EK AJNABI (PINDA X READER)
Summary: Gurbaaz Singh Pinda and Y/N— two souls, two stories, bound together by the quiet rhythms of neighboring villages and a shared sanctuary where their worlds first collided. Theirs was not a romance born of grand, cinematic gestures, but a steady, profound connection built on the silent pillars of trust, mutual healing, and a comfort that felt as ancient as the soil beneath their feet.
As an unspoken bond begins to weave their lives together, providing an escape from their individual struggles, an unforeseen fracture between their villages threatens to tear down everything they have quietly built. Caught between the relentless tides of family duty, ancient feuds, and a tragic twist of fate, they are forced to confront the ultimate test of love—where the greatest sacrifice might just be learning to look at each other as strangers once again.
Morning in my village did not begin with alarms or hurried footsteps. It began softly, with the hum of motor in the fields and the whistle of cooker. Before the sun fully rose, a pale veil of fog rested over the fields, turning everything silver and dreamy. The wheat swayed quietly beneath the dawn breeze, endless and alive, stretching so far that it seemed the land had no end at all. Dew clung to every leaf like scattered pearls, and when the first rays of sunlight touched them, the fields glittered for a fleeting moment before the day claimed them.
The animals were always awake before most people. Buffaloes lounged near the muddy pond, slow and unbothered, their dark hides shining beneath the morning light. Cows grazed lazily in open patches of grass while their bells echoed through the still air in soft uneven rhythms. Goats wandered wherever they pleased, nibbling at plants they were never supposed to touch, while the dogs barked at eachother, as if claiming the territory.
Smoke rose from clay chimneys one by one. The scent of fresh parathas, boiling milk, damp soil, and burning wood drifted through the village lanes like a familiar, sweet aroma.
I adored the beauty of my village as my grandmother lovingly braided my hair while a half empty cup of tea settled on the floor beside me.
"Y/N puttar, ab jaldi sey daktar (doctor) ban aur iss budhiya ka illaj kar." My grandmother laughed, jokingly.
"Bebe, aisa matt bolo, sau saal jiogi aap." I replied.
"Aaj college sey thoda jaldi wapas aaja, aaj tujhe Gurudware mein langar ki seva dene jana hai... Aaj thoda ghutno mein dard hai, warna mein hi chali jati."
"Koi na bebe." My heart ached to see my grandmother in pain. After my parents passed away, she's the only one who genuinely cared about me.
I completed, and before she could speak anything negative about her already worsening health, a gave a quick smooch on her cheeks before rushing to my college.
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Y/N Randhawa looked like she belonged to the village in the gentlest way possible, as though the fields, the muddy lanes, and the early morning breeze had shaped her themselves. Most days, she could be seen in simple cotton suit salwars, her dupatta loosely resting over her shoulders while dust clung to the edges of her sandals. Nothing about her appearance demanded attention. She was not the kind of girl people in cities would turn to stare at. But there was something quietly beautiful about her, something warm and deeply human that stayed in people’s minds longer than striking beauty ever could. A pair of spectacles constantly slipped down the bridge of her nose whenever she walked too fast or buried herself inside another medical textbook. And she was always carrying one. Her deep brown eyes held an exhaustion no kajal could hide, faint dark circles resting beneath them like permanent reminders of sleepless nights spent studying under dim lights while the village slept outside her window. Years of hard work had settled into her posture. Into the way she spoke. Into the way she noticed things others ignored. She was slightly chubby too, though the mean aunties in the village spoke about it far more dramatically than necessary. But whenever Y/N laughed, two dimples appeared in her cheeks so suddenly and deeply that even the harshest comments lost their edge around her. There was no grand elegance to Y/N Randhawa. She was a sculpture sculpted out of resilience, warmth and sincerity. She was simply a girl trying to build a bright future brick by brick.
IMAGINE Y/N RANDHAWA LIKE THIS
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Something about the Gurudwara almost made me stay. The warmth of the phulkas, the irresistible paneer or the comforting, nostalgic kheer. The quiet, peaceful sunsets, the comfort I felt, the way I feel protected here is indescribable. Watching the sun going down the horizon, the sky turning in a beautiful canvas of orange, yellow and pink, while I sat taking the support of a tree with my medical notes and books spread around me.
I've created core memories in this place. As I knitted the dough,I daydreamed, reliving the moments of the wonderful time I spent here.
My bubble was popped by Jasmine, my childhood bestfriend and neighbour, who decided to tag along to the sevva.
"Oyeee, chal khana paros ne jana hai."
