ZAHRA

Saving lives is what I've been doing for the past few years. That’s what I was taught to do. I’ve looked through people’s hearts, and I found nothing. As if it’s just a myth that you live in someone’s heart.

Telling someone they don’t have a heart? Sounds cliché. Because everyone does have a heart, maybe they just choose not to use it for any purpose other than letting it pump blood throughout the body.

As a cardiac surgeon, I’ve treated many broken hearts and mended them. But physically. Even after they healed, they still had their own battles, their own pain, invisible wounds that even I couldn’t treat.

It’s past midnight. The corridors of the hospital are dead silent. Some patients are healing, some are on their deathbeds, and some are trying to process whatever is happening.

I can see their family members rushing from the wards to the pharmacy counters, praying for their well-being. Hoping for a miracle.

And honestly, I can’t even imagine what might be going through their minds. How much it must be hurting them. But all I pray for is that Allah one day heals them, mends their broken hearts and souls. May He heal the wounds that I, as a doctor, can never see.

When I walked through the corridors, the silence hung heavy. The sharp scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, something that wasn’t new for me at all.

Finally letting down my hair from a tightly secured bun, I let out a sigh of relief. Exhaustion gnawed at me.

And just as I was about to enter my cabin, the nurses came rushing toward me, panicked and wide-eyed.

“Dr. Zahra, there’s an emergency,” one of them shouted, his breaths coming out ragged.

My feet immediately moved, storming toward where they led me.

“What happened?” I asked, quickly tying my dark brown hair back into a bun, securing it hastily without a clip.

“A man has been shot. He was rushed in by his bodyguards, it seems,” one of them spoke.

“And where is Dr. Vale? Wasn’t he supposed to start his shift?” I asked.

“He’s already handling another emergency.”

Entering the emergency room, it was absolute chaos.

The man was well-built, groaning painfully, his body arching off the bed while the nurses tried to hold him down. But he was too strong for them—even after being shot.

The white sheets were soaked red with blood.

The first thing I did was assess his airway. His breaths were shallow and ragged. His chest was bleeding, and I silently thanked God that he hadn’t been shot in the heart.

I checked his breathing....shallow, uneven, and irregular. The cardiac monitor began to alarm.

“We can’t sedate him yet, it’s too risky,” I ordered. “His vitals are unstable. We proceed without full anesthesia for now. Prepare local if possible.”

When my gloved fingers moved toward his wound, he jerked my hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” he hissed painfully.

Sweat covered his neck and forehead, the veins in his neck standing out aggressively.

“You’ll bleed to death if I don’t treat you. Stay still,” I hissed back, pressing sterile gauze firmly to the wound. Blood seeped through faster than I liked.

“I said don’t touch me,” he snapped, his hand flying out and hitting my clumsily tied bun, sending my hair falling down freely.

And in the next second, my palm collided with his cheek. His head jerked sideways. My palm stung.

“My job is to save lives, including yours, whether you like it or not,” I hissed furiously.

“You better behave yourself and stay still,” I ordered, going back to treating him.

He went rigid, teeth gritted, sweat clinging to his smooth skin while I focused on cleaning his wound with antiseptic.

“You’re crazy,” he said, groaning painfully, fury laced in his voice.

“Yes. If saving you means being crazy, then so be it,” I snapped, my voice sharp and controlled.

Minutes passed. He slowly began to weaken, his resistance fading as blood loss and exhaustion caught up. His eyelids grew heavy, and the emergency ward gradually settled back into controlled urgency.

It had been a tense, hectic process extracting the bullet from his chest wound. The man was aggressive, big, and dangerously strong.

“He’s alive, for now. But he nearly crashed due to the lack of proper anesthesia,” I let out a heavy breath.

I observed his unconscious figure. He had blacked out shortly after I removed the bullet and secured the bandage.

“Keep continuous cardiac monitoring on him. Something still doesn’t feel right,” I instructed the nurse.

He was soon shifted into a private ward, and I was finally ready to leave. My shift had ended.

I had rushed in without my white coat, and now my blouse had faint bloodstains smeared across it.

“Christy, he was shot. The police need to be informed,” I said, walking toward my cabin as the nurse followed beside me.

“I don’t think we can do that,” she said, earning a frown from me. “Why not? It’s necessary.”

“You really think he’s a normal person? Did you see that long trail of cars standing outside the hospital?” she sighed.

“I don’t know who or what he is. All I know is it’s our duty to inform the police. They’ll handle the rest,” I declared before entering my cabin.

Gathering my things and cleaning the bloodstains from my brown-colored top as best as I could, I walked out. Before exiting, I made sure to take one last glance at the man.

I could see his unconscious figure, the monitor beeping steadily, his wound properly dressed. Even though he was unconscious, his face looked restless, like he was fighting something even in sleep. His jaw was tight. His breathing slow but controlled.

He looked lethal.

Slightly wheatish skin. Jet-black hair, ruffled. The veins were still visible along his forehead and neck like fury lived in his bloodstream.

Like he could wake up any second and choke me to death.

I had seen his eyes burn with fury when I slapped him.

And I was sure he wasn’t going to forget it.

Not in this life, at least.

That slap would sting him for days.

⚡

Cold silence lingered as I entered the house. An exhausted sigh escaped me.

I was late again. I had missed dinner with Kinza again.

Being a doctor meant losing a lot of family time. But that was my job. I always promised my cousin I would have dinner with her. She would always wait for me, but eventually fall asleep.

And today was no different.

I felt like I betrayed my cousin every single day.

“Allah humma barik, look who’s here,” a familiar voice echoed across the living room.

