow, no lingering weight of the day—just the memory of his gentle voice still echoing in her ears.
That night, she drifted into sleep peacefully, as if perhaps this was the beginning of her cure—the comfort she hadn't even known she was searching for.
The Raghuvanshi mansion woke up to a chirpy morning. The soft chime of the temple bell echoed through the halls, carrying a sense of calm. Fresh flowers had been brought from the garden and carefully placed in the mandir, their fragrance filling the air with sweetness.
One by one, every family member gathered on time for the morning pooja. The quiet murmurs of prayers, the crackle of the ghee diya, and the rhythm of mantras created a warmth that seemed to settle over the entire household.
Everyone began singing the aarti together, their voices blending in gentle rhythm with the sound of the temple bell. The glow of diyas lit up the mandir, filling the mansion with warmth.
When the aarti ended, all bowed their heads to take blessings. The eldest couple stepped forward, smiling softly as they offered prasad. One by one, every family member received it, followed by the guards, maids, servants, and chefs—because in the Raghuvanshi house, blessings were shared with all alike.
After the pooja, everyone moved towards the dining table for breakfast. The air was filled with light chatter, the clinking of plates, and the fragrance of fresh parathas and tea.
Just then, Vihaan walked in, phone pressed to his ear, his tone sharp and commanding.
"Do as you want, but I want the deal finalized by 4 p.m. I won't hear any excuses—keep that in your mind," he barked before cutting the call.
With a frustrated sigh, he ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. The contrast between the calm of the morning prayers and his fierce energy was enough to make a few heads at the table glance his way.
Vihaan pulled out a chair and sat down, unbuttoning his suit jacket as the maid quickly placed his breakfast in front of him. Without a word, he picked up a sandwich and began eating, still carrying the sharpness of his earlier call.
It was only after a few bites that he noticed the silence—his brothers and sisters staring at him from across the table.
He looked up, brows raising slightly.
"What?" he asked, his voice flat, chewing as he spoke.
"Bro... our vacations have started, so we were thinking maybe we should plan a fa... fa–family trip," Aryan suggested, his voice shaky as he gulped hard. He dared to glance up, only to be met with Vihaan's unreadable, stoic eyes.
Before the silence could stretch, Anaya quickly jumped in, her face lighting up with excitement.
"And we'll invite bhabhi and her family too! It'll be fun, naa?" she added, her tone hopeful, almost trying to soften her brother's stern expression.
"Wah, beta, it's a nice idea," his chachi said approvingly, her smile gentle as she looked around the table. The elders nodded in agreement, clearly liking the thought of a family trip.
"Kya khayal hai, bhaiyaa?" Shreyansh added with a teasing grin, raising his eyebrows knowingly, as if trying to pull a reaction out of Vihaan.
Vihaan's gaze swept across the table, the corners of his jaw tightening as if he was about to dismiss the idea altogether. But when he noticed everyone's hopeful faces—especially the elders waiting for his answer—his sternness faltered for the first time that morning.
He cleared his throat, setting his sandwich down slowly.
"...Fine," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though the faint edge of hesitation gave him away. "We'll plan it."
Aryan's eyes widened in disbelief, while Anaya clapped her hands together with excitement. Shreyansh smirked knowingly, leaning back in his chair.
"Arre wah, bhaiyaa agreed so easily? Lagta hai bhabhi ka magic already working," he teased.
Vihaan shot him a glare, but the slight nervous flicker in his eyes only made his siblings grin wider.
The chatter at the dining table grew louder as everyone threw ideas back and forth.
"Shimla ke pahad acche rahenge," one uncle suggested.
"No, no," chachi shook her head, "beach pe jaayenge toh sab relax karenge."
Shreyansh smirked. "Bas, don't ask bhaiyaa, he'll pick his office over mountains and beaches both."
Vihaan shot him a glare, but before he could answer, Dadi's voice cut through the noise. Calm, steady, and full of warmth.
"Why not Rajasthan?" she said, her eyes lighting up. "There's a royal haveli our family once visited—big enough for all of us. The atmosphere will be festive, and Arhaana's family can join us there too. It will feel like a proper celebration."
The table fell quiet for a moment before everyone's eyes brightened.
"Wah, what an idea, Maa ." Chachu agreed, smiling.
"Royal palace stay... that sounds like once-in-a-lifetime," Aryan said in awe.