"Tu ye paneer lekar jaa, main haath dhokar aati hu."
As the sevva began, I started serving the classic yellow daal to the people eating. This was the most beautiful thing about Sikhism...the langar at the Gurudwara was more than just food being served. It was a quiet rebellion against every wall society tried to build between people. No one asked who was rich. No one cared about caste, status, land, or family name. The moment people stepped inside with their heads covered and hands folded, they became equal beneath the Guru’s teachings. Men sat beside labourers. Women sat beside landlords. Children squeezed between strangers who fed them extra rotis with the same affection reserved for family. Everyone sat on the floor together in long rows, knees touching, steel plates resting on the floor while the aroma of dal, panner and fresh kheer filled the air. There were no separate tables, no higher place for the powerful, no lower place for the poor. Because in that simple act of sharing food on the same floor, every illusion of superiority fell apart. The rich still ate the same dal, the respected still drank the same water. Even the proud had to stretch their hands forward the same way everyone else did.
The Gurudwara did not preach equality loudly, it practiced it daily.
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The air in the village always grew heavy just before the sun dipped entirely behind the horizon. The sevva at the Gurudwara had run late, the communal kitchen echoing with the clatter of large steel utensils and the low, rhythmic hum of evening prayers. By the time I stepped out of the heavy wooden gates, the sky was a bruised purple, bleeding into ink.
I liked the quiet walk back to my village, usually. It was a space where my thoughts could breathe. But that night, the silence felt different. It felt crowded. The footsteps behind me weren't steady; they were deliberate, dragging and shifting to match my pace. When I turned the corner near the old banyan tree, three shapes materialized from the shadows of the brick walls. They didn't belong to the morning light or the hardworking fields; they belonged to the dark corners of small towns where boredom curdles into malice.
"Oye, kahan chali itni der se? Ruko toh sahi," one of them said, stepping into my path. His breath smelled of stale tobacco and cheap country liquor. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Rasta chhodo mera. Mujhe ghar jaana hai."
"Ghar toh chali jaana, pehle thoda kharcha-paani toh de do. Itne bade ghar ki ladki ho, kuch toh dila ke jao," another jeered, his hand reaching out toward my dupatta.
I shrank back, my voice catching in my throat. The world felt terrifyingly vast and utterly empty in that single second. I looked around desperately, but the dirt path was deserted. "Peechhe hato! Main keh rahi hoon, door raho mujhse—"
I had been walking off the frustration of another shouting match at home. My father’s slurred accusations and my mother’s weak, wheezing coughs were a constant weight on my chest, a suffocating trap I couldn't break out of. The cold night air usually helped clear my head, but as I passed the old boundary lane between the villages, the sound of raised, trembling voices cut through the stillness.
It wasn't a normal argument, it was the sharp, panicked tone of a woman trying to defend herself, and the low, predatory laughter of men who knew they had the upper hand.
I rounded the corner, my boots striking the gravel with a hard, heavy rhythm. In the dim light of a single, flickering street lamp, I saw her. She was pressed against the brick wall, her eyes wide with a terror that made my blood instantly boil. One of those local lowlifes was stepping into her personal space, his hand raised.
I didn't think. I didn't calculate the odds. The anger that had been simmering inside me for weeks found its target.
"Oye!" my voice boomed across the empty lane, a low, dangerous growl that cut through the laughter like a knife.
The three of them froze, turning around. When they saw me stepping out of the shadows, their postures immediately shifted from arrogant to defensive. They knew who I was. In these parts, people knew better than to cross Gurbaaz Singh Pinda when he was angry.
"Pinda... tu yahan kya kar raha hai? Tera kya lena-dena isse?" the leader stuttered, trying to hold his ground but taking a step back anyway.
I walked right past him, placing myself directly between them and her. I could hear her shallow, ragged breathing behind my back. It made me plant my feet firmer into the dirt.
"Maine kaha, apna rasta badlo aur yahan se dafa ho jao," I said, my voice dangerously calm, the kind of quiet that precedes a storm. "Dubara is raste par dikhai diye, toh haseen chehre lekar ghar nahi jaoge. Samajh aya?"
They looked at each other, measuring the tension in my shoulders and the clenching of my fists. They knew I wasn't bluffing. With a few muttered curses and hurried glances, they turned on their heels and disappeared into the darkness of the alleys.
The silence returned, but it wasn't heavy anymore, it felt charged, vibrating with the sudden drop of adrenaline.
I turned around slowly to face her.
