Author's Note:( Ik many would skip this part but try to glance at it)

Hey dear readers,

Thank you so much for giving this story a chance! 💖

Your votes and comments mean the world to me-they not only encourage me but truly help shape how I continue writing. Every bit of love, feedback, or even a tiny emoji keeps this writer going.

So if you enjoy what you read, don't forget to vote, comment, and share your thoughts. I'd love to know what parts touched you or made you smile.

Let's grow this journey together 🌸

____________________

"Dil Dhadakne Do" - Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara

🎵 "Jo bhi hai sab kuch yahaan, phir bhi lage kuch kami..."

____________________

Present Day - Mumbai

Mumbai Life Care Hospital

The hum of fluorescent lights in the neurosurgical OR was as steady as my breath, deliberate and unfazed. In here, time didn't move forward; it stood still, held together by a scalpel's edge and the tension between life and death.

"Scalpel," I said quietly.

I didn't need to raise my voice. I rarely did. Years in sterile theatres taught me that authority didn't shout; it whispered. When I spoke, people listened. Not out of fear, but because I gave them no reason to doubt.

Three hours into a subdural haemorrhage, a complicated bleed near the temporal lobe, my focus was sharp, even as fatigue brushed against my temples.

"Clamp. There's a slow bleed along the posterior branch," I said, tilting the suction slightly. My resident, hands stiff with nerves, obeyed.

"This one's tricky," the nurse whispered.

"They're all tricky," I replied without looking up. "Just be steady."

As we stitched the final layer closed, I felt sweat clinging beneath my cap. The operation was a success. But there were no high-fives here, no dramatics. Just quiet nods and deep, collective exhales.

Removing my gloves with one practised motion, I took off the cap and mask. A few damp strands of hair stuck to my forehead. My reflection in the OR glass stared back at me: unreadable, calm, tired.

"Good work, Doctor," said Jaya, one of the senior nurses.

I gave a soft nod. "Vitals stable. Monitor for pressure spikes in the next 24 hours."

There wasn't time to indulge in exhaustion. My mind was already moving to charts, to rounds, and then to the little girl waiting down the corridor.

I changed into a simple pastel pink cotton saree, tucked my hair into a low bun, and slipped on my white coat.

Before leaving, I made a quick round through the surgical wing-a nod here, a note scribbled there. I liked to see my patients stable before I went home. They deserved that reassurance. So did I.

Down the hallway, past frosted glass and linoleum floors, I caught a glimpse of my daughter through the family lounge window.

Anaya.

Four years old, full of mischief. Her legs dangled off the sofa, hands clutching a picture book she couldn't yet read, but tried to anyway, with full confidence.

My mother sat beside her, helping her sound out the word "elephant." Anaya, of course, insisted it was "elegant."

A small smile tugged at my lips. I didn't enter with dramatic hugs or squeals. I was never that kind of mother. But my love was there, folded into her lunchbox, in the way I watched over her when she coughed at night, in the way I memorised every crease in her tiny hands.

I pushed the door open.

"Hey, baby," I said softly. "Let's go home?"

"Mumma!" she squealed and launched herself into my legs.

I scooped her up easily, resting her head against my shoulder. She smelled like baby powder and chocolate biscuits. My mother gathered her bag and followed us out of the hospital.

We walked past the night staff, my footsteps echoing across the quiet lobby. Some nurses nodded. I nodded back.

---

The drive home

Outside, the city buzzed with the sound of July heat and distant traffic. I strapped Anaya into her car seat while Maa climbed into the passenger seat beside me.

As I started the car, Anaya began chattering.

"Today Riya wore sparkly shoes, Mumma! And I drew you a star, but Aunty Priya said it looked like a spider!"

I glanced at her through the rearview mirror. "I'm sure it was the prettiest spider ever," I said.

She giggled, already moving on. "Can we have mango ice cream tomorrow?"

"We'll see."

She didn't protest. She was used to my answers being final. Within minutes, her voice faded into soft breaths as she fell asleep, her tiny mouth open in complete trust.

"So, how was your day?" Maa asked gently.

"A case. Subdural haemorrhage. Stabilised."

"Hmm. You've said more words to your patient charts than to me lately."

I let out a breath. "Sorry. Just tired."

"You're always tired."

She didn't push further. That was her way-nudging gently and letting silence do the rest.

I felt her glance at me, wanting to ask more, but she didn't. She knew the rhythm of our conversations-short, factual, with no space for emotion.

The rest of the drive passed in silence. It was comfortable for her, protective for me.

---

Home - Juhu

When we reached home, a modest two-story in Juhu, I carried Anaya straight to her room and laid her down carefully. She stirred, mumbled something about sparkles, then slipped back into sleep.

I showered quickly and changed into a pale blue kurti. The scent of cumin and coriander drifted from the kitchen. I joined Maa and Priya, my sister-in-law, to help finish dinner. I joined the tail end of the prep-kneading dough, stirring curry-tasks that grounded me.

Our evenings were quiet but filled with clinking plates, soft laughter, and the occasional joke from my brother that made Priya roll her eyes and Vihaan burst into giggles. Anaya sat in her booster chair next to her cousin, both of them talking more than they ate.

I wasn't at the heart of the table. I didn't need to be. Vihaan and Anaya were. And somehow, that was enough.

Dinner was always a shared ritual in our house. It was the one space where time slowed down, where laughter outnumbered words, and responsibilities took a backseat.

"Anaya wants to be a doctor," Vihaan said, scooping rice. "Or a cloud."

"She can be both," I said, half-smiling.

Laughter. Clinking plates. Maa's soft reminders to eat more sabzi. These moments weren't dramatic or grand, but they were real and rare.

After dinner, I retreated to my room with Anaya in my arms. She clutched her favourite stuffed turtle, one ear missing, eyes slightly crooked.

---

Later that night

Back in our room, Anaya held her storybook like it held all the secrets of the universe. She snuggled under her blanket, eyes half-closed but hopeful.

"Storytime?" she asked.

I settled beside her on the bed and opened the same fairy tale book we'd read a dozen times. But tonight, I made up the story-about a brave little girl who found stars in unexpected places and never got lost because she always followed her own light.

Anaya watched me with wide, sleepy eyes.

"Is the girl me?" she whispered.

I nodded. "Always."

She fell asleep before the last page.

I watched her for a long time-counting her breaths, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead.

She didn't know how much she'd saved me or how much I'd hidden to keep her safe.

But maybe that was the point of love.

It doesn't always shout.

Sometimes, it just stays.

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So,

"What do you feel about..." -

1. How was the first chapter?

2. Now that you've seen a glimpse into Aashi's world...

What do you feel about her silence?

3. Behind every routine lies a story untold...

What do you feel about Aashi's way of loving?

4. We watched her walk through the shadows in silence...

What do you feel about the weight she carries?

5. Aashi doesn't speak much - but do you hear her?

What do you feel about her unspoken moments?

6. Sometimes the quietest hearts are the loud

est in love.

What do you feel about how she mothers Anaya?

That's all for today. We'll meet again in the next chapter.

Do vote. Comment.

With all my love,

-the_stellarflower.