Once in the bustling, ever-awake lanes of metropolitan New Delhi, where the metro trains hummed their mechanical lullabies and coffee shops bristled with ambitions, dreams, and deadlines, there lived a young man named Aarav Sehgal. He was a student of MBA at one of the capital’s prestigious business schools, living a life that outwardly appeared full of promise and purpose, but inwardly was slowly eroding into chaos.
Aarav, despite his sharp intellect and suave demeanor, had succumbed to a destructive solace—alcohol. The drink had become his shadow, accompanying him through sleepless nights and foggy mornings. His grades began slipping like sand through fingers, and so did his self-esteem. His mother, a resilient woman who raised him alone after his father passed away, watched her son sink in despair with a growing ache in her heart.
The Turning Point
One morning, she stood by the kitchen window, staring blankly at the neem tree outside as the chai simmered on the stove. She knew it was time to take a harsh step.
"Aarav, you have to see someone. You need help. Not tomorrow. Not someday. Now," she said with an edge of finality in her voice.
Cornered by his mother’s love and desperation, Aarav finally agreed.
That Thursday afternoon, the grey skies loomed low as if echoing his mood when he entered the psychiatric wing of Safdarjung Hospital, one of the most reputed government hospitals in the city. The waiting room was a medley of silence and quiet whispers. His eyes scanned the posters on mental health and addiction, his heart thumping awkwardly.
Soon, a soft voice called his name. "Aarav Sehgal?"
He turned. Standing before him was a young woman clad in a crisp white coat, with a stethoscope lazily hung around her neck. Her eyes were intelligent, curious, and gently kind. She was Dr. Myra Fernandes, a junior resident psychiatrist in her late twenties.
"Please come in," she said, motioning him towards her consultation chamber. Inside, the sterile walls seemed less intimidating under her calming presence.
For almost an hour, Dr. Myra listened, questioned, probed, and more importantly, understood. Her voice never judged; her silences were compassionate. She scribbled a few things on her pad and finally handed him a prescription.
"This is where we start, okay? The journey is long, but you're not alone in this."
That night, for the first time in months, Aarav didn’t reach for the bottle. Instead, he sat on his bed, staring at the prescription with a strange new sensation—hope.
Blossoming Beyond the Clinical
Days melted into weeks. Aarav kept his follow-ups, diligently taking his medication. But somewhere along the way, the clinical began blurring into the personal.
Dr. Myra’s voice lingered longer in his thoughts than any conversation should. Her laugh, the gentle tuck of her hair behind her ear, her piercing questions—it all consumed him. The bottle of whiskey in his cabinet lay untouched. His cravings weren’t for the drink anymore. It was her.
He found himself counting days to his appointments, rehearsing words he never thought he’d say. And one day, heart pounding like a tabla at crescendo, he finally looked into her eyes and confessed, "Dr. Myra... I think... no, I’m sure. I love you."
She blinked. Then giggled.
Aarav froze, embarrassed and confused.
"I knew you’d say that someday," she smiled, that enigmatic smile playing on her lips. "You’re predictable, Mr. Sehgal."
From that day onward, their meetings weren’t confined to hospital walls. Cafes in Connaught Place, late-night drives near India Gate, book browsing in Khan Market—they were falling, irreversibly.
Myra was everything he wasn’t—disciplined, philosophical, healing. He often joked that while he was chasing capitalism, she was chasing souls.
Six months passed in the kind of dream woven with the fabric of movies and poetry.
The Call That Changed Everything
Then came The Call. Her voice was unlike anything he’d heard before—broken, fragile.
"Aarav, I’ve been diagnosed with a rare auto-immune condition. It’s contagious. There’s no cure. I... I don’t want to put you at risk."
Silence. Everything in him wanted to scream, to deny, to rush to her side. But a strange fear seeped in. Days passed, and Aarav started avoiding her. He found reasons to cancel meetings, delayed replies to messages, skipped appointments.
The once blazing fire of love began cooling into grey ashes.
Then one night, a brief phone call changed everything.
"I’m leaving Delhi. I’ve resigned from the hospital. I guess this is goodbye, Aarav."
And just like that, she was gone.
The days turned bland, life turned listless. But he never returned to the bottle. Her absence was painful, but her love had left him healed in strange ways.
He finished his MBA, started a job in a consulting firm, and life resumed its pragmatic, structured pace.
Two Years Later
A rainy evening, a crowded cafe in South Delhi. Aarav sat with colleagues, laughing over old memories. That’s when a familiar voice caught his attention. He turned.
There she stood. Myra. No white coat. No dark circles under her eyes. Just a woman in a pastel dress with a sparkle in her eyes that time hadn’t dimmed.
"Aarav?"
He stood, dumbfounded. She smiled. "Mind a walk?"
Under the drizzle, with the smell of wet earth around, she dropped the bombshell.
"There was never any disease, Aarav."
He stopped in his tracks. "What?"
She looked at him, her eyes unwavering.
"I had to know if what we had was real. If love could survive fear, sickness, imperfection. I needed to show you that love isn’t just about health, dates, or dinners. It’s about presence in absence, strength in weakness. And you failed."
He stared, speechless. A thousand emotions welled inside him—anger, betrayal, sorrow, regret.
"So this was a... test?"
"Call it a lesson," she said. "But life gives second chances, Aarav."
She held up her left hand. There, glinting under the streetlight, was a wedding ring.
"I married six months ago," she whispered.
He frowned, puzzled.
She laughed. "You were too lost in your guilt to notice the invites I sent. Too scared to open the letters. You were there in silence, in spirit. I waited. And then I left, letting you heal on your own."
He chuckled, almost teary-eyed. "You’re insane."
"I’m a psychiatrist," she grinned. "Insanity is in the job description."
They stood silently, the rain mingling with their tears, smiles, and laughter.
The city buzzed around them, indifferent, loud, chaotic. But within that chaos, in that moment, love found its meaning—not in perfection, not in constancy, but in healing, in forgiveness, in unspoken promises.
The love he thought would last forever was only a mirror—reflecting back the lessons he needed most. His emotions had been uncorked, not into a forever, but into the truth.
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