They said the hospital smelled like antiseptic and hope.
Inaaya only ever smelled fear.
Not the loud, sharp kind that came with sudden news or flaring sirens. No—hers was quieter, bone-deep. The kind that settled in your skin and stayed. It coated her lungs with every breath she took inside these sterile walls, wrapping around her ribs like a pressure cuff just a little too tight.
She stood by the elevator on the third floor of Rathore Medical Group, clipboard clutched to her chest like armor. Her white coat, still a shade too crisp, bore her name in neat navy embroidery.
Dr. Inaaya Mirza.
The title had never quite fit.
It wasn't imposter syndrome. It was something murkier. Something older.
She hadn't always hated hospitals. Once, she had wandered their corridors like a child in a temple, holding her father's hand. She used to watch him talk to patients—gentle, soft-spoken, respectful—and think that medicine must be magic. That her father, Dr. Saif Mirza, with his worn stethoscope and quiet smile, was a kind of magician.
She had never feared blood or broken bones back then. Only the moments when his smile faded.
He used to call her his little healer.
Now, years later, the same halls that once echoed with his laughter only made her palms sweat. She kept her gaze low, voice softer than it already was, trying to disappear behind the louder interns who knew how to shine in rounds.
She never shone. Not really. She managed.
And that, she told herself, was enough.
⸻
It hadn't always been this way.
There was a time when the world was gentler.
Inaaya's childhood had been made of watercolor memories—her father's late-night chai brewing in the kitchen, the soft scratch of his pen as he reviewed patient files, her head resting on his lap as he told her stories of rural health camps and stubborn old patients who refused their medicines unless bribed with stories.
He never once told her she had to become a doctor.
He only told her she could be anything.
And still, she chose medicine. Or maybe—maybe, she thought bitterly—she hadn't really chosen it at all. Maybe she had only wanted to live near the echo of him.
After he died, she thought maybe medicine would bring her closer to him again.
Instead, it took her further away from herself.
⸻
The day he died, she had been in her second year of MBBS. She remembered the call vividly—her mother's voice shaking, for once. The words didn't register at first. Cardiac arrest. No time. They tried. He didn't make it.
There hadn't been a goodbye.
There hadn't even been a last personal conversation. Their final words were about a patient's anemia—her father correcting her differential diagnosis with that same amused patience he always used when teaching her.
"I love you," she had almost said.
But she hadn't.
There hadn't been time.
⸻
She pressed the elevator button again, though it had already lit up. Her fingers trembled slightly. She hated this place. And yet, here she was. Every day. Pushing herself through case files, murmuring diagnoses she barely believed in, holding scalpels with hands too soft for cutting.
What was she doing here?
Her sister's voice echoed in her head.
"You only became a doctor because Appa died."
Maybe that was true.
Maybe it had never really been about medicine.
Maybe it had always been about holding on.
⸻
Home wasn't much better.
Their house still had the same rosewood furniture, the same embroidered cushion covers her mother had hand-picked from Jaipur, the same heavy silence that settled every evening between the women left behind.
But nothing felt the same.
Not since he left.
Inaaya used to believe in warm homes. In families that held each other in grief.
But grief had rearranged theirs like furniture in the dark.
Her mother, Shabana, hadn't cried. Not once. She had worn an ivory saree to the funeral, perfectly pleated, her expression unreadable. She had resumed hosting charity teas and committee meetings within weeks. "He would've wanted us to carry on with dignity," she had said.
Dignity. Not devastation.
That was the rule of the Mirza house.
⸻
Aleena had cried. Loudly. The first week. She had worn their father's kurta for days. Spoke about him in interviews for her medical conference appearances. Hugged people in public, clung to their aunts and cousins with teary eyes.
Then she had moved on.
She always did.
Aleena was magnetic, confident, the kind of person people remembered after just one meeting. She had been the family star for as long as Inaaya could remember—first in school, first in college, always center-stage. Their mother adored her. Her pride, her protégée.
When they were young, Aleena had been kind. She used to braid Inaaya's hair before school. Used to sneak chocolates under her pillow after exams. Used to stand up for her when cousins mocked her for being quiet or strange.
Inaaya used to believe they were best friends.
That illusion cracked quietly over time.
