Vaibhav’s POV

Sunday had arrived quietly, but the house had been alive since morning.

He and his father had been assisting his mother—cutting fruits, arranging dishes, occasionally being scolded for being too slow. By the time the clock neared 12:30 pm, Vaibhav finally excused himself, took a quick bath, and changed into a cream-coloured casual shirt and black jeans. Comfortable. Simple. He hadn’t thought much of it.

Or so he believed.

When he walked into the dining hall, his steps froze.

She was there.

For a second, his mind refused to register the sight—her black floral anarkali, the way the fabric fell softly around her, silver jhumkas swaying gently as she laughed at something his mother said. She looked… different. Not just pretty. Strikingly calm. Familiar. Dangerous in a way he couldn’t define.

Their eyes met.

“You—!”
“You!”

The echo of their surprise filled the room, followed by puzzled looks from everyone else. As the hospital incident unfolded in words, Vaibhav stayed quiet, observing her—how she smiled politely, how she nodded while listening, how her eyes softened when she spoke.

He noticed everything.

The way she held her dupatta when she laughed.
The way her nose crinkled slightly when she was teased.
The way she reacted—graceful, composed, yet real.

Then lunch happened.

And everything changed.

When she praised the kheer, his mother smiled proudly. But moments later, her breathing faltered. Vaibhav saw it instantly—the slight panic in her eyes, the way her hand gripped the table.

Before anyone else could react, his doctor instincts took over.

His heart raced, but his hands didn’t shake.

Medicine.
Water.
Calm voice.

When he noticed the rashes on her neck, his mouth spoke before his mind could catch up.
“She should lie down… in my room.”

He didn’t think twice. And strangely—no one questioned it.

After helping her settle on the bed and tucking her in carefully, everyone left.

Everyone except him.

He stood there, unsure why his feet wouldn’t move.

Minutes passed.

He noticed the beads of sweat on her forehead, the way her brows tightened slightly even in sleep. Without thinking, he reached out, gently wiping her forehead with a handkerchief.

His touch lingered for a fraction longer than necessary.

He stayed.
Watching. Waiting. Caring.

He didn’t know why.

Later, during dinner, even when she returned looking better, his eyes found her again and again. He stole glances—quick, unintentional, dangerous. When she thanked him, sincerely, softly, their eyes locked.

Time paused.

A throat cleared.

Reality snapped back.

That night, as her family prepared to leave, Vaibhav turned toward his room—only to be stopped by his father.

Both his parents stood there, identical knowing smiles on their faces.

“Vaibhav,” his mother said teasingly,
“kuch batana hai humein?”

His face heated instantly.

“N–No… nothing,” he blurted, mortified, already backing away.

The laughter that followed him down the corridor made his ears burn.

Inside his room, he locked the door, changed quietly, and lay down.

But sleep didn’t come easily.

Because his mind was already occupied.

With silver jhumkas,
a soft smile,
and a girl who had somehow—silently—made her way into his thoughts.

And stayed.