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Hey lovelies I am back with the part 2 the fictional part hope you all will like it❤️
******
POV AUTHOR
13 YEARS LATER
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly, casting a sterile glow down the corridors of Starlight Medical Center, Los Angeles. The air was crisp with the scent of antiseptics, punctuated by the quiet hum of monitors. Nurses and doctors moved with purpose, their footsteps muted on the polished tiles. Amidst this orchestrated chaos, a woman sat in her office, posture straight yet deceptively calm.
Her office was modest but orderly, shelves lined with medical textbooks and a few certificates framed neatly on the walls-the most prominent one bearing her title: Head Neurosurgeon.
She exuded a quiet authority, the kind that made people fall silent when she spoke. Her eyes-a deep, unreadable shade of brown-moved swiftly over the medical reports, absorbing every detail with a precision that bordered on ruthless. Her long hair was pulled back into a low bun, though a few rebellious strands escaped, softening the sharpness of her features. High cheekbones, soft lips, and a slender nose gave her an air of grace that was starkly contrasted by the dark circles beneath her eyes-evidence of countless sleepless nights within these walls.
Her fingers, slender yet steady, flipped the pages with practiced ease. Years of surgeries had trained them to move with a confidence that left no room for hesitation, each motion precise and controlled.
But the silence was abruptly shattered by a hurried knock at the door. The sound was sharp, almost desperate, cutting through the quiet like a blade.
“Come in,” she called, her voice smooth and steady, though it held none of the warmth.
The door swung open, revealing a nurse-breathless and tense. “Doctor, an emergency patient has been brought in. His condition is very critical,” the nurse reported, her words tumbling out hurriedly.
The doctor was on her feet in an instant, all signs of fatigue forgotten. As she tied her hair up into a tight ponytail, her fingers moved automatically, years of practice guiding her actions. “Prepare the OT. I’m coming,” she ordered, her tone leaving no room for hesitation.
The nurse nodded swiftly, disappearing down the hall. The doctor slipped on her gloves with practiced precision, each movement fluid yet deliberate. As she stepped out of her cabin, her eyes momentarily darkened-like a storm cloud passing over sunlight-haunted by shadows only she could see.
She moved gracefully through the corridor, her strides hurried yet composed, exuding an aura so strong that the bustling hallway seemed to part effortlessly for her. Nurses rushed past with IV stands and sterilized equipment, and junior doctors exchanged glances, their eyes filled with admiration and urgency.
People passing by couldn’t resist acknowledging her presence. Some greeted her respectfully, others offered hurried bows of the head. She responded with curt, polite nods, her focus unwavering, eyes fixed ahead on the doors of the OT. The weight of authority in her every step left a ripple of silence in her wake, a testament to both her skill and the quiet power she carried.
Outside the OT, a nurse stood ready with a sterile gown, her hands steady but her eyes betraying a hint of urgency. The doctor moved forward without pause, slipping into the gown with a practiced efficiency, her movements precise and unhurried. Her gaze, however, strayed-just for a heartbeat-to the young man sprawled on the stretcher nearby.
Blood was matted in his dark hair, stark against his unnaturally pale skin. The slow, shallow rise and fall of his chest was the only sign of life, and even that seemed dangerously fragile. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air, sharp and suffocating.
A junior doctor hurried over, the tablet clutched tightly in his hands, eyes wide with tension. “Patient is male, late twenties,” he reported quickly, his voice clipped and tight. “Involved in a road accident due to rash driving. Sustained severe head trauma-substantial blood loss. Vitals are unstable; BP is dropping rapidly. There’s also a suspected spinal injury-C4 to C5.”
The doctor’s hands, busy fastening the ties of her gown, froze for a split second. Her fingers stilled, a faint tremor betraying the calm façade. Her eyes flickered-just for an instant-dark lashes lowering as if to block out something unseen.
Blood on asphalt. A cracked phone screen, flickering feebly. A voice-weak, broken-whispering her name. A last, soft smile stained with crimson.
The memories surged violently, raw and unbidden, clawing at the walls she had so carefully built. Her breath hitched-too soft for anyone to notice-but the chaos in her chest was deafening.
And then-the words.
“Road accident.”
“Severe head trauma.”
