In the bustling city of Mumbai, Vihaan Malhotra, a charismatic rockstar known for his soulful music and rebellious spirit, captivates audiences with his performances.
Meanwhile, in the serene landscapes of Jaipur, Dr. Arpita Virani, a compassionate...
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Arpita's New Beginning in NYC,
The city roared outside my apartment window—yellow taxis honking, people shouting into phones, delivery bikes weaving through traffic. It all moved so fast, like life itself was always in a rush to be somewhere else. But inside my apartment—inside me—there was a stillness I hadn't known in months.
Not silence. Just... steadiness.
I cradled a mug of strong tea, the steam curling toward my face as I stood barefoot by the glass, watching the world below shift like a living organism. I used to love moments like this with Vihaan—when we'd sit on the balcony back in Mumbai, letting time pass unhurried. But this was different. This wasn't shared. This was mine alone.
And strangely, it didn't hurt as much anymore.
"I've always believed in the power of healing and growth," I thought, sipping slowly. "Maybe it's time I finally apply that to myself. Not just as a doctor—but as a woman learning to move on."
The pain of losing Vihaan hadn't vanished—it still showed up in quiet moments, in familiar songs, in random street musicians playing something that sounded like his melody. But it no longer consumed me. It had dulled into something I carried with me like a scar—not invisible, not erased, but integrated. It lived beside my stethoscope, my name badge, my long nights in the OR.
So I did what I had always done when life shook me—I leaned into my purpose.
I threw myself into medicine.
I signed up for advanced surgical rotations and research fellowships. I took on difficult cases, volunteered for night shifts, and spent weekends reviewing clinical trials when everyone else went out. I wrote papers. I spoke on panels. I traveled to conferences in Geneva, Tokyo, Sydney. Sometimes I spoke in lecture halls packed with hundreds of people, and for the first time, my voice didn't shake.
Slowly, steadily, I started hearing my name more often in the corridors. Not as Vihaan's girlfriend. Not as the woman from that headline. But as Dr. Arpita Virani. A rising name in the world of minimally invasive surgery. A researcher. A speaker. A mentor.
Each recognition felt like a small stitch, sewing me back together.
There were days I still missed him—still wanted to reach for my phone and share something funny or beautiful or maddening. But more often than not, I stopped myself. Not out of bitterness. Out of understanding. We had lived something beautiful. But that chapter had closed.
Now, for the first time in a long time, I didn't measure my worth by who waited on the other end of a call.
I measured it by the lives I touched in the OR. By the courage I saw in my patients' eyes. By the resilience I found in my own reflection. I measured it by the woman I was becoming—not for anyone else, not to prove anything, but simply because she deserved to be known.
