✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
[ 𝐒𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋 1 ]
Because this is where love fades and hate resides and intensifies, broken hearts produce the most tragic stories.
Their treachery is told through their bleeding hearts: their unrequited love was never reciprocated. The...
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The clock had just ticked past 11 PM. I was tired, sweaty, and running on hospital coffee and adrenaline. My shift had been routine until the last hour.
"High speed collision, possible internal bleeding, and prep OR 2!" The cry echoed through the E.R. corridor.
My mind instantly switched from tired human to focused machine. I yanked on my surgical gloves. Inside the operating room, the team moved with practiced urgency. Scalpels, clamps, suction—my world narrowed to the beat of the heart monitor and the precise movements required to stitch life back together. It was intense, complex, and ultimately, a success. The patient was stabilized.
I stripped off my gown, wiped the sweat from my brow, and inhaled the crisp, sterile air of the recovery room. Only then did I reach for my phone.
Ten? That was a new record for him. He usually confined himself to one curt, grammatically aggressive text message. I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose, and dialed him back.
He answered instantly, his voice slurred, unusually high-pitched, and layered with the obnoxious confidence of a college frat boy who'd just discovered cheap tequila.
"Hiii, shwty! What's up?"
My world stalled. I pulled the phone away from my ear, staring at the screen to ensure I hadn't accidentally called a random number from my teens. Nope. Vidyut Agarwal.
I brought the phone back. My voice was dangerously calm. "Vidyut, check the number you called. And who, exactly, are you calling 'shwty'?"
A loud, messy sigh came through the receiver. "Oh, Ada Sharma. Why does it always have to be you? I was hoping for the pretty nurse with the shiny hair. But never mind, my Angel of the Operating Table! Tell me, where are you, my queen? I need your guidance! The King is lost without his Bengal Tigress!"
I grit my teeth. "Vidyut, stop talking nonsense. Are you drunk? Where. Are. You."
He ignored the question entirely and launched into something that sounded vaguely like poetry.