"Imagine the pictures!" Anaya clapped excitedly.
Shreyansh leaned toward Vihaan, his grin mischievous. "And bhaiyaa can play Raja sa, with his Rani-sa next to him."
The siblings burst into laughter, while Vihaan tried to mask his nervous cough with a sip of juice. "Enough nonsense," he muttered, but his ears had turned faintly red, giving him away.
The elders, meanwhile, had already begun planning dates and details, the idea of Rajasthan settling into everyone's heart like the most natural choice.
Everyone was still laughing at Shreyansh's teasing when Vihaan's phone pinged on the table. He glanced down, expecting some work mail, but the moment he saw the name flashing on the screen, his lips curved into the faintest smile.
Strawberry❤️
"Hiii.."
"Good morning💫"
Vihaan
"Good morning strawberry❤️"
Strawberry❤️
"Kya kar rahe hai....?"
Vihaan
"Breakfast...."
"Aapne kiyaa...?"
Strawberry❤️
"Haan.... thodi der pehle ."
Vihaan
"Good..."
"AHMM, AHMM."
The synchronized coughs made Vihaan finally look up from his phone. The faint blush still lingered across his face, but his expression quickly hardened back into its usual stern mask.
"Maa, I'm going to the office," he said curtly, rising from his chair. His sharp gaze flicked to his brother. "And yes, Shreyansh—I think you're a little too free for my liking."
The iciness in his tone made Shreyansh gulp and sink back into his seat. Before anyone else could add another word, Vihaan buttoned his coat and strode out, his younger brother trailing behind with a sulky face.
Once the table quieted, Ashok cleared his throat and reached for his phone. "I should call Nitin ji," he said thoughtfully, dialing Arhaana's father to share the news of the family trip they were planning.
Ashok leaned back in his chair as the call connected.
"Namaste, Nitin ji," he greeted warmly.
"Namaste, Ashok bhai sahab," came the polite reply. "How are you all?"
"All well, all well," Ashok said with a smile. "Actually, I was calling with a small idea. The kids' vacations have started, and the elders thought it would be nice to plan a family trip together. What better way for both families to spend some time and let the children bond more closely?"
There was a brief pause on the other end before Nitin chuckled softly. "That is indeed a wonderful thought. Arhaana will be happy to hear this—she has been a little... quiet since the roka. Perhaps such a trip will cheer her up."
"Exactly my thought," Ashok said, his voice warm. "We'll handle all the arrangements. You just keep yourself and the family free."
"Of course," Nitin agreed. "Tell everyone at home that we are looking forward to it."
Ashok's eyes softened as he ended the call. A family trip wasn't just a vacation—it was a step towards knitting the two families closer, gently easing Arhaana and Vihaan into the life that awaited them.
At the Sharma residence, Nitin ended the call with Ashok, his face thoughtful yet pleased. "Arre, Misha," he said as he walked into the living room, "the Raghuvanshis are planning a family trip and they want us to join."
Misha's eyes lit up with excitement. "That's such a lovely idea. It will be good for everyone... especially for Arhaana."
Nitin nodded but lowered his voice, glancing toward the staircase. "We'll tell her once she's back from the hospital. She has a long shift today—let her focus on her duty first."
Misha agreed with a small smile. "Haan, she's already under so much pressure. We'll tell her when the time is right."
Meanwhile, at the hospital, the bright surgical lights glared down ,the operation theatre doors swung shut behind her with a soft hiss, sealing the world outside. For a moment, Arhaana just stood still, taking in the unfamiliar sharpness of the air inside. The smell of antiseptic and sterilized metal clung to everything—it was heavy, cold, clinical. Even the silence had a weight, broken only by the persistent beep... beep... beep of the monitors and the occasional shuffle of rubber-soled shoes against the polished floor.
Her breath fogged faintly against the mask, a reminder of how fast she was breathing. This was it. Her first time in the OT for a brain surgery—not as an observer in the gallery, not as a student buried in textbooks, but standing right there, inside, in scrubs and gloves, part of the team.
The patient lay still under the bright surgical lights, their head prepared and draped, only the surgical field exposed. The pale skin contrasted with the sterile green drapes, and the sight made her chest tighten. This was someone's life. Someone's memories, laughter, pain—all of it, lying silent under anesthesia, placed in their hands.