The sudden shift from absolute terror to absolute safety left me lightheaded. I stared at the broad back of the man who had just stepped between me and danger. He looked like he belonged to the rugged landscape itself—tall, unyielding, with a quiet strength that made the world around him seem small.
When he turned to face me, the fierce, terrifying expression on his face instantly melted into something softer, something almost hesitant. "Tum theek ho?" he asked. His voice wasn't aggressive anymore; it was deep and genuinely concerned.
I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice. I nodded quickly, though my hands were still trembling as I adjusted my dupatta. "Haan... haan, main theek hoon. Shukriya. Agar aap sahi waqt par nahi aate toh—"
"Shukriya mat kaho," he interrupted gently, waving his hand as if the rescue was nothing extraordinary. "Yeh log yahan aksar bhatakte rehte hain. Itni der se akele nahi nikalna chahiye tumhein."
"Main toh bas sevva kar ke laut rahi thi," I whispered, feeling a sudden, strange warmth rise to my face despite the cold wind. "Mujhe nahi pata tha ki..." He looked at me for a long moment. The street lamp caught the edges of his dark eyes, and for a split second, I forgot about the goons, the dark path, and the cold. There was an intense, grounding stillness about him.
"Mera naam Gurbaaz hai," he said, breaking the silence before it could become awkward. "Ghar kahan hai tumhara? Chhodo, batane ki zaroorat nahi. Main peechhe-peechhe chal raha hoon. Jab tak tum apne darwaze ke andar nahi jaati, main yahin hoon."
She was small compared to me, voluptuous frame looking incredibly fragile against the stark brick wall, but there was a quiet dignity in the way she tried to compose herself. Her eyes, still wide from the scare, held mine with an intensity that caught me completely off guard. Usually, people in the village looked at me with either fear or caution because of my family's reputation. She just looked at me with pure, unfiltered gratitude.
"Mera naam Y/N hai," she said softly, her voice like the calm water of a stream after a heavy rain.
"Y/N," I repeated the name in my mind, testing the weight of it. It suited her.
"Main chal sakti hoon, aapko pareshan hone ki zaroorat nahi hai," she added, though her steps were still slightly uneven as she started walking.
"Maine pucha nahi, maine bataya hai," I replied, a small, involuntary smile tugging at the corner of my lips. I kept a respectful distance behind her, matching her pace exactly. "Tum aage chalo. Aur haan, thoda dheere chalo, mere pair bade hain par tumhari daudne ki raftar achhi hai."
She let out a tiny, breathless laugh—a sound that instantly cut through the residual tension of the night.
"Aap mazaak achha kar lete hain, Gurbaaz ji," she murmured, looking back over her shoulder for a brief second.
"Mazaak nahi kar raha," I said, watching her silhouette guide me through the dark lane. "Pehli baar kisi ko dekha hai jo darr ke maare itni tez chal sakta hai."
As we reached the edge of her courtyard, she stopped and turned around. The warm light from her house spilled over her shoulders."Yahan tak aane ke liye shukriya," she said, her voice dropping to a gentle whisper.
Days bled into weeks, but the memory of that night refused to fade. Every time I walked past that brick corner, my eyes would involuntarily look for the tall, imposing figure who had stood up for me. I didn't even know if I would ever see him again, considering he belonged to the neighboring village.
The entire village square was alive with energy. The central bonfire crackled and roared, throwing brilliant orange and gold sparks high into the crisp winter night. People were singing, dancing, and tossing popcorn, rewari, and peanuts into the sacred flames. I was standing near my mother, holding a plate of sweets, laughing at some joke my cousin had made, when the air around me suddenly felt warm in a completely different way.
I looked across the roaring fire, through the dancing flames and the shifting crowd.
Gurbaaz was standing with a few of his friends, a simple dark shawl draped over his broad shoulders. He wasn't dancing or shouting like the others; he was just standing there, watching the fire. But the moment I looked at him, as if drawn by an invisible thread, he turned his head.Our eyes met through the golden haze of the fire.
I hadn't wanted to come to the Lohri celebration at all. The atmosphere at my house was grim as usual—my mother’s health was declining, and my father was nowhere to be found, probably passed out somewhere after drinking his senses away. Jassi had practically dragged me out, saying I needed to breathe fresh air before I completely lost my mind.
The noise, the singing, the laughter—it all felt like background static to me. I stood near the edge of the circle, wishing I could just disappear back into the quiet fields.
