---

🎵 "Saudebaazi

"Main kabhi bhoolunga na tujhe, chahe tu mujhko dena bhula,

Aadatein jaisi hai tu meri, aadatein kaise bhoolun bhala."

---

Hotel Room

I don't remember how long I stared at the screen-looking at that name from that night.

Dr. Aashi Verma.

I had read it once. Twice. Then five more times. Each time, it hit differently-like a stone skipping across water, dredging up ripples I thought I had long since stilled.

I've tried so hard to let this go: that night, that girl, the impossibility of what we were and weren't.

Is she the same girl I've been thinking about all these years?

Is it possible that the girl from that night and this doctor could be the same person?

What are the odds?

My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned pale.

"It's just a common name," I muttered, as if saying it aloud would dull its weight.

I had promised myself I would move on-from that night, from her, from the weight of everything I never said. And yet, here I was again, tracing ghosts in names, trying to connect something out of nothing. It was pathetic, maybe, but my chest refused to unclench.

My hand hovered over the bedside drawer, hesitating before pulling it open. Inside lay the pendant: small, delicate, with a faint scratch across its surface. Untouched, but never forgotten.

That night still lived in the cracks of my memory-the quiet between conversations, the way she had looked away when I asked her name. Just "Aashi," she had whispered, almost like a secret.

I closed the drawer gently.

Mom had been experiencing persistent headaches and blurred vision for the past month. The first hospital suggested surgery. I couldn't let that sit. I had called in favours, searched for every credible name in the field, and arranged a second opinion-this time from one of the best.

Dr. Aashi Verma.

I rubbed my temples. Maybe I was reading too much into it.

I messaged my sister to accompany Mom. Then I tapped the screen to start a video call.

[Video Call: 11 PM - Australia | 5:30 PM - India]

The call rang once, then twice. Finally, Maa appeared on the screen, adjusting her dupatta while holding a warm cup of tea. Her smile remained the most grounding presence in the world.

"Calling this late? I thought you forgot I existed," she teased, her voice with affectionate sarcasm.

"It's not that late here. I just... needed to check in," I replied with a smirk, my fatigue evident in my tone.

"Hm. 'Check in.' That sounds so formal. What's the real reason?" She raised an eyebrow, knowing me too well.

"You have an appointment tomorrow at Lifecare Hospital with Dr. Aashi Verma."

She nodded, setting her cup down on the side table. "Yes, yes. A reminder came through. It's at 10:30 AM, right?"

"Right. You'll go, won't you?"

"Of course, I would go. Enough talk about my health, tell me about you-you don't look well."

"I'm fine. Just tired. Practice ran late."

"You sound tired, and you're staring at the screen like it holds all the answers."

"Maybe I just missed seeing your face," I said with a faint smile.

"That's your exhaustion talking."

"Listen, I'll go to the appointment. I'll be fine. But you-don't try to carry the world alone on those shoulders."

"I'm not."

"You are. Even now, your mind seems to be elsewhere."

I exhaled through my nose, not denying it.

"You'll like the doctor, I think."

"Maybe. I'll let you know how it goes."

"Fair enough."

"Get some rest, Maa."

"You too, Shubman. And... whatever it is you're not saying-just remember, not all ghosts are meant to be buried."

The call ended, and the screen went dark.

I sat there, as still as stone, my reflection faint in the glass.

Hospital, Morning

Sunlight poured into my office, golden and forgiving. The city was already buzzing, but inside, it was quiet-a welcome contrast that I appreciated.

Something was calming about starting the day in the operating room: the sharp lights, the rhythmic beeping, and the strange comfort of knowing exactly what to do.

Now, after surgery, I flipped through the consultation files lined up for the day.

The first one read: Mrs. Kavita Gill - Age: 58. Symptoms: headaches and blurry vision. Duration: 1 month.

As I reviewed the MRI summary, my gut tightened. An aneurysm-likely surgical.

While scanning her information, my eyes landed on the emergency contact listed.

Shubman Gill.

My fingers froze mid-page.

Could it really be him?

Shubman. My breath hitched-brief, foolish. That name. But no... I didn't even know his last name back then. And there had to be dozens of Shubmans in the country. It couldn't be him.

"No," I whispered. "It's a common name. Don't be stupid."

I shook it off and moved on to the next section, trying to breathe a little slower. Just another patient. Just another case.

But the name lingered in my mind.

Knock. Knock.

"Mrs. Kavita Gill?" I asked, standing as the door opened.

She entered with a composed smile. Mid-fifties. Graceful. Polished. The kind of patient who asks the right questions but doesn't panic.

"That's me. I hope I'm not early."

"You're right on time." I gestured to the seat.

