California — 7:15 AM
Azhan was too tired.
The drive from the hostel had been quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that made thoughts louder than they should be.
He parked the Mercedes in the garage and stepped inside.
The house greeted him with silence.
The Empty House
It was a big house.
Beautiful.
Expensive.
His father had gifted it to him years ago, when he and Saim first moved from New York to California.
Back then, it had felt like freedom.
Now it felt like a museum.
Every room perfect.
Every surface polished.
Every corner empty.
Lonely, he thought.
The word is lonely.
But lately, it wasn’t completely empty.
His cousins had moved in a few months ago — Amir, Sameer, and Sana.
Nineteen years old.
Loud.
Messy.
Always arguing about something.
Azhan heard their voices now — drifting up from downstairs.
Laughter.
Someone shouting about a video game.
Sana’s sharp retort.
Normal sounds.
Living sounds.
But he was too tired to join them.
He climbed the stairs to his private floor — the section strictly forbidden to everyone except his best friend.
His sanctuary.
His prison.
The Call
He stepped into his room and collapsed onto the chair near the window.
The city sprawled beneath him — millions of lights, millions of lives, millions of stories he would never know.
His phone buzzed.
Saim.
A smile touched his lips — rare, unguarded, the kind of smile no one at the hospital ever saw.
He answered.
“Bestie.”
On the other end, Saim burst out laughing.
“Bestie!
You actually picked up!
I was fully prepared to leave a dramatic voicemail.”
Azhan leaned back, exhaustion heavy in his bones.
“Three surgeries today.
I’m tired.
Make it quick.”
“Three?
Rookie numbers.”
Saim’s voice was warm, teasing — the easy English of an American citizen, the familiar rhythm of family.
“I closed two cases this week alone.
Who’s the real winner here?”
“The one who doesn’t get sued.”
“Ouch.” Saim laughed.
Then his tone shifted slightly.
“Aunt’s been on about you.
She says you work too much.
Don’t eat.
Don’t sleep.
Don’t call.”
“I called last week.”
“Last week, bestie.
It’s been two.”
Azhan was quiet.
Saim’s voice softened.
“You alright?
Really?”
The question hung in the air.
Azhan looked out at the city lights — millions of them, each one a life, a story, a world he couldn’t see.
Somewhere out there, people were laughing, fighting, loving, living.
And here he was.
Alone in a house too big for one person.
Surrounded by silence.
I’m fine, he wanted to say.
But the words wouldn’t come.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Liar.”
Azhan almost laughed.
“What do you want, Saim?”
“Nothing.
Just checking on my favorite cousin.” A pause.
“Come to mine this weekend.
I’ll fire up the grill.
You can pretend to relax.”
“Your grilling is a health hazard.”
“Better than your cooking, bestie.
At least I try.”
Azhan smiled.
“Fine.
Saturday.”
“Saturday.
Don’t cancel.”
“I won’t.”
“And Azhan?”
“Yeah?”
“Get some sleep.
You sound wrecked.”
The call ended.
Azhan stood there for a long moment, phone still in his hand, the city lights blinking below him.
Too controlled, he thought.
Too precise.
Too unreachable.
That’s what they said about him.
Maybe they were right.
The Thought
He looked at the clock.
7:15 AM.
He should sleep.
He was exhausted — last night’s surgeries, the airport pickup, the long drive.
But his mind wouldn’t stop.
The girl, he thought.
The scholarship student.
C Ismail.
He remembered how nervous she was.
How her hands trembled around her bag.
How she said “jee” instead of yes — soft, polite, barely audible.
He remembered her eyes.
Brown.
Big.
Shining with a nervousness that made her look both fragile and brave.
Why am I thinking about her?
He shook his head.
She’s just a student.
A favor for Riya.
Nothing more.
He pushed the thought away.
The Shower
He opened his bedroom door — big room, modern furniture, dark curtains blocking the morning light.
He went to the washroom.
Hot water.
Steam.
The familiar ritual of washing away the hospital.
He changed into comfortable clothes — soft pants, a loose shirt — and came back to bed.
He closed his eyes.
Sleep, he told himself.
Just sleep.
But his mind had other plans.
The Battle
He saw her again.
The airport.
The crowd.
The white dupatta flowing like wings.
He saw her hands — small, simple, folded in her lap during the drive.
He saw her face — covered, masked, only her eyes visible.
Those eyes.
What is wrong with me?
he thought.
She’s a student.
Just a student.
Focus, Azhan.
No distractions.
But his heart wasn’t listening.
The Hours
One hour passed.
Then two.
He looked at the clock.
10:00 AM.
Still awake.
He had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours — surgeries, the airport, the drive, and now this.
This, he thought.
Lying in bed, thinking about a stranger.
He was frustrated.
Angry at himself.
Why can’t I stop?
He got up.
Started walking around the room.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
He remembered how she looked at his earrings.
Curious.
Careful.
Like she had never seen anything like them before.
He smiled.