Then, the crowd shifted. Through the rising smoke and the brilliant, crackling sparks of the bonfire, I caught a glimpse of a familiar face. Y/N.
She was dressed in a bright suit, her hair braided, her face illuminated by the warm glow of the fire. She was laughing, looking genuinely happy, entirely different from the terrified girl I had met weeks ago.
As if she felt my stare, her laughter softened, and she turned her eyes toward me.
The distance between us couldn't have been more than twenty feet, but with the fire roaring between us, it felt like we were the only two people standing in the entire square.
"EK AJNABI KO DEKH KAR ESA PARESHAN KARNE WALA SUKOON KYU MIL RAHA HAI?" Both thought, while the peace they got from eachother's mere presence bothered them.
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The shared courtyard of the village Gurudwara had always been a sanctuary of quiet murmurs and the soothing cadence of the Gurbani. But love, when it is fated, finds its canvas in the most ordinary spaces.
What began as an act of humanity streched over accidental glances over the distribution of Karah Parshad soon transformed into a deliberate search for excuses. A dropped handkerchief, a sudden interest in volunteering for the Langar service, or just taking the longer route home—every moment became a bridge built toward one another.
Their conversations were a mix of playful teasing and a sudden, grounding depth that left them both bewildered. "Tum roz isi raste se jaati ho, ya sirf mujhe pareshan karne ke liye rasta badalti ho?" Gurbaaz would tease, a faint, lopsided smile tugging at his lips as he adjusted the fabric of his kurta.
Y/N would roll her eyes, though her racing pulse betrayed her completely. "Aapme koi khas baat nahi hai, Gurbaaz ji. Rasta chhota hai, isliye aati hoon. Zyada dimaag mat chalayein."
"Achha? Aur yeh jo rang badal raha hai tumhare chehre ka, poora laal, yeh bhi raste ki wajah se hai?"
Beneath the lighthearted jests, a terrifyingly beautiful realization was taking root. It felt entirely cliché, like a line pulled straight out of a classic Bollywood romance, yet it was undeniably real. Ek ajnabi ke saath aisa kyun lag raha hai jaise janam-janam ka saath ho? How could a stranger's presence suddenly feel like the only home they had ever known?
The walls of my house are heavy with the scent of sickness and the bitter, sharp edge of despair. My mother’s frail breaths and my father’s alcohol-fueled rages felt like a cage I would never escape. But then there was Y/N. When she looks at me, she doesn't see the broken son of a ruined household. She sees a man worthy of love. Her laughter is the only melody that drowns out the shouting at home. She is my sanctuary, the only place where I can finally breathe.
I spent a lifetime hiding from mirrors, convinced that my body, my appearance, didn't fit the mold of what the world called beautiful. But Gurbaaz changed the definition of looking. When he looks at me, it isn't with judgment; it’s with reverence. He gave me the confidence to occupy space in this world, to walk with my head held high. Our love isn't flashy; it’s steady, built on the quiet certainty that we hold each other’s fragile pieces with utmost care.
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The heavy scent of impending rain hung over the fields dividing the two villages. What had once been an invisible boundary, marked only by the shifting colors of mustard and wheat crops, was now hardening into a fault line. The shared Gurudwara stood exactly at the center—a white sanctuary of peace that was slowly being surrounded by the dark, gathering clouds of human fury.
Inside that sacred space, none of the political unrest mattered. But outside, the air was growing thick with hostility.
Gurbaaz stood near the edge of his family’s small plot of land, his hands gripping the wooden handle of his spade. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long, bleeding strokes of amber and purple across the sky. His heart felt heavy, burdened by the shouting he had left behind at home—his father’s slurred, bitter rants and his mother’s frail, rattling cough.
A soft rustle in the tall grass made him turn. Y/N was walking along the narrow dirt path, her dupatta pulled over her head to shield herself from the rising dust.
He dropped the spade, stepping quickly to intercept her before she reached the main road where groups of men from both villages had begun to gather."Y/N, Idhar aao," Gurbaaz called out, his voice a low, urgent whisper as he pulled her behind the shelter of a high haystack.
Y/N looked up, surprised, but the tension in his face instantly made her smile fade. "Kya hua, Gurbaaz? Tum itne pareshan kyun lag rahe ho? Main toh bas Gurudwara ja rahi thi."
"Nahi, aaj wahan mat jao," he said, his eyes scanning the horizon behind her. "Pind de halaat theek nahi lag rahe. Purani ranzish ko lekar dono taraf ke bade-bade chaudhary ikatthe ho rahe hain. Paani ke masle ne ab dharam aur izzat ka roop le liya hai."