She settled in. I skimmed her reports again, trying to keep my voice neutral.

"So, you're here for a second opinion?"

"Yes. My neurologist mentioned an aneurysm behind my right eye. He suggested surgery but didn't explain much. My son insisted I come here."

"Have you had any new symptoms? Dizziness, nausea?"

"Started about a month ago-blurry vision, some evening headaches. Lately, they've been constant. No vomiting, but I am little dizzy sometimes."

I nodded, noting it all. "Any changes in speech? Memory lapses?"

"No, thankfully."

I began the clinical exam-BP normal. Reflexes intact. Pupil responses are steady.

"You're very calm, Doctor," she said suddenly. "It helps. Makes me feel like everything's going to be okay."

I offered a soft smile. "We treat first, worry later."

She chuckled lightly, but the weight in her eyes was familiar. That quiet, rational fear. The kind only women of a certain age carry, who've seen enough life to know how fast things can change.

"I'll need to recheck the MRI. Might order a focused scan-just to be certain."

"Of course. I trust your judgment."

I flipped back through her file-again, that name.

Shubman Gill.

I hesitated, then asked, "Is your son available if we need to coordinate?"

She brightened instantly. "Oh yes. That's Shubman-my elder one. He booked this appointment from Australia. Always takes charge, even when I tell him not to fuss."

Australia. My chest grew tight.

"He's on a cricket tour," she added casually. "Captain now."

My hand stilled mid-note.

I forced my smile to stay. "I see."

A knock interrupted us.

"Excuse me," I said. "Come in."

"Sorry to disturb you, Doctor. A woman named Rhea Gill says she's a relative."

"Send her in," Mrs. Gill replied. "That's my daughter."

Rhea walked in briskly and settled beside her mother.

"Shub told me about your appointment. He knew you'd come alone," she said, half-scolding.

Then she turned to me. "Sorry for the interruption."

"No problem. We're done," I replied.

I closed the file slowly. "We'll review the MRI and schedule a follow-up. But if the symptoms worsen, please come in immediately."

"Thank you, Doctor. You've been very kind."

They left.

The door clicked shut.

And I just sat there.

Shubman Gill. Captain. Australia.

That name. That face. That night.

The dimple. The grin. The softness in his voice.

The one I never forgot.

No, I told myself. It can't be.

But a whisper inside me asked-what if it is?

---

After she left, my chest felt heavier than it had all morning. Thoughts buzzed like static. I needed air. Coffee. Distance.

In the corridor, two nurses chatted near the coffee machine.

"You watching tomorrow's match?"

"Shubman Gill? Please. He's on fire!"

I froze.

Across the hallway, a TV played the morning sports reel.

The camera zoomed in.

The bat. The stance. The walk.

The dimple.

My heart didn't just stutter-it cracked.

No... no, it can't be.

---

That Evening, Home

The apartment smelled of lavender and coriander, and dinner was simmering on the stove. It should have felt comforting, but instead, everything felt overwhelming.

I walked in, still holding my keys.

Anaya dashed into my arms, laughing, her tiny arms wrapping tightly around my waist. Her dimple flashed at me.

I kissed her forehead, breathing her in, holding her tighter than usual.

In the living room, my brother lounged on the couch, with cricket highlights playing softly in the background.

"Cover drive. Classic Shubman Gill," he said casually.

I froze.

"Who?" I asked, pretending to pour water into a glass.

"Shubman Gill. He's the captain now. He's everywhere these days," he replied.

I sat beside him slowly, my heart pounding in my chest.

"What's he like?" I asked.

"Focused. Calm. Private. He mostly keeps to himself and doesn't reveal much," he explained.

The camera zoomed in again, showing Shubman walking off the field, a bat under his arm, a soft, tired smile tugging at his lips.

That dimple.

My breath caught in my throat.

I said nothing.

---

Later that night, I lay in bed, listening to the city hum beyond the windows-cars passing by, voices echoing, and the distant bark of a dog. It was the lullaby of Mumbai.

Anaya was curled up beside me, her thumb tucked under her cheek.

Even in her sleep, her dimple was still visible.

I brushed the hair away from her forehead and whispered into the darkness, "It can't be... right?"

---

And,

That's a wrap on Chapter 5 - "Pulled by the Past".

I'd love to hear what you thought of this one!

💭 Did anything in this chapter surprise you?

👀 Were you able to feel the tension between Aashi and Shubman-even without them saying much?

🧩 And that last moment... do you think she's really let go of the thought, or is it just buried for now?

If you enjoyed this chapter, now's the perfect time to show it some love -

Let's make it happen together? 🧡

With all my love,

-the_stellarflower