They Don't Know about Us

Chapter 42 - Jealousy, uncontained

Keerti's heels clicked softly against the polished floor as she stepped into the confersnce room, tablet tucked under her arm. The low hum of conversation died down almost immediately.

Residents straightened in their chairs, attendings glanced up from charts, coffee cups paused mid-air. It was the kind of room where announcements carried weight, where schedules dictated lives.

"Alright," Keerti began, her tone brisk, professional. "Before we start with duty allocations, a quick reminder."

She tapped her tablet, projecting the hospital calendar onto the screen behind her.

"The Sanjeevani Annual Charity Gala is scheduled for next Friday evening," she said. "Attendance is expected from all senior residents and attendings unless excused for emergency duty. Media, donors, and board members will be present, so I expect professionalism—inside and outside the hospital."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the room. The residents broke into chatter amongst themselves.

"Formal attire," Keerti added, already anticipating the questions. "Details will be emailed. If you're on-call that night, adjustments will be made, but I need confirmation by tomorrow."

Riddhima's pen froze mid-note.

Friday. November 27th.

Her breath hitched so subtly she almost didn't notice it herself. The words on the screen blurred for a second, the dates swimming together until one memory forced itself forward—uninvited, relentless.

The memory came unbidden, sharp and intimate. The hospital terrace is where it has been.

She could still see it so clearly—the harsh white lights spilling out from the stairwell, the faint hum of generators below, the city stretching endlessly beyond the railing.

She had laughed that night, wrinkling her nose as she looked around and said, "This has to be the least romantic place anyone's ever asked someone out."

And he had smiled. That slow, crooked smile that always undid her.

"I know," he'd said softly, stepping closer, lowering his voice like the walls themselves were listening. "But it's private. No one's watching. Just us."

She had liked that. The privacy. The way the noise of the hospital faded into the background, the way the terrace felt like a stolen pocket of calm in a world that never stopped moving.

She remembered the cool concrete under her palms, the wind tugging at her hair, the way his hand had hesitated for half a second before taking hers—like he was afraid she might say no.

Be my girlfriend, he'd asked, simple and earnest, heart laid bare without grand gestures or rose petals or candlelight.

And she had said yes without thinking. Without fear. Without imagining how fragile happiness could be.

Riddhima's throat tightened as the memory settled into her chest.

Now this was the same hospital. The same place. The same date yet only this time, there would be no terrace. No quiet corner.

No us.

And everything they had lost.

She swallowed hard, forcing her expression neutral, her posture composed. Doctor first. Always doctor first. That was how she survived.

But somewhere deep in her chest, beneath the calm exterior, something fragile cracked just a little more.

What would have been their one-year anniversary.