Y/N frowned, reaching out to gently touch his forearm. The rough fabric of his sleeve felt warm beneath her fingers. "Lekin Gurudwara toh sabka hai na? Wahan kaun ladega?"
"Jab dimaag par khoon sawaar hota hai na, toh insaan na rab dekhta hai na banda," Gurbaaz replied bitterly. He looked down at her hand on his arm, and for a brief moment, the hard lines of his face softened. He covered her hand with his own rough, calloused palm. "Tumhe kuch ho gaya toh main ji nahi paunga. Meri toh saari duniya hi tumse shuru hoti hai aur tum par hi khatam hoti hai."
Y/N’s breath hitched. She looked into his dark, tired eyes and saw the profound exhaustion of a man fighting too many battles at once. "Mujhe kuch nahi hoga, Gurbaaz. Jab tak tum mere saath ho, mujhe kisi cheez se darr nahi lagta. Tum meri taakat ho, samajh rahe ho?"
The world outside my village is fracturing, but the real breaking point is happening within the walls of Jassi’s house. Jassi is my brother, the only person who stood by me when my own father traded our family's dignity for a bottle. I watched the smoke rise from his neighbourhood. I heard the screams echoing across the fields when the mob moved. By the time I reached his doorstep, the fire had already consumed the courtyard. Jassi’s father and one of his sisters , Harleen lay still under a white sheet, and his other younger sister’s laughter was silenced forever. Jassi was sitting on the dirt floor, his eyes hollow, staring at nothing.
In that moment, I knew. The universe was demanding a price for the quiet happiness I had stolen with Y/N. And the price was going to be my absolute destruction.
I watched from my window as the night sky turned a violent, angry orange. The neighboring village was burning. My thoughts instantly flew to Jassi, to his sweet sisters who had embraced me like one of their own, and to Gurbaaz, who I knew would throw himself into the fire to save them. The next morning, the silence that settled over the area was worse than the shouting. It was the silence of a graveyard. I tried to reach him, to send a message, to find any excuse to cross the border, but the elders had blocked the paths. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold, iron fist. I didn't care about the land, the water, or the ancient feuds. I only cared about the man who made me feel beautiful in a world that always told me I was flawed. But deep down, a terrifying intuition told me that the fire had consumed our future too.
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Two days after the tragedy, the meeting happened. Not in secret, but in the bleak daylight of Jassi's ruined home. Jassi’s remaining sister, Jasleen, sat in the corner of the room, her head buried in her knees, her shoulders shaking with silent, exhausted sobs.
Jassi stood up when Gurbaaz entered. He didn't look like the proud, energetic young man he used to be. He looked like a ghost.
"Pinda," Jassi croaked, his voice raw from crying and smoke inhalation. He walked over and placed both his hands on Gurbaaz’s shoulders, his grip heavy and desperate. "Mera sab kuch khatam ho gaya, yaar. Pyo chale gaye, Chhoti chali gayi. Ab is pind mein hamari izzat aur hifazat karne wala koi nahi bacha."
Gurbaaz felt a lump form in his throat, swallowing hard. "Main hoon na, Jassi. Main khada hoon tere saath. Jab tak main zinda hoon, tujh par aur Jasleen par koi aankh uthakar nahi dekh sakta."
Jassi looked into his eyes, tears streaming down his soot-stained cheeks. "Toh phir meri ek baat manega? Apna haath aage badha aur Jasleen ka haath thaam le. Mujhe pata hai yeh lachaari mein maang raha hoon, par tere siva main kisi aur par bharosa nahi kar sakta. Meri behen ko ek ghar de de, Pinda. Usey ek naam de de."
The world around Gurbaaz seemed to stop rotating. The sound of his own heartbeat roared in his ears like thunder. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell Jassi about Y/N, about the life they had planned, about the promises made under the shadow of the Gurudwara. But then his eyes drifted to Jasleen, shivering in the corner, and back to Jassi—the friend who had saved him from his own family's darkness time and time again.
How could he build his own palace of happiness on the ashes of his brother’s life?
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The confrontation between Gurbaaz and Y/N didn't happen in a crowded room; it happened in the quiet, desolate space of the old abandoned tube-well house near the village border. It was the place where they had shared their first real conversation, where they had promised to face the world together.
Y/N was already waiting, her fingers anxiously gripping the edge of her shawl. When she saw him approaching, her heart lifted for a fraction of a second, but his slow, dragging footsteps and downward gaze told her everything before he even spoke.