Her seniors were calm, movements economical, voices steady. They looked like they belonged here, their every gesture polished by years of practice. She, on the other hand, felt like an imposter, her heart hammering so hard she wondered if they could hear it through the mask.
"Scalpel," the chief neurosurgeon said.
The word sliced through the silence. Arhaana froze for the briefest second, then watched as the nurse handed it over smoothly. The blade caught the light before it dipped toward the patient's skin.
The incision was made.
Her stomach lurched, not from squeamishness, but from awe. She had read about this a thousand times, had traced diagrams in books until they were etched in her mind—but nothing prepared her for the reality of seeing the brain exposed before her. It wasn't just anatomy now. It was... humanity, laid bare.
"Retractor," the surgeon instructed without looking up.
Her breath hitched. It was her turn. Hands gloved, she reached for the instrument. For a split second, she thought her fingers might tremble—but she steadied them, forcing calm into her body even as her heart raced. She held it out. The surgeon took it, eyes meeting hers briefly, and gave a small nod. A wordless acknowledgment.
That nod anchored her.
As the surgery progressed, time blurred. The rhythmic teamwork was like an orchestra—each nurse, each doctor moving in harmony, every motion purposeful. The hiss of the suction, the muted clink of instruments on trays, the precise cauterization—all of it was terrifying and beautiful.
Her role was small. Sometimes just holding an instrument, sometimes adjusting the light, sometimes simply observing. But to her, each action was monumental. Every time the surgeon trusted her with a tool, every time she followed an instruction without hesitation, she felt her fear loosen its grip a little more.
Two hours passed. Three. Sweat collected at her temples under the surgical cap, but she didn't notice. Her entire world had shrunk to the small, delicate theatre of the brain in front of her. The place where thought lived, where identity was housed, where one wrong move could change everything.
Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, the lead surgeon's voice broke through the haze: "Vitals stable. Closing up."
A collective breath seemed to leave the room. Relief. Quiet pride.
The last sutures were placed, the instruments set aside, and the patient was wheeled out toward recovery. The team began to peel off their gloves and masks with practiced ease, their expressions professional, unchanged. For them, it was another surgery completed.
For Arhaana, it was a moment she knew would never leave her.
She stepped into the scrub room, peeled off her gloves, and stared at her hands. They were damp with sweat. She flexed her fingers slowly, as if reminding herself they were still hers. Behind her mask, she was smiling—small, almost shy, but real.
Because today she had faced her fear. Today she had been part of something extraordinary. And though her heart was still racing, beneath it all was a quiet certainty: this was where she belonged.
When she finally stepped out of the scrub room, Arhaana didn't head straight to the wards. Instead, she drifted into the empty residents' locker room and sat down on the narrow wooden bench. The silence here felt different—less clinical, more personal, like the world was finally giving her space to feel.
She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, staring at her palms. They were clean now, free of gloves, but the faint dampness of sweat lingered, as if her body still remembered the intensity of the last few hours.
Her throat tightened. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It's over... successful.
For a second, the images replayed—the incision, the instruments, the trust in her senior's eyes, the fragile miracle of life right under their hands. Her chest swelled with something she couldn't quite name: relief, awe, pride, maybe all of it together.
Her lips moved almost on their own, a quiet whisper slipping into the stillness. "Thank you, God... for guiding me today."
Her eyes pricked with tears, but she blinked them away quickly. She wasn't weak. She wasn't small. Today had proved that.
And then, unbidden, a softer thought brushed through her mind—Papa would be proud if he saw me today... Maa too. The corner of her lips curved faintly. She could almost imagine their faces, their gentle words of encouragement.
The pager on her coat suddenly buzzed, reminding her duty wasn't done yet. She straightened, wiped the dampness from her palms against her scrubs, and rose to her feet.
One last glance at her reflection in the metal of the locker showed a young doctor with tired eyes but a spark that hadn't been there before. For the first time since she had stepped into medicine, she didn't just feel like a student. She felt like a surgeon.
As she rose to leave, Arhaana reached for her phone in the locker. The screen lit up instantly—her breath caught.
14 missed calls — Adarsh Bhaiya.
Her heart twisted. In the intensity of the OT, she hadn't even noticed the vibration against the metal shelf. Quickly, she dialed him back. It barely rang once before he picked up.
"Arre, pagli!" His voice came loud and anxious. "Kahan thi? I called so many times, do you want me to get a heart attack or what?"
