Three weeks passed.
Three weeks of surgeries, rounds, and stolen glances across sterile corridors.
Three weeks where Dr. Vashti Dhiman kept telling herself to focus.
On patients.
On procedures.
On being taken seriously.
Not on Dr. Shabd Heer.
And definitely not on how he suddenly started noticing things.
"Your suture technique's cleaner than it used to be," he told her after one surgery.
"You handle pressure better now," after another.
And once—when she dropped a pen mid-discussion—he bent to pick it up before she could, their fingers brushing for the briefest second.
It wasn't love.
Not yet.
But it was attention.
And after years of rejection, even that felt dangerous.
She was terrified of hoping again.
One evening, after an exhausting 18-hour shift, she sat alone in the hospital cafeteria, sipping cold coffee. Her hair was a mess under her bun, her eyes tired, her white coat stained with a faint streak of blood.
And that's when Shabd walked in.
He didn't sit with the others.
He sat across from her.
No words.
Just silence and presence.
She glanced at him. "Don't you have people to impress?"
"I'm sitting with one."
Her heart stuttered. She looked away, lips twitching. "Careful, Dr. Heer. That almost sounded like a compliment."
"It was."
The silence returned, but it felt warmer this time.
He finally spoke again, quietly. "You're not the same girl from Rainbow."
She nodded. "I know."
"You're quieter now."
"I still throw things when I'm mad."
He smirked. "Do you still throw your feelings too?"
That hit too close.
So she stood up abruptly. "Not anymore."
And she left.
Because if she stayed, she might break the one rule she promised herself:
Don't fall again.
Not until he's sure.
Not until he wants her back with the same fire she held for years.
And right now, Shabd Heer was still unsure.
Still halfway between doctor and maybe.
So Vashti Dhiman walked away.
But this time, not because he ghosted her.
This time...
She chose the distance.
--