Kabita didn't sleep that night.
The words on the hospital record haunted her like echoes: "No public record. Special handling."
It didn't make sense. A life erased with surgical precision.
The next morning, she returned to the administration wing and requested access to patient archive logs. She used her name, her condition, her media exposure—anything to get a sliver of access. At first, they refused. But a sympathetic junior clerk, clearly swayed by her fragile recovery and determined gaze, eventually relented.
She combed through digital files. Most had layers of access protection. But one slipped past the firewall—a temporary log backup from the night of her surgery.
It was a simple memo, timestamped two hours after her transplant.
> "Donor arrived under code protocol from east wing morgue. Clearance approved by Director Arnav S. Dasgupta. No external agency involvement. Handle per request."
Kabita froze.
Arnav Dasgupta.
The name clanged in her brain like a dropped tray.
She knew that name.
She remembered it.
College. Second year.
Tall, bookish, awkward. A boy who once tutored her in bioethics and made terrible jokes about heart cells falling in love. He was gentle, nervous, kind. She hadn't seen him in years.
He's the hospital director?
Suddenly, the erasure made sense. Arnav was brilliant, yes—but also deeply private. He wasn't the type to follow rules blindly. If he'd gotten involved, something personal had crossed his desk.
Kabita stared at the memo again, her pulse quickening.
She needed to talk to him.
---
Scene Two: The Past Reawakens
The director's office sat on the top floor, away from the noise and motion of daily hospital life. When she arrived, the receptionist glanced up politely.
"Do you have an appointment, miss?"
"I'm… an old friend," Kabita said quickly. "Tell him it's Kabita. From college."
The receptionist raised an eyebrow but made the call.
A moment later, the door buzzed open.
"Go on in. He said he'd make time."
Kabita stepped inside.
The office was sleek, minimalist—glass shelves, warm wood, a few abstract paintings. But her eyes locked on the man standing by the window, a tablet in his hands.
He turned.
And her breath caught.
He had grown sharper. His jaw more defined, his eyes hidden behind refined spectacles. He wore a crisp white coat over a grey dress shirt, and his expression was calm, composed… until recognition flashed across it.
"Kabita?"
She smiled, stunned. "Arnav."
He stepped forward, and for a second they just looked at each other. The past rewound for a heartbeat—the laughter in library corners, shared exam stress, late-night chai and conversations about dreams too big for their tiny campus.
"It's really you," he said softly. "You're alive."
That hit harder than she expected.
"I am," she whispered. "Because of someone who… no one will tell me about."
He tensed.
"You knew," she said.
He didn't answer.
"You approved the special clearance. You signed off on it. Please, Arnav. I need to know."
He walked to his desk slowly and sat down. "I was hoping this day wouldn't come."
"Why?" she asked.
"Because some truths don't give peace, Kabita. They just… leave more questions."
She stepped forward. "I deserve to know who gave up his life for me."
He met her eyes.
"Do you really want to know?"
"Yes."
His gaze held hers. Then he nodded slowly.
"Then you'll have to follow the trail all the way."
.
.
.
Kabita sat across from Arnav in the quiet of his office. Outside the window, the city shimmered under morning light, but the room felt frozen—held in a silence woven from memories and regrets.
Arnav leaned back in his chair, removing his glasses and resting them gently on the desk.
"You know," he said softly, "I still remember the first time Rajan talked to me about you."
Kabita's breath hitched. The name—the sound of it after so long—landed with weight.
"Rajan?" she echoed. "You knew him?"
Arnav nodded.
"We were lab partners. First year. He was shy, always scribbling notes at the edge of his book. But one day, I caught him staring at someone from the literature club bulletin board. You were standing there, laughing with your friends."
Kabita swallowed.
"I asked him what he was looking at," Arnav continued. "And he just smiled and said, 'I'm looking at my entire world.' I thought it was cheesy. I laughed. But he wasn't joking. Not even a little."
Kabita's eyes softened. "He… never said anything to me."
"He wouldn't," Arnav replied. "He didn't think he was worthy. Said you were 'light years above him.' A star he wasn't allowed to wish on."
She looked down, guilt creeping in.
"I remember him now. A quiet boy. Polite. Always alone."
"Yes," Arnav said. "But never alone in his thoughts. His world revolved around you. Every festival, every college function—he'd find ways to be near, to make sure you were safe, or happy, even if from a distance."
Kabita's voice was barely a whisper. "Why didn't you tell me back then?"
"I tried."
She looked up at him sharply.
"I told you more than once that someone admired you. I joked, hinted. But you always brushed it off. Called it 'creepy' or 'some weirdo again.' One time you even said, 'Tell that stalker to get a life.' After that, Rajan asked me not to speak of it again. He said it was enough just to see you smile."
Kabita winced. "I didn't know…"
"You were young," Arnav said gently. "We all were. Immature, distracted. You had your own world—your ambition, your dreams. You couldn't see what was just beneath the surface."
Kabita stared at her hands. "But he kept loving me?"
"Without pause. Even when you started dating others, even when you left college, even when he had nothing but dust in his pockets—he carried your memory like a treasure."
Her throat tightened. She felt it now—the shape of a presence that had always been near but never noticed. A shadow in her light, loyal and constant.
"And you?" she asked, voice shaking. "Did you know what happened after college?"