A guilty smile tugged at her lips. "Sorry, Bhaiya... I was in OT. My first major surgery."
For a moment, the line was quiet. Then, softer, "Brain surgery?"
"Hmm," she murmured, her voice carrying both exhaustion and wonder. "It was... surreal, Bhaiya. I was so scared, but I managed. Everything went well. Patient's stable."
On the other end, she could almost picture his face softening, pride replacing his worry. "Arhaana... you did it. You really did it." His tone held that rare mix of brotherly pride and relief, the kind that warmed her from within.
Her eyes stung again, but this time she didn't fight it. "For a second, I thought my hands would shake. But then... I don't know, something kept me steady. Maybe Papa's prayers. Maybe yours."
"Or maybe," Adarsh chuckled, his voice thick with affection, "because you're stronger than you think."
Her lips curved into a small, tired smile. In that moment, she realized—this wasn't just her victory. It belonged to her family too, who had carried her through every late-night study session, every breakdown, every moment she doubted herself.
"Go home and rest, doctor sahiba," Adarsh teased gently. "Or else I'll come drag you myself."
She laughed softly, the heaviness of the day lifting just a little. "Okay, Bhaiya. I'll come soon."
As the call ended, she leaned back against the cool locker door, clutching the phone to her chest. Yes, she had survived her first OT. But more than that—she had someone waiting, worrying, and celebrating for her. And that made all the difference.
After ending the call with Adarsh, Arhaana splashed some water on her face and tied her hair back neatly again. The exhaustion from the surgery still clung to her bones, but she didn't have the luxury to rest yet. Patients were waiting.
By the time she entered her consultation chamber, a line had already formed outside. The hospital staff greeted her with polite nods, and she straightened her shoulders, stepping into the role she knew so well.
The first patient was a middle-aged man who had been suffering from constant migraines. He sat nervously, wringing his hands.
"Good afternoon, Doctor," he mumbled.
Arhaana gave him a reassuring smile. "Good afternoon. Don't worry, we'll talk through everything. Tell me when the pain usually begins..."
Her voice was soft, steady—nothing like the trembling nerves she had felt inside the OT. Here, with her patients, she was calm, almost gentle. She listened carefully, asked the right questions, and made notes before prescribing further tests.
The next was a young boy, no older than ten, brought in by his mother. He looked pale, clutching his head as if the world was too heavy. Arhaana crouched slightly to meet his eyes. "Hi champ," she said softly, her tone different now—lighter, playful. "You like cartoons?"
The boy nodded weakly, surprised at her warmth. "Shinchan," he whispered.
Arhaana chuckled. "Good choice. Now, while you tell me which episode is your favorite, I'll just check a few things. Okay?"
Within minutes, the boy relaxed, distracted by her gentle questions. His mother's worried expression softened too, comforted by the way the doctor treated her son not like a case, but like a child.
One by one, her appointments continued—each patient different, each requiring not just her knowledge, but also her empathy.
By the time she closed the last file, the clock showed late evening. Her shoulders ached, her eyes were heavy, but her heart... it felt full. Today she had touched two extremes of her profession—the grand, intimidating theatre of brain surgery, and the quiet, everyday compassion of her out-patient clinic. Both, she realized, were equally important.
She leaned back in her chair, exhaling softly. For the first time that day, she allowed herself a small, tired smile. This—this balance of fear, responsibility, and healing—was what she had chosen.
By the time Arhaana reached home, the sky outside had melted into shades of deep indigo. She dragged her tired body inside, expecting silence, maybe the faint smell of dinner. But instead—
"CONGRATULATIONS, DOCTOR!!"
The house exploded with cheers. Balloons, flowers, ribbons, the soft glow of fairy lights—everything screamed celebration. In the middle of the room sat a cake decorated with white frosting, her name shining proudly in chocolate letters.
Arhaana froze on the doorstep, eyes wide. "Yeh... yeh sab...?"
Before she could gather herself, her bhabhi —her bestfriend—Shanya rushed forward, squealing as she threw her arms around her. "My bestie, my doctor, my superstar!" she laughed, hugging her so tightly Arhaana almost lost her breath. "You did it, Arhi! First surgery—and brain surgery, at that! Do you even realize how amazing you are?"
Arhaana's throat tightened, her eyes stinging. "Shanya..." she whispered, the exhaustion of the day breaking into tears of joy.