“Lost a significant amount of blood.”
They echoed mercilessly, each one a shard of glass slicing through her composure. Her vision blurred for a fraction of a second, the pristine white corridor around her dissolving into something darker-flashing red lights, twisted metal, blood staining the cracked pavement.
Her gloved hand tightened imperceptibly around the edges of the sterile gown. The steady beeping of monitors, the hurried voices of nurses, all faded into a distant hum.
It felt like déjà vu-vivid and cruel. A nightmare playing on loop.
She forced a breath, but the air seemed too thick, too cold. For a heartbeat, her feet threatened to falter. Her eyes flickered-just for an instant-toward the young man on the stretcher, blood darkening his hair, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
For a moment, she saw him.
That same dark hair matted with blood. Those eyes-once warm-fluttering shut. That voice-cracked and faint-saying her name one last time.
Her chest constricted painfully, nails biting into her palms beneath the gloves. It took everything in her to blink the memories away, to bury them beneath layers of ice.
“Doctor?” The junior’s voice was hesitant, concern bleeding through the professionalism. He leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning her face for a sign-any sign-that something was wrong.
She blinked rapidly, shoving the memories back into the locked box where they belonged. Her jaw tightened. She couldn’t fall apart. Not here. Not now.
“Prepare the OT” she commanded, tone brooking no argument. “We’re going in now.”
The junior doctor straightened immediately, nodding briskly. Nurses sprang into action around them, wheeling the stretcher forward with practiced urgency. The OT doors swung open, spilling harsh white light into the hallway, and the doctor strode in without a backward glance.
But beneath the mask, her jaw was clenched tight enough to ache. And behind her cold eyes, shadows lurked-dark, unrelenting, and all too familiar.
******
The operation was finally over. The rhythmic beeping of the monitors had stabilized, the patient’s vitals were steady, and the bleeding had been controlled. The doctor stood still for a moment, her gloved hands hanging at her sides, her eyes closed as if drawing a deep breath of relief beneath her mask. The room, which had been a whirlwind of tension and urgency, now felt calmer.
“Great job, Doctor,” one of the junior doctors said, a mix of admiration and relief in his voice. “The patient is stable.”
Another nurse, adjusting the IV drip, looked up with a warm smile. “You did it, Doctor. He’s going to be fine.”
The doctor opened her eyes slowly, her expression unreadable. She nodded, not saying anything, and began peeling off her gloves methodically. Her movements were slow, as if each action brought her back to reality, grounding her from the intensity of the surgery.
As she stepped back, a nurse approached with a towel, helping her wipe away the fine sheen of sweat on her forehead. The doctor took it silently, dabbing her face before handing it back. The staff continued to congratulate her, their voices filled with respect, but she remained quiet, acknowledging their words with only a brief nod.
She moved to the corner of the room to wash her hands, the water cool against her skin. The sound of rushing water filled the silence, almost soothing in its simplicity. She scrubbed her hands thoroughly, not just to clean them but as if washing away the remnants of something deeper-something invisible.
“Doctor, should we prepare him for the recovery room?” a nurse asked, bringing her back to the present.
“Yes,” she said simply. Her voice was calm, professional. “Keep monitoring his vitals. Make sure his blood pressure remains stable. I’ll check on him later.”
She turned, pushing open the heavy OT doors and stepping into the hallway. The sudden quiet of the corridor hit her, a stark contrast to the controlled chaos inside. She stood still for a moment, her back against the wall, eyes closing briefly as she took a long, deep breath.
Her colleagues passed by, some nodding respectfully, others offering small smiles of encouragement. She responded with a faint nod, maintaining her composed exterior. Her footsteps were steady, echoing softly against the polished tiles as she made her way down the hall.
But just as she reached the waiting area, a young girl rushed forward, stopping right in front of her. The girl’s eyes were red, her cheeks stained with dried tears, and her whole body shook with barely-contained anxiety.
“Doctor!” the girl’s voice wavered, a fragile thread of hope woven into her words. “How is he? Is he… okay?”
The doctor’s expression softened slightly. She held the girl’s gaze, her own eyes steady and calm. “He is safe,” she said gently. “The operation was successful. He is out of danger.”
