They Don't Know about Us

Chapter 40 - Burning Hearts

The hospital library always felt colder during exam season. Not because of the weather, but because of the tension — thick, humming, almost visible between the shelves of thick textbooks and half-empty coffee cups. Even the overhead lights felt harsher, too white, too clinical, as if the universe suddenly wanted everyone to remember they were in a battle zone.

Riddhima sat curled over her table, highlighter trapped between her fingers, cap in mouth, hair tied into a messy knot that had given up holding its shape hours ago. Her notes were spread across the table in a color-coded chaos only she understood. Behavioral algorithms. Flow charts. Drug lists. Emergency situation pathways. The usual academic massacre before a viva.

Beside her, Muskaan had her forehead planted directly on the table, mumbling incoherently into her sleeve,"I swear," she groaned, lifting her head with the despair of someone betrayed by life, "if they ask me one more differential for 'chest pain,' I'm going to throw myself down the cardiology stairs."

Rahul didn't even look up. He was calmly flipping through his Harrison's, sipping coffee like he had transcended earthly suffering. "Chest pain differential is foundational medicine," he murmured. "You should know it."

Muskaan glared at him, "Rahul, I swear on my MD degree, if you don't shut up—"

Riddhima placed a tired hand between them. "Guys. Please. We're already losing brain cells being awake at this hour." She offered a weak smile, the warm kind she hadn't felt in weeks.

Muskaan slumped sideways dramatically. "I hate vivas. Why couldn't we do a written exam? Why does anyone need to hear me talk out loud? It's cruel."

Rahul finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Because you're a doctor, Muskaan. You passing this exam saves lives in the future."

Muskaan waved a hand. "Talking gives me anxiety."

"I'm sorry, did you just say that talking gives you anxiety?" Rahul, dropped his focus and diverted it to muskaan as if she had dropped a bomb.

Riddhima couldn't help a soft laugh — the first genuine one in days. The familiar rhythm of her friends' banter loosened something tight in her chest. She finally allowed herself to sink deeper into her chair, twirling her pen between her fingers.

Viva prep brought a strange comfort. It reminded her that beyond heartbreak and broken families, she was still a doctor. She still had something she was fighting for that wasn't just Armaan.

She exhaled slowly, leaning back. "What do you think they'll ask tomorrow?" Rahul's eyes gleamed with the confidence of someone who overstudied. "Probably emergencies. MI, acute stroke, hypertensive crisis, DKA, sepsis protocols—"

Muskaan's hands flew up. "Okay, okay, we get it, Mister Topper. Can we pretend we're all idiots together and make a survival pact?"

Riddhima shook her head fondly. "We're not idiots. We're just exhausted."

A moment passed — soft, comfortable, familiar. Until footsteps echoed across the upper level of the library. Riddhima's pen stilled as her gaze drifted towards the sound.

Up in the corner, hidden between tall shelves, Anjali sat alone with her books. Her posture was stiff, shoulders curled inward as if she were physically trying to take up less space. Her notes were open but untouched. A cup of tea sat cold beside her.

No Muskaan beside her to bother her with silly jokes. No Rahul nearby for her to rehearse her answers with. No brother dropping off coffee for his younger sister. No fiancé texting good luck.

Anjali looked... timid, small, her eyes drooped low. Her eyes flickered toward their table once — just once — and Riddhima caught the split-second flicker of longing.