Arnav nodded. "He worked small jobs. Lived rough. Still asked me now and then about you. When you joined the airline, he came to the terminal once—just to catch a glimpse."
Kabita's heart twisted. "And I never saw him."
"He made sure of it."
Arnav paused, his voice growing quieter.
"When you were admitted here, after the collapse… he came the same day. I don't know how he found out so fast. Maybe he followed the news. But he stood right outside your room, Kabita. I saw him. I didn't recognize him at first. He looked… older. Worn."
Kabita's hands trembled.
"He came every day," Arnav said. "And when it became clear that no matching donor could be found—he came to me."
She looked up sharply. "He chose this?"
Arnav nodded slowly.
"He knew his blood matched. And he knew it meant death. But he said he had no family, no ties. That his life had been lived fully the moment you walked into it. That his heart had always been yours—it only made sense to give it back."
Tears spilled freely now from Kabita's eyes.
"He told me not to tell you. Not ever. Said he wanted to disappear quietly, like a dream ending at dawn."
Kabita stood up, backing away from the desk. Her legs felt numb.
"This… this can't be real…"
Arnav walked around the desk and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"I tried to talk him out of it. I begged him. But his mind was set. And I… I failed you both. I helped carry it out because I thought maybe… just maybe… it was his only way to live on."
Kabita shook her head, collapsing into the visitor's chair.
The walls felt like they were closing in. The air too heavy.
She thought about every moment she could have turned, smiled, noticed. Every time she'd shrugged off kindness, every time she'd mistaken devotion for annoyance.
And now the heart inside her chest beat with a rhythm born of silence, of longing, of unspoken love.
Kabita whispered, "He loved me so much he died for me."
Arnav's voice broke. "He didn't just die for you. He lived for you, Kabita. Every single day."
Silence wrapped the room like a shroud. Not heavy—but sacred.
And in that silence, Kabita made a promise.
She would not let Rajan's story be erased.
Not anymore.
.
.
Scene : Footprints in the Dust
The next morning, Kabita woke early.
The air was heavy with monsoon mist, the kind that made every memory feel closer. Arnav's words still echoed in her mind. "He lived for you, Kabita."
It didn't sit right—having only fragments of a man who had given her everything. She couldn't rest until she saw the full picture.
She packed a small bag, put on a simple kurta and jeans, and took a cab to the first place she thought of—her old college campus.
It had changed, of course. The paint was fresher, the notice boards digital now. But the soul was still the same. Students laughed in the corridors, someone was strumming a guitar near the canteen, and the same banyan tree near the science block stretched wide like arms frozen mid-embrace.
Kabita stood under its shadow.
"He used to sit here," came a voice.
She turned.
It was the old chaiwala—grayer now, but still smiling with familiarity. "You're Kabita, right? Lit Club girl?"
She nodded, surprised. "You remember me?"
"How can I forget? You once corrected my spelling on the price board," he chuckled. "Rajan used to sit there and stare at you like you were a movie playing just for him."
Kabita's heart squeezed. "You knew him?"
"He was my best customer. Never had much, but always paid in coins. Wrote poems on tissue paper, you know? Once asked me if tea could carry love if steeped long enough."
Kabita smiled through a tear. "He really said that?"
The man nodded. "Still have one of his poems. Thought it was just college madness. But I guess some people love deeper than most."
He reached behind the stall and handed her a folded paper. The ink had faded, but the words still whispered.
> "You don't know me.
But I am the breeze that lifts your hair,
The silence in the noise,
The eyes in a crowded room.
I am not yours, but I am yours.
Always was. Always will be."
Kabita held the paper to her chest. "Do you know where he lived back then?"
The chaiwala nodded. "Near Lakshmi Nagar. Small rented room above the bookbinders. You'll find it."
---
Scene : The Room He Left Behind
Lakshmi Nagar wasn't far, but it felt like a world away.
Dusty alleys, walls stained by time, and a quiet that spoke more than traffic ever could. She found the building—an old structure, three floors, laundry flapping from windows.
The landlady was a sharp-eyed woman in her fifties. When Kabita explained who she was looking for, the woman stared for a moment, then nodded slowly.
"Rajan. Lived here almost five years. Never missed rent. Kept to himself. Left books everywhere."
"Can I see the room?" Kabita asked softly.
She hesitated, then fetched a key and led her up.
The room was barely more than a box—one bed, a desk, a cracked window that opened to the back alley. But everything about it was neat. The air was still, but the space spoke of a life lived with quiet resolve.
His books were still there. Stacked carefully. Titles on psychology, poetry, aviation mechanics—her eyes widened. He tried to understand my world, she thought.
Pinned to the corkboard above the desk were dozens of faded photos—of her. Most from campus, some from media clippings, magazine articles, even a blurry photo outside the airport.
He hadn't just loved her.
He had followed her life like a prayer.
In the corner, tucked beneath a sketchpad, was an envelope. She opened it. Inside was a list, written in bullet points:
Save money every month
Visit hospital to check eligibility
Ask Arnav one last time
Don't let her die
Don't leave a mess
Her knees gave out.
She sat on the floor, surrounded by everything he'd once touched, and let herself weep.
This wasn't obsession. This wasn't delusion.
This was a kind of love that asked for nothing and gave everything.
When she finally rose, the landlady handed her a keychain.
"He left it with me. Said someone might come for it one day. Has a locker number—train station."
Kabita gripped it tight.
The story wasn't done yet.