The girl stared at her, unblinking, as if the words took a moment to sink in. And then, like a dam breaking, she collapsed to her knees. A sob tore from her throat, raw and full of relief. Her hands came together, and she bowed her head, tears streaming down her face.
“Thank you… Thank you so much!” she cried, her voice muffled by her own hands. “You saved him… My boyfriend… I thought I had lost him.”
She continued, her words tumbling out in a rush. “We had a fight. He left my house in anger, and then I heard about the accident. They said he might not make it, and I thought-” Her voice broke, fresh sobs overtaking her.
The doctor stood still, her expression betraying nothing. But her fingers curled slightly at her sides. Her eyes, however, flickered-just for a moment. A ghost of something-pain, guilt, memory-before the mask slid back into place.
“It’s my job,” she replied curtly, her voice devoid of warmth. “He’ll need rest and monitoring for the next 48 hours. A nurse will update you.”
Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel, her steps brisk and deliberate. The sobs of the girl echoed behind her, but she did not turn back. Her eyes remained fixed ahead, dark and unfathomable.
******
POV TARA
As I reached the scrub room, I gripped the edge of the sink, my knuckles turning white. My reflection stared back at me-tired eyes rimmed with shadows, shoulders tense with the weight of too many sleepless nights, and a face devoid of any softness. I closed my eyes for a brief moment, but his words echoed mercilessly in my mind-“You saved my love.”
My love… perhaps, like her love. If only I could have saved him too-
The thought was a knife, twisting deep and merciless. I sucked in a breath, my fingers trembling against the cold steel of the sink. The white coat hung heavily on my shoulders, a reminder of who I was now. Dr. Tara Sharma, Head Neurosurgeon. Successful. Respected. Untouchable. And yet-beneath all that, just a girl with a broken heart and too many ghosts.
I forced my eyes open, willing the memories back into the darkness where they belonged. But his face lingered, vivid and cruel-soft eyes, a lopsided smile, wind-tousled hair, and blood on asphalt.
I bit down hard on my lip, the taste of iron sharp on my tongue. Not now. Not here. My fingers flexed, stiff from hours of surgery, but I couldn’t bring myself to move. Not yet. The weight of what I’d just done-the life I’d pulled back from the edge-pressed heavily against my chest.
“You saved my love.” The girl’s words replayed in my mind, raw and grateful, her eyes glistening with tears as she fell to her knees in the hallway outside the OT. Her hands pressed together, voice shaking with relief and devotion. “Thank you, Doctor. Thank you for saving him.”
But I hadn’t saved him. Not the one who mattered. Not the boy with the crooked grin and starry-eyed dreams of becoming a doctor, who used to brush soft kisses against my temple and promise me forever. Not the boy whose blood had once stained my hands-no matter how many times I scrubbed them, the crimson guilt never truly washed away.
A shaky breath slipped past my lips as I raked a hand through my hair, the strands slipping between my fingers. I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes, hard enough to send sparks dancing behind my lids. Stop it, Tara. Focus. The words were a lifeline, a desperate command to keep from drowning in memories that lurked just beneath the surface.
I couldn’t afford to unravel-not here, not now, not ever. I had built these walls for a reason, brick by brick, to keep the pain from spilling over. Letting them crumble was not an option.
But my heart didn’t listen. It never did when it came to him. Even after all these years, even after everything, it still bled at the thought of him. Still ached with every breath, every heartbeat, every step that took me further from the girl I used to be-the girl who believed in forever and happy endings.
I dragged in a deep breath, forcing air into my lungs, grounding myself in the clinical sterility of the room-my eyes skimming the reports in my hand without really seeing them. But then-my breath caught, the words blurring on the page.
Right. I haven’t introduced myself, have I?
“I’m Tara-Tara Sharma,” I muttered to myself, the words slipping out quietly, almost bitterly. “You must all know me. But I bet you’re wondering how I ended up here-how I became a doctor.”
A humorless smile pulled at my lips. “Well, the truth is, I dropped out in 11th grade and took a break for a year because my health was a mess. Or maybe it was my heart. Grief and guilt can do that to you, I guess.”
I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, memories surging forward with brutal clarity. Him. His smile. His dreams. His blood on asphalt.
My fault. My fault. My fault.
