He Stayed Anyway

~1~

The ceiling fans whirred with a lazy rhythm, doing little to fight the warm morning creeping into the lecture hall. Students trickled in—some alert, some half-asleep, some pretending to revise last-minute notes—until the room buzzed like an impatient beehive.

The lecture hall simmered with restless energy. Bags thumped onto desks, pens clicked nervously, and scattered whispers darted between rows like mischievous sparks.

"Did you hear? Sir kept calling her outside the department—"
"Her boyfriend, right? Cheated on her?"
"Shh! Don't say it so loudly—she'll kill you."

The rumours floated, half-truth and half-dramatized student gossip, but all of them carried the same conclusion:

Dr. Reeva Chavan was in no mood for nonsense this semester.

The door swung open.

Instant silence.

Reeva walked quietly in with her usual brisk steps, but today her jaw was tighter, her eyes sharper, as if she'd ground every ounce of softness into dust and left it outside the building. Her white coat was crisp, her expression closed.

She placed her notebook on the desk—precisely, without a sound.
One look. One raised eyebrow. That was all it took.

Rows straightened immediately.

"Phones away," she said, her voice cold enough to slice through the humid air. "Not on silent. Off. If your screen lights up even once, I'll confiscate it until the semester ends."

A few students scrambled so fast their chairs squeaked in panic.

Her gaze flicked to a cluster of boys in the back who were still whispering.
"Is there something more important than chemistry?" she asked, tone dangerously calm.

"No, ma'am."
"No, Dr. Chavan."
Their faces drained of colour.

She allowed a beat of silence—sharp, heavy, calculated—before turning to the board.

Then she wrote:

CHAPTER 1: WHY YOU NEED TO FOCUS.

It wasn't a topic. It was a warning.

She turned back, expression unreadable.
"If you are here to gossip, to waste time, or to behave like schoolchildren... the door is behind you. Chemistry requires discipline. And today, I have absolutely no patience for anything less."

A few students exchanged terrified glances.
Everyone else stared at their notebooks like lifelines.

"Let's begin," she said, her voice a precise command.

Dr. Veer Shekhawat knelt beside the exam bed, resting his elbows lightly so he was face-to-face with the little girl. Her pigtails were uneven, her cheeks a little pale—but she still clutched her stuffed elephant like a warrior holding her sword.

"Alright, princess," he said softly, placing the stethoscope on her chest. "Deep breath for me... like you're blowing out birthday candles."

She took a big, wobbly inhale.

"Perfect," Veer murmured, listening carefully—longer this time. Her tiny heartbeat echoed softly in his ears, steady but with that familiar occasional flutter. He didn't let it show on his face.

"And now one more," he said gently. "Because your elephant is also breathing with you. We don't want him to feel left out."

She giggled and inhaled again.