Her mother cupped her face next, kissing her forehead. "Adarsh told us everything, beta. We couldn't let our doctor come home without a celebration."
Nitin stood proudly beside her, his chest puffed with pride. "Our daughter, Dr. Arhaana Sharma... today you've taken your first real step as a surgeon. This house has never been prouder."
And of course, Adarsh grinned like the mischief-maker he was, popping a party popper right above her head. "Bas kar rona-dhona! Smile, Dr. Madam. This is just the beginning of your victories."
Adarsh, grinning ear to ear, popped a party popper, showering her with colorful paper ribbons. "Pagli! Did you think you'd escape without us making a fuss? I told you—this is just the beginning!"
Amidst the laughter, teasing, and warm hugs, Arhaana's heart swelled. This wasn't just a celebration—it was love wrapping around her, telling her she wasn't alone in this journey.
"Come on," he said, handing her the knife, "cut the cake before I eat it all myself."
Her hands trembled again—but this time, not with fear. With happiness. As she sliced into the cake amidst cheers and claps.
And in that moment—standing between her family's pride and her bestfriend's unwavering support—Arhaana felt lighter, stronger. The fear of the OT was behind her. What lay ahead was a life she was finally ready to embrace.
Later that night, the dining table was fuller than usual—not with food, but with laughter. Plates clinked, stories overlapped, and Shanya kept piling extra rotis on Arhaana's plate despite her half-hearted protests.
"Bas karo, Shanu," Arhaana groaned. "I'm a doctor, not a wrestler."
"Doctor or not, you need strength," Shanya shot back with mock seriousness. "Today was your first OT, kal aur bhi ayenge. Eat."
Everyone laughed, and for the first time in weeks, Arhaana felt a simple, unshaken peace.
Halfway through the meal, Nitin cleared his throat meaningfully. "So... there's something we've been wanting to share."
The table quieted. Her mother smiled, eyes sparkling with a secret. "The Raghuvanshis are planning a family trip. They invited us too."
Arhaana blinked, spoon mid-air. "Trip? As in... vacation?"
Adarsh grinned. "Yes, Doctor Madam. Imagine—you, me, Shanya, all of us together. And of course..." he stretched the pause teasingly, "...Vihaan and his family."
At the mention of his name, heat crept up Arhaana's neck. She quickly lowered her gaze to her plate, pretending to focus on her food.
Shanya nudged her under the table, smirking knowingly. "Waise, it sounds exciting, doesn't it?"
Her father chuckled at her silence. "Think of it as a break, beta. You've earned it. And besides, it's good for families to spend time together."
Arhaana only managed a soft, shy smile, her heart suddenly beating faster. A trip. With him. With everyone.
Dinner carried on with excited chatter about possible destinations, but for Arhaana, the sound seemed distant. All she could think was—this was going to be different. Very different.
After dinner, everyone drifted off to their rooms, still buzzing with excitement about the upcoming trip. Arhaana excused herself quietly, retreating to the safe haven of her bedroom.
She changed into her night suit, tied her hair loosely, and sat by the window where the night sky stretched endlessly, stars twinkling like tiny secrets. The cool breeze brushed against her face, but her heart felt anything but calm.
A trip.
With him.
She hugged her pillow to her chest, cheeks warming at the thought of sharing space with Vihaan outside the formalities of ceremonies and family gatherings. What would it be like... to see him not in his crisp suits and guarded expressions, but in a relaxed, casual way? To maybe... talk without hesitation, without their nervous pauses?
Her mind replayed every small moment from their roka—the fleeting glances, the nervous smiles, the way his voice had softened when he told her he didn't want to seem too busy for her. She had gone to bed that night feeling lighter. And now... a whole trip with him loomed ahead.
"Pagal hai tu, Arhi," she muttered softly, burying her burning face in the pillow. "It's just a trip. Family ke saath. Bas."
But deep down, she knew it wasn't just that. This trip might change something between them. Maybe bring them closer... or maybe show her a side of him she hadn't yet seen.
Her heart fluttered at the thought, and despite her nervousness, she smiled small, shy, and secret. For the first time that day, she didn't fall asleep exhausted. She fell asleep dreaming.
That same night, far away in the Raghuvanshi mansion, Vihaan lay on his bed, the room dim except for the faint glow of his bedside lamp. His phone rested beside him, screen dark, but his mind refused to settle.
