The hospital was too quiet at night. Not the peaceful kind of quiet, the kind that pressed against your ears until even your own breathing sounded too loud.

Seven-year-old Shristy curled up on the narrow hospital bed, her tiny fingers clutching the stiff white bedsheet as if it could hold her together. The IV taped to her hand felt heavy. Everything felt heavy.

Her chest and her throat hurt but more than anything, there was an ache for something familiar, She missed home. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks, one after another, soaking into the pillow she had turned away from the door. She didn’t want anyone to see her cry.

Still, a soft voice broke through the silence, “Ro rhi ho?”

(Are you crying?)

She slowly hesitantly froze as she turned her head. A boy older and taller than her stood at the door, maybe he was twelve. His hair was messy, like he had run his hands through it too many times, and his hospital band hung loosely around his wrist, indicating that he is a visitor.

He didn’t look scared. He walked in like this place didn’t own him. Shristy wiped her tears quickly and shaking her head even though her eyes betrayed her, “Nahi…”

(No)

The boy raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Jhoot bolti ho.”

(You are lying)

And just like that, something shifted. He walked closer, dragging a chair beside her bed and sitting down as if it was the most normal thing in the world. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, awkwardly, he pulled something out of his pocket. A slightly melted chocolate as he placed it on her bed, “Yeh lo.”

(Take this)

Shristy stared at it then at him.

“Main roz aata hoon yahan,” he added casually, like it was no big deal. “Sab rote hain pehle din.”

(I come here everyday, everyone usually cry on the first day)

She sniffled, her voice small, “Mujhe ghar jaana hai…”

(I wanna go home)

He didn’t laugh or dismiss it. “Jaogi,” he said simply. “Sab jaate hain.”

(You will, one day everyone does)

There was something about the way he said it, not like a promise, but like a belief he refused to let go of.  And for the first time that night, Shristhy stopped crying.

He came the next day.

And the next.

And the next.

Always with something in his hands. Sometimes it was a candy or a chocolate and sometimes just stories when he had nothing else. He never asked too many questions. Never made her feel weak. He just… stayed.

And slowly, the hospital didn’t feel as lonely anymore.

One afternoon, Shristy watched him as he sat beside her, swinging his legs like he didn’t have a care in the world, he leaned back in and asked, almost out of nowhere “Tumhe kaunsa phool pasand hai?”

(which flower do you like?)

Shristy blinked. “Flower?”

“Haan.” 

(yes)

She thought for a moment, then answered softly, “Lotus.”

The boy smiled. Not a big smile. Just quiet, I am making a mental note one. “Ek din,” he said, looking at her like he was already seeing that day “main tumhe lotus laake dunga.”

(one day, i will give you lotus)

She watched him, eyes wide.

“Phir… tumhe baarish mein le jaunga.”

(then i will take you in the rain with me)

Her breath hitched.

“And we’ll dance,” he added, softer now.

“Sach?” she whispered.

(for real?)

He tilted his head, confidence effortless.

“Main jhoot nahi bolta.” And then “Shri,” he called suddenly.

(i don’t lie)

She looked up. He leaned forward, resting his chin on the edge of her bed, eyes unusually serious this time.

“Bade hoke…” he paused, as if choosing something important, “main doctor banunga.”

(i’ll become a doctor when i grow up)

She blinked. “Doctor?”

“Haan,” he nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Aur main tumhe theek kar dunga.”

(yes and then i will cure you)

Her eyes widened, hope blooming too fast, too pure, “Sachi?”

(for real?)

He didn’t hesitate. “Muchi.”

(for real.)

She shifted closer, lifting her tiny hand despite the IV taped to it, “Pinky promise?”

For a second, he looked at her fragile and trembling hand raised towards him with trust, Then he hooked his finger with hers. “Pinky promise.”

And just like that, A future was written neither of them understood.

But he never came back. Not the next day or the day after. Not even when she waited so long that hope began to feel embarrassing.