I shook my head, forcing the thoughts back into the darkness where they belonged. “I was drowning in guilt,” I continued in a whisper, as if confessing to the whitewashed walls. “Because of me, he died. And his dream of becoming a doctor never came true.”
A shaky breath slipped past my lips. I pressed my palm against the cool glass of the observation window, grounding myself. “I still remember that night,” I murmured. “Years ago. When I snuck out of my house to go on one of our endless late-night drives.”
The memory was vivid, warm, and agonizing all at once. The wind in my hair, city lights blurring past, the warmth of his hand brushing against mine as we sat on a bench, ice creams in hand, the world quiet and ours alone.
“Why science?” I’d asked, licking at my chocolate cone with a grin.
He’d chuckled, the sound low and soft, eyes crinkling at the edges. “I want to become a doctor,” he said simply.
“Why?” I’d pressed, bumping my shoulder against his.
His smile had turned softer then, almost sad. “For my mom. She left her career-her passion for medicine-to raise me. I… I just want to fulfill her dream. Make her proud.”
I hadn’t said anything then, too overwhelmed by the rush of love in my chest, by the warmth in his eyes. All I knew was that if he could love his mother so fiercely, then he’d love me fiercely too. And in that moment, I knew-he was it for me. My forever.
Except… he wasn’t.
I bit down on my lip, hard enough to taste blood, and forced myself back to the present. “But I guess he wasn’t in my fate,” I whispered bitterly. “It’s been years, and I still love him. Time moved on. The world moved on. But I… I stayed right there. Trapped in a love that never had the chance to be returned.”
The ache in my chest was suffocating, an old wound torn open yet again. I ran a hand over my face, forcing my breathing to steady. “People say time heals,” I scoffed, voice tight. “But what do they know? Time didn’t erase my love. It only made it stronger. Deeper. More unbearable.”
I loved him so much that it became a part of me. That love didn’t just stay in my heart-it seeped into my veins, keeping me alive and breaking me all at once.
I dragged a hand through my hair, exhaling shakily. “Love can do wonders,” I admitted softly, almost bitterly. “Look at me-the girl who used to despise science, who couldn’t tell a neuron from a nerve, who flunked every chemistry test.”
A hollow laugh slipped out. “And now here I am-sitting in LA, a successful Head Neurosurgeon. All because of him. Because his love, even after all these years, is still the force that drives me forward.”
I stared at the city skyline through the wide windows, the sun dipping low, painting the sky in hues of orange and violet. “I came here at Eighteen,” I muttered to myself, the words almost a confession. “Right after my 12th. I left everything behind-my family, my home, every piece of my old life. Because I couldn’t stay. Not when every street, every corner, every breath of that city was a reminder of him.”
I closed my eyes, shoulders slumping slightly. “But it doesn’t matter how far I go,” I admitted in a broken whisper. “Doesn’t matter how many years pass. It doesn’t even matter that he’s gone. I’ll love him until my last breath.”
The words hung in the silence, raw and aching and true. I sucked in a sharp breath, straightened my spine, and exhaled slowly, forcing every shard of brokenness back into the walls I’d spent years building. The pain was familiar, a dull throb beneath the surface-endured, mastered, buried.
I turned away from the window, my heels clicking sharply against the polished floor, my white coat trailing behind me with a kind of practiced finality. The corridor stretched ahead-bright, sterile, endless. Nurses nodded in passing, their eyes filled with a respect that felt hollow somehow.
But I kept walking, shoulders squared, gaze fixed ahead. Because that’s what survivors did, wasn’t it? They kept moving forward, no matter how much of them had been left behind.
And just like that, Dr. Tara Sharma-the girl who loved too fiercely and lost too cruelly-buried her heart once more.
But as she strode down the corridor, her eyes dark and steady, her fingers curled slightly into her palms-barely enough to leave marks, but enough to remind herself that she was still here, still fighting, even if she no longer knew what for.
Because some wounds never truly heal. Some ghosts never really fade. And some hearts, no matter how fiercely they’re guarded, never stop searching for what they’ve lost.
******
Hey, lovelies! Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Don’t forget to hit that vote button and leave your thoughts in the comments. Till then byy see you soon ❤️
Thank you for your love and support!
Love from,
Miss Sharma ❤️
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