The morning after a storm never truly feels like morning. It feels like debris. Soft, broken pieces of the night before. And as Inaaya stood under the tepid stream of the shower, arms wrapped around herself as if they were someone else's, she wondered if she was still mourning something — or someone.
Maybe herself.
The mirror had fogged up again. She could barely see the outline of her own eyes, and part of her was grateful for it. She didn't want to look too long. Not when she feared what she might find in the hollow beneath them.
Last night's humiliation still clung to her like second skin.
The way Dr. Aaryan Rathore — her husband in name, stranger in every other sense — had called her out during rounds. The curt precision of his questions. The way her silence had echoed in the ward, more damning than any wrong answer.
"Dr. Mirza. Diagnosis for the third patient in bed 7?"
Her lips had parted. Then closed.
"Ischemic cardiomyopathy," she'd whispered, voice paper-thin.
"And what's the differentiating factor between that and dilated cardiomyopathy?"
She had known that once. Had written entire pages on it. But in that moment, under the scrutiny of her colleagues — under him — her mind had gone blank.
"You're a doctor, not a poet, Dr. Mirza. You don't get to say you forgot."
The words hadn't been cruel. But they'd been cold. Efficient. They didn't cut as much as they buried.
⸻
She didn't cry. Not then. Not after. Not even now.
She had long since learned that her tears had no witnesses. No consequence. And certainly no audience in this house of glass and silence.
When she stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, the penthouse was already awake. Sunlight bled in through the tall windows, casting gold onto the marble floor. The distant hum of traffic played like background static — always present, never loud.
Getting dressed in soft pink scrubs, she exited their bedroom.
She didn't expect to see him.
But there he was. Dr. Aaryan Rathore, standing by the breakfast bar, sleeves rolled up, tie still loose, black coffee in hand. Not looking at her. Not speaking.
A constant in her life: his silence.
"Good morning," she said softly, the words awkward on her tongue.
His eyes flicked to her briefly. "You're late."
"I wasn't aware we had breakfast appointments now," she murmured, regretting it instantly.
His gaze sharpened. "I meant your shift. We leave in fifteen minutes."
"Right." She pulled her backpack tighter, nodding. "I'll be ready."
She wanted to say more. She wanted to ask why he'd embarrassed her yesterday. Why he hadn't shielded her like husbands sometimes did — even if only to save face. But she wasn't even sure if he considered himself her husband beyond what was legal.
The silence stretched.
Then, unexpectedly, he spoke.
"You need to revise."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I said, revise. Cardiology. Endocrine systems. Patient files. Anything you're rusty on."
The irritation rose before she could stop it. "Is this feedback or judgment?"
His jaw ticked. "Neither. It's survival. You'll find no one holds your hand in this hospital. Least of all me."
She met his gaze fully now. "I didn't ask you to."
And yet a beat passed between them. Heavy. Loaded.
⸻
𝘔𝘪𝘳𝘻𝘢.
He always said her name like it didn't quite belong to her.
Maybe it didn't.
⸻
Later, in the hospital locker room, Inaaya stared at her white coat for a long time before slipping it on. The fabric smelled like antiseptic and something colder — like memory. Like grief.
It used to mean everything. This coat. It was her father's dream wrapped around her shoulders. The last thread of his voice she could still hear:
"Do it because you feel it in your bones, Inaaya. Not because it's expected of you. Medicine chooses those who ache for it."
She didn't know if she ached anymore. Or if the ache had been numbed out of her.
Outside, the morning rounds began. She trailed behind Naina and Vihaan, her steps small, deliberate, her presence nearly invisible.
They stopped at ICU bed 12.
A small child. 7 years old. Pale as paper. Cardiac myopathy, post-surgical complications.
As Naina presented the case, Inaaya caught the child's mother whispering a prayer under her breath. A soft Urdu chant. Familiar.
She remembered her own mother whispering that same prayer the night her father's monitor had flatlined. But Shabana's hands hadn't trembled. Her eyes hadn't wept.
Inaaya's had.
"Dr. Mirza," Vihaan said, breaking her reverie.
She turned, startled.
"What surgical approach would you recommend if a VAD insertion is required?"
Her mouth opened. Then closed again.
Don't blank. Not again.
But the images blurred. Her pulse spiked.
"I... I'd recommend..." Her throat clenched. "Left ventricular apex cannulation... maybe."
Aaryan's voice sliced through. "You don't need to guess. You need to know."
Inaaya looked at him. For the first time, really looked.
He wasn't angry. Just... disappointed. Tired.
She wished he'd yelled. It would've hurt less.