"Tumne haan keh diya?" Y/N asked, her voice barely a whisper, yet it cut through the silence like a knife.
Gurbaaz took a ragged breath, finally raising his eyes. They were bloodshot, swimming with a pain so deep it frightened her. "Mere paas koi raasta nahi tha, Y/N. Jassi ne mujhse meri jaan maangi hai. Main use kaise mana karta? Uska pyo mar gaya, uski behen chali gayi... agar main peeche hat jaata, toh woh toot jaata."
"Aur main?" Y/N stepped closer, her tears finally overflowing, hot and fast. She gripped the collar of his kurta, shaking him gently. "Mera kya, Gurbaaz? Tumne mujhse kaha tha na ki tumhari duniya mujhse shuru hoti hai? Kya woh sab jhooth tha? Kya humara pyaar itna kamzor tha ki ek hi jhatke mein toot gaya?"
"Pyaar kamzor nahi hai, Y/N," Gurbaaz cried out, his voice cracking as he grabbed her wrists, not to push her away, but to hold onto the only reality he ever wanted. "Pyaar toh meri sabse badi kamzori ban gaya hai. Agar main sirf apne baare mein sochta, toh main tumhara haath pakadkar yahan se bhaag jaata. Par main apne dost ki mari huyi umeedo par apni khushi ki diwaar nahi khadi kar sakta."
Y/N let go of his collar, stepping back as a cold, numb reality washed over her. "Tumne faisla kar liya hai."
"Faisla kismat ne kiya hai, hum toh bas uspar chal rahe hain," Gurbaaz whispered, his hands dropping to his sides, empty and trembling. He looked at her face one last time, memorizing every feature, every tear, knowing he would spend the rest of his life looking for her in every crowded room.
"Hamari kahani shuru huyi jab hum bas ajnabi the, aaj phir sey ajnabi bann jayenge," he said, his voice dropping to a tragic, final tone. "Ab se, hum ek doosre ke liye kuch nahi hain, Y/N. Bas do alag pindo de do alag log."
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Years did not heal the wound; they merely formed a thick layer of scar tissue over it. Y/N moved to Chandigarh, locking her memories away in a dark corner of her mind. She threw herself into her studies, obtaining her medical degree, specializing in high-risk gynecology. She became the doctor people traveled across counties to see—calm, precise, and completely emotionally detached.
Gurbaaz stayed behind, building a life out of duty. He treated Jasleen with utmost respect and kindness, fulfilling every vow he had taken, even if his soul remained wandering in the fields of their youth.
When Jasleen finally became pregnant after years of trying, the joy was short-lived. The local doctors discovered severe complications. “Inhe Chandigarh le jao,” the senior doctor told Gurbaaz. “Wahan Dr. Y/N Randhawa hain. Wahi is case ko sambhal sakti hain.”
The name hit him like a physical blow.
Gurbaaz walked in, supporting Jasleen, who looked pale and exhausted. As Y/N raised her head from the file, time completely stopped.
The poetic tragedy of the universe was absolute. She did not see the boy from the fields; she saw a protective, anxious husband caring for his fragile wife.
He did not see the girl who hid from mirrors; he saw a powerful, brilliant doctor holding his family's survival in her hands.
"Aaiye, baithiye," Y/N said, her voice smooth, professional, and entirely devoid of the shaking emotion of their past. She pointed to the chairs opposite her.
Gurbaaz helped Jasleen sit down before sitting beside her. He looked at Y/N, his eyes carrying an ocean of unsaid words, of gratitude, of old grief, and profound respect. "Dr. Sahiba... yeh meri patni hai, Jasleen. Bohat umeed lekar aaye hain aapke paas."
Y/N looked at Jasleen’s reports, then looked up, offering a gentle, reassuring smile to the pregnant woman. "Aap bilkul chinta mat kijiye, Jasleen ji. Cases mushkil zaroor hote hain, par namumkin nahi. Main aur meri team poori koshish karenge. Aap bilkul sahi jagah aayi hain."
"Shukriya, Doctor Sahiba," Gurbaaz said, his voice low and steady. "Humein aap par poora bharosa hai."
No old dialogues were repeated. No tears were shed. They spoke as doctor and patient's husband, fulfilling their roles in the present while the ghosts of their past stood quietly in the corners of the room. True love didn't need a marriage certificate or a happy ending to exist; sometimes, it lived perfectly in the silent, professional grace of letting each other go.
TY for your patience gurlsss... Love ya ❤️
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