There she was… Kinza.

Warmth spread across my chest. I was seeing her properly after days.

Most days, she would leave early for university before I woke up, and I would return home late from my shift when she was already asleep.

“Assalamualaikum,” she grinned, sitting comfortably on the couch.

“Walaikum assalam,” I said, walking toward her and engulfing her in a hug.

“You know, it sounds weird to tell my university friends that my cousin and I live in the same house, yet sometimes we don’t see each other for days,” she said as we pulled away. Sadness and sarcasm dripped through her tone.

“I know. But can’t help it, that’s my job,” I sighed.

“Where’s everyone?” I asked, already knowing they had probably retreated to their rooms.

“Asleep,” Chachi’s voice came as she walked down the stairs, already in her night clothes.

“Chachi, did I wake you up?” I asked, feeling guilty.

“I was reading. Not a big deal,” she gave me a warm smile.

“Did you eat something?” she asked, walking toward us.

“No,” I replied, scratching the back of my neck nervously.

“Did you eat the lunch I packed for you?” she asked, raising her brows.

“Oh yeah, I did.”

“I’ll reheat the food for both of you. Go freshen up—I made your favourite,” she said, moving toward the kitchen.

“Are we having prawns?” I beamed.

“I tried making prawn biryani,” her voice came from the kitchen.

“We’re definitely going to have a blast,” Kinza grinned mischievously, and I raised my hand, giving her a high five.

I changed and made my way toward the dining table. My baby blue night suit was soft and cozy.

Chachi had already set the table. The delicious aroma of biryani filled my senses.

“I love you,” I kissed her cheek before sitting beside Kinza, who was already filling her plate.

“You look like you were on a hunger strike for days,” I chuckled, watching her eat.

“I was just so damn hungry. I’ve never had food this late,” she said, mouth full of biryani.

“Don’t choke on the biryani, Kinza. Be careful,” Chachi warned.

“I’m not a kid, Ammi,” she rolled her eyes, stuffing another bite into her mouth.

“I can see that,” Chachi said, shaking her head.

Chachi soon retreated to her room as well, wishing us good night.

“So… what’s the tea?” Kinza muttered the moment Chachi disappeared.

“There’s no tea,” I rolled my eyes, taking a generous bite of biryani. My soul instantly floated to cloud nine.

Biryani is my soulmate.

“Don’t lie to me. You looked so lost when you walked in,” she narrowed her eyes, completely unconvinced.

“I slapped a patient today,” I finally blurted out.

Kinza choked on her food, eyes widening in disbelief as she stared at me.

“You did what?”

“I was trying to treat him, and he kept acting stubborn. My patience snapped, and I slapped the hell out of him. And trust me, I’ve never slapped someone that hard in my entire life. My palm still stings,” I explained, annoyed.

“I can already assume he must have really annoyed the hell out of you to earn a slap from the one and only Dr. Zahra Khan,” she said in mock sarcasm, letting out a chuckle.

“But he was… hot,” the words unintentionally slipped off my tongue, and my eyes widened in realization. I immediately slapped my palm over my mouth.

But Kinza had already heard it.

A mischievous grin slowly crept across her lips.

“Be thankful your Baba didn’t hear that,” she shook her head, putting more biryani onto both our plates.

“Well, he was at least better than Baba’s friend’s son,” I scoffed.

“I’m sure he was,” Kinza agreed, chewing thoughtfully.

“He visited today,” Kinza confessed.

I instantly froze mid-bite.

“For what?” I asked.

“Don’t know. He just said he was passing by,” she shrugged.

I rubbed my forehead, letting out a tired breath. “I’m preparing myself to hear Baba’s lecture about getting married to him,” I muttered.

“Please don’t. I hate him. He looks so… desperate,” Kinza scowled.

“I’ve seen through his eyes, he’s a literal jerk,” she added.

“Yeah, but he earns well. That’s what Baba says.” I didn’t care about his money or him.

“What does he do? Sorry, I didn’t think it was necessary to remember,” she mocked.

“He’s a physiotherapist,” I reminded her.

“And he earns better than you?” she raised a brow.

“Yes. He’s a senior doctor,” I shrugged.

“Imagine you both get married,” she snorted. “First night pe dono ek dusre ka ilaaj karoge kya?”

“Shaadi kar kaun raha hai,” I said, finishing the last bite of biryani from my plate.

“Agar bade Abbu ne keh diya ki kar lo, toh?” Her question made me freeze.

How would I deny Baba?

Oh God.

“He won’t force me into anything,” I said—convincing myself more than her.

“You know he liked Adnan a little too much,” Kinza said.

“I know. But if I don’t want him, he won’t force me,” I insisted.

“Dekho, physiotherapist toh theek hai, but shakal theek nahi hai, harkatein theek nahi hain. Sorry, I don’t approve,” she declared dramatically.

“Apne bade Abbu se keh do na ye baat jaakar,” I hissed.

“Sorry, main dinosaur ke muh mein haath nahi daalti,” she rejected with a grin.

I shook my head at her words as we got up, cleaning the table.

“But I seriously don’t want to get married so early. I mean, I’ve just started my career as a cardiac surgeon. You know I’ve worked hard for it,” I said, placing the plates in the sink.

“And Adnan wants a wife who will look after his house. Typical man,” she scoffed.

“Do one thing—tell him you want to take him out on a date. Then take him to your hospital and do your surgical practice on him,” Kinza suggested, her tone dripping with mock seriousness.

“I think I should try that, yeah,” I agreed.

There was silence for a moment. We just stared at each other and then burst into laughter, making our way toward our bedroom, still laughing.