Now, Aleena rarely noticed when she entered a room.
Their mother did notice. But her eyes passed over Inaaya like she was checking off a list.
Studying? Eating? Working hard enough? Always watching, never seeing.
Shabana wasn't cruel. Not in any obvious way. She kissed Inaaya's forehead before events. She said the right things in public. She bought her expensive kurtas she never asked for.
But her warmth had always felt... rehearsed.
Like she was playing a role, not being a mother.
⸻
The elevator doors opened, and Inaaya stepped inside, alone. The mirrored walls reflected a pale woman with tired eyes, a stethoscope draped loosely around her neck like a noose.
She touched her father's old wristwatch—faded leather, broken dial. She wore it every day. It didn't tell time anymore.
It just reminded her of him.
⸻
She reached the ward just ten minutes past her shift start time—but it was enough to draw eyes.
And one particular pair of eyes did not miss anything.
Dr. Aryan Rathore stood at the far end of the corridor, flanked by two senior residents and a group of interns. His presence was magnetic in the most intimidating way—broad-shouldered in his scrubs, a clean-cut jaw, hair slightly tousled, stethoscope draped around his neck like a crown.
He didn't speak as she approached, but she could feel it—the weight of his gaze. Controlled. Cool. Razor sharp.
"You're late, Dr. Mirza."
His voice was calm. Not mocking, not cruel. But there was steel beneath the stillness.
Inaaya swallowed. "I'm sorry, sir."
He turned to the group and gestured toward the chart in his hand. "We were just discussing the pre-op plan for the 65-year-old CABG scheduled at noon. Dr. Mirza, perhaps you can walk us through the pre-anesthetic considerations for this patient."
A dozen eyes turned toward her.
Her brain scrambled. Words tangled.
"The, uh... patient has hypertension and diabetes, so we'd have to consider, um, the blood pressure control and, uh, renal function before proceeding?"
A pause.
Dr. Rathore's gaze didn't waver. "Go on."
"And, uh... assess for sleep apnea, maybe? Since he's obese. And we should check the ECG for any—any ischemic changes..."
She heard her own voice breaking. Uncertain. Small.
Another pause.
"That's partially correct," Dr. Rathore said, tone still even, but just cold enough to burn. "But you missed several key considerations. Airway assessment. Pulmonary function. Antiplatelet management. This isn't theory, Dr. Mirza. These are lives."
The silence that followed was louder than anything.
Her face flushed, hands curling behind her back.
"I suggest you revise your notes. You can't show up unprepared and expect to learn on the job."
He moved on, turning to the next intern as if she were a file on a desk. Not a person. Not a girl whose world had already tilted sideways the moment she woke up this morning.
⸻
Later that afternoon, Inaaya stood alone in the on-call room, her fingers gripping the edge of the desk. She didn't cry. She never cried in public. Her father had once told her that soft people could be strong too. That gentleness didn't mean weakness.
But sometimes, it felt like it did.
That night, Inaaya returned to the penthouse to find her husband seated in the living room, sleeves rolled up, reviewing hospital files with surgical precision.
Aryan
She hovered at the threshold, unsure if she should interrupt.
He noticed her but said nothing.
After a pause, he spoke without looking up. "You froze today."
Her spine straightened.
"I was late. It won't happen again."
Aaryan closed the file. "That's not the problem."
She looked at him, startled.
He met her gaze then. "You know the answer. But you hesitate."
She blinked, throat tight. "I—"
"Stop second-guessing yourself, Inaaya," he said softly, but there was no kindness in the softness—only quiet command. "You're a doctor. Not a child."
She flinched.
He looked away again. "Good night."
⸻
Later, she lay in bed, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling.
She remembered being ten, sleeping curled next to Aleena, whispering secrets under the blanket. They used to dream of growing up and building a hospital together. Sisters of science. Daughters of greatness.
Now Aleena barely texted her back.
Inaaya rolled onto her side, facing the empty space between them in bed.
The sheets smelled like his cologne—sharp, expensive, cold.
Her life felt like a script she hadn't written, performed for an audience she couldn't see.
And yet, somewhere deep in her chest, something stubborn pulsed.
Not hope.
But maybe the ghost of it.