At seven, she cried for him. At twelve, she made excuses for him. At seventeen, she stopped asking why. But she never stopped waiting.

Yet years later, the hospital hadn’t changed. The walls were a different shade, the machines newer, the faces unfamiliar, but the silence? The silence still knew her name.

Shristy Malhotra, now twenty-three, sat curled near the window of her hospital room, her journal resting against her knees. The IV line traced the same fragile path along her hand, like time had circled back instead of moving forward. She flipped to the last page she hadn’t yet filled. For a moment, she just stared at it. Then she wrote, Her pen didn’t stop this time.

You said you’d come back. You said you’d become a doctor. You said you’d fix me. You said you don’t lie.

Her fingers tightened slightly as she took a small pause. 

I believed you.

The words blurred for a second, but she blinked the tears away before they could fall.

You never came back.

This time, she didn’t soften it. Didn’t excuse it or protect the memory. She closed the journal slowly, almost gently, as if even now, she was afraid of breaking something that had already been gone for years.

“They don’t come back, Shri.” Her own voice sounded distant. Like she was convincing someone else.

There was a soft knock on the door. Unfamiliar yet familiar. She didn’t answer but the door opened anyway. “Good evening, Miss Malhotra.”

She looked up lazily, and the world… tilted. A man stood at the door in a white coat, calm and composed, like he belonged here. Late twenties. Sharp features. Tired eyes that carried something heavy beneath them.

Something she knew and her heart recognized before her mind could catch up.

“I’m Dr. Siddharth,” he said, stepping inside. “Newly assigned to your case.” 

Her pulse stuttered.

No!

He walked closer and that’s when she saw it. The flowers in his hand. A lotus.

Not roses or lilies but a lotus.

Her breath caught so sharply it hurt.

The room shrank, the years collapsing violently until she was seven again, small fingers wrapped in a pinky promise, eyes full of a future someone had once sworn to give her.

“Siddharth…” she whispered.

He didn’t react or even hesitate. He placed the flowers beside her bed with quiet care. “These are for you.” Polite and Measured like a stranger’s kindness.

Her chest tightened.

No.

No, this wasn’t—

“Arth…” the name slipped out before she could stop it, softly like she was scared.

He froze, It was subtle like barely there but she saw it. The slight stillness in his shoulders. The way his fingers paused for a fraction too long. The flicker, so quick it could’ve been imagined, in his eyes.

Her heart leapt. “You remember…” she breathed, hope in her eyes rushing in too fast, too reckless causing the silence to be tretched between them, a dangerous yet fragile thing.

Then, “I think you’re mistaken, Miss Malhotra.” His voice was steady and controlled as if he could never be wrong.

The hope inside her didn’t shatter. It… cracked. Because she saw it. The hesitation and the lie. The way he avoided her eyes now, like looking at her for too long might undo something he was trying very hard to hold together.

Shristy let out a soft, almost inaudible laugh. She was not amused or bitter. Just… tired. “Of course,” she murmured. “My mistake, doctor.”

Doctor. Not Arth, her Arth.Not the boy who once promised her a future. Just a man who stood in front of her, holding a lotus he didn’t remember promising.

As he turned to leave. One step then, Two— 

“Wait.” The word slipped out of her before she could stop it.

He paused at the door, he didn’t urn or speak.

Her fingers tightened around the bedsheet, her voice quieter now, but heavier than anything she had ever said before. “You said… you don’t lie.”

There was a long and comfortable silence. Causing him to Slowly turn. 

And for the first time since he walked in, he looked at her. Really looked, not like a doctor or a stranger. But like someone standing on the edge of a memory he was terrified to fall into. His jaw clenched and his eyes?  flickered, he spoke in a voice so quiet it almost didn’t exist “…I don’t make promises anymore.” And then he walked out.

Her fingers tightened around the lotus. Her lips trembled into something that almost resembled a smile. Because now she knew. 

He remembered every single thing and he still chose to leave.