He had spent the evening buried in work calls and files, yet every now and then, his thoughts slipped back—to the one message that had made him smile without reason.
Strawberry.
He almost reached for the phone again, tempted to type something simple—Good night—but stopped himself. Would it seem too much? Too soon? The thought made him chuckle softly. The man who never hesitated to close a million-dollar deal was suddenly second-guessing a two-word message.
His hand ran through his hair in frustration before he sighed and sank deeper into the pillow.
A trip.
With her.
The idea was foreign, unsettling—and yet, strangely comforting. For once, it wouldn't just be about boardrooms, meetings, or his carefully built walls. It would be about family. About her.
And though he would never admit it aloud, a quiet eagerness stirred inside him. To see her laugh without the nervous tremble, to talk to her not as two people bound by arrangement, but... maybe something more.
He closed his eyes, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Somewhere, he wondered if she was thinking of him too.
And unknowingly, at that very same moment, Arhaana turned in her sleep, hugging her pillow tighter, a soft blush painting her dreams.
The house was silent and only the rhythmic ticking of the clock filled the quiet night.
Arhaana lay curled on her side, hugging her pillow as the glow of the moon spilled faintly through the curtains. Sleep had just started to weigh on her lids when suddenly—like a shadow slipping into her chest—her breath caught.
Her heart stuttered, then slammed against her ribs in wild, uneven beats. Her lungs refused to fill, as if invisible hands were pressing down on her chest, suffocating her.
"No... no, not now..." her voice cracked, too soft, too panicked.
She sat up abruptly, clutching the edge of the mattress with trembling fingers. Her vision blurred around the edges. Each inhale came short, shallow, broken. The walls of her room seemed to tilt, the ceiling spinning slowly above her.
Her palms grew clammy, skin cold despite the thin layer of sweat gathering at her hairline. She knew this feeling—had lived through it before. The panic that slithered into her body without warning, making her its prisoner.
"Medicine... medicine..." Her whisper was desperate as she stumbled toward her bedside drawer.
She yanked it open—empty.
The second drawer—empty again.
Her throat tightened, panic doubling. Tears blurred her eyes. She clawed at the third drawer, sending a pen, some papers, and an old photograph scattering to the floor—but no medicine strip.
Her breaths grew ragged. Her hands went to her chest as if pressing down could calm the storm raging beneath her skin. Her head spun. I can't breathe. I can't. Not now. Not like this.
She rushed to her cupboard, flinging the doors open, pulling out bags, tossing folded clothes carelessly onto the floor. Her body shook violently. The sound of her heartbeat roared in her ears, drowning out every other thought.
Her knees hit the floor as she scrambled through her sling bag, her hands shaking so badly that she almost missed it—the faint crinkle of foil against fabric.
Her eyes widened.
There.
The medicine strip.
With trembling fingers, she tore one tablet free, her hands barely obeying her mind. She gulped it down dry, her throat tight, forcing herself to swallow past the lump of panic.
She sat there on the cold floor, back pressed against the cupboard, gasping as though she had just run miles. Minutes felt like hours as the pill began to ease the grip in her chest. Slowly—so painfully slowly—her breathing steadied. The weight pressing down on her lungs lifted little by little.
Her hands still shook as she pressed her palms to her face, tears sliding freely now. "You're okay... you're okay, Arhi... breathe... just breathe..." she whispered brokenly, grounding herself with her own voice.
The clock ticked. The room was still. But inside her, the storm had passed—leaving behind a fragile calm, like the quiet after a hurricane.
Exhaustion hit her hard. She didn't bother cleaning the mess she'd made—clothes scattered, drawers left open. She crawled back onto her bed, curling tightly under the blanket.
Her lashes were damp, her lips pale, her body drained. And yet, in that fragile state, her eyes finally closed, surrendering to a heavy, uneasy sleep.
The world outside remained unaware of the battle she had just fought in silence.
The medicine strip slipped from her weak grip and lay half-crumpled on the floor near her bed. She didn't even notice. By morning, when she would wake, she'd tuck it away neatly again—masking every trace of the storm she had survived.
No one would know. Not her parents, not Adarsh, not even Shanya. And certainly not Vihaan.
To them, she would be the same smiling, graceful Arhaana. But inside, she knew—every night like this was a battle only she could fight.
"In mornings, she found the peace the night denied."
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