Something had changed.
It wasn't in the way Dr. Vashti Dhiman walked through the corridors.
It wasn't in her performance—if anything, she was sharper, faster, more focused than ever.
But the noise was gone.
The noise that used to follow her everywhere—her witty remarks, her sarcastic jabs, her "accidental" bumps into Dr. Shabd Heer during rounds.
Now, she was professional. Polished. Untouchable.
And he hated it.
He told himself it was easier this way. Cleaner. Vashti finally giving up that old, stubborn obsession with him.
Wasn't that what he wanted all along?
So why did he find himself looking for her in the cafeteria?
Why did his gaze always drift toward the corner seat during meetings?
Why did silence feel louder now?
One night, after a late shift, he passed by the interns' lounge and saw her asleep on the couch—her white coat draped over her like a blanket, her arm curled beneath her head.
She looked small.
But strong.
That same fire she'd always had—it was still there, burning quietly.
He stood there longer than he should have.
And then, as if drawn by something he didn't understand, he took out his phone. Snapped a photo. No flash. No sound.
Just... kept it.
He wasn't sure why.
Maybe to remember what it looked like when she wasn't fighting to be seen.
Maybe because part of him missed being the reason her eyes lit up.
The next day, she barely nodded at him in the hallway.
Professional. Detached. Distant.
And for the first time...
He missed her chaos.
Missed the girl who once cornered him in a storage room and demanded, "Why don't you love me back?"
Missed the one who refused to let go—even when he handed her silence like punishment.
Now that she was finally quiet...
He felt the emptiness echo.
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