Shit, he thought immediately.
Why am I smiling?
No.
No.
No distractions.
She’s just an ordinary girl who needs help settling in.
That’s all.
But his heart whispered back:
That innocent angel didn’t want attention.
She didn’t even notice me.
She was nervous.
Calm.
Polite.
Sweet voice.
Sweet voice.
He ran his hands through his long, streaked hair.
Frustrated.
Confused.
Alone.
The Second Call
His phone buzzed again.
Saim.
He picked up, his voice sharp with exhaustion.
“Yes, bestie?”
Saim paused.
“You okay?
Why didn’t you sleep?
I was just checking on you.”
Azhan closed his eyes.
“Oh, funny.
I’m sleeping.
You woke me up.”
“Really?
You don’t sound sleepy.
You sound…
frustrated.”
“Good night, Saim.”
He put the phone on the bed.
Lay down.
Closed his eyes.
The Dream
He was at the airport again.
But it wasn’t an airport.
It was a garden — flowers everywhere, soft grass beneath his feet, a sky that glowed golden and pink.
People moved around him — travelers, families, strangers — but everything felt peaceful.
Slow.
Like the world had softened.
And then he saw her.
The angel.
Fully covered.
White dupatta.
Hijab.
Mask.
Only her eyes visible.
Brown.
Big.
Shining.
She wasn’t looking at him.
She was looking down.
He followed her gaze.
A cardboard sign lay on the ground.
C ISMAIL.
He smiled — in the dream, it felt natural.
He walked toward her.
“Hi,” he said.
She didn’t respond.
Didn’t look up.
Kept staring at the sign.
He bent down and picked it up.
“Are you C Ismail?”
She nodded.
Just once.
Small.
Almost invisible.
Like in the car, he thought.
She nodded just like that.
“Why are you alone?” he asked softly.
She looked up.
Their eyes met.
And her voice — soft, barely a whisper — said:
“Waiting for…
you.”
The Awakening
Azhan’s eyes snapped open.
The room was dark.
The curtains were still closed.
Morning light filtered through the edges, casting thin golden lines across the ceiling.
His heart was pounding.
He stared at the ceiling, breathing hard.
A dream, he thought.
Just a dream.
But his heart wouldn’t slow down.
Waiting for you.
Why did she say that?
Why did I dream that?
He closed his eyes again, but sleep didn’t return.
And somewhere across the city, in Room 101, a girl with brown eyes was unpacking her bags — completely unaware that she had already walked into someone’s dreams.
Chapter 4 — Part 8: The Dream That Wouldn’t Fade
California — 1:00 PM
Azhan looked at the clock.
1:00 PM.
He had been lying here for hours — eyes closed, mind racing, heart refusing to slow down.
Why am I thinking about her?
he asked himself for the hundredth time.
She’s just a favor.
A student.
A stranger.
Nothing more.
But his heart wasn’t listening.
He tried to close his eyes again.
Tried to force sleep to come.
But sleep had abandoned him — slipped away like water through his fingers, leaving behind only restlessness and the image of brown eyes.
Brown eyes.
Big.
Shining.
Nervous.
Stop it.
He turned onto his side.
Then his back.
Then his stomach.
Nothing worked.
The sheets felt too warm.
The room felt too small.
His thoughts felt too loud.
The Man Behind the Walls
He sat up, running his hands through his hair.
This isn’t me, he thought.
I don’t do this.
I don’t think about strangers.
I don’t dream about girls I barely know.
But here he was.
Azhan Joseph Rehman — the cold surgeon.
The unreachable man.
The one who never let anyone in.
His colleagues called him robotic.
His juniors whispered that he had no heart.
His admirers complained that he was made of ice.
They weren’t wrong.
He had built these walls for a reason.
There was a past — buried deep, never spoken of.
An accident in New York.
A life that had shattered.
A heart that had closed its doors and never opened them again.
That was years ago.
Now, his only focus was his career.
His MS thesis.
His upcoming exams.
His patients.
No romance, he had decided.
No distractions.
No feelings.
Feelings were dangerous.
Feelings made you weak.
Feelings made you remember things you wanted to forget.
So he stayed cold.
Stayed distant.
Stayed safe.
But today — for the first time in years — the walls felt thin.
Why?
he wondered.
Why her?
He didn’t have an answer.
The Gym
Frustration burned in his chest.
He stood up abruptly, walked to his closet, and pulled out his gym clothes.
Black sweatpants.
A fitted training shirt.
His hair tied back loosely.
If I can’t sleep, he thought, I’ll exhaust myself until I have no choice.
He left his room and walked down the hallway to the gym.
Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined one wall.
The equipment was top of the line — expensive, gleaming, barely touched.
Treadmills faced a wall of windows overlooking the city.
Weight racks stood in perfect rows.
A punching bag hung in the corner, untouched for months.
Azhan stepped onto the treadmill and pressed the start button.
The belt began to move.
Slowly at first.
Then faster.
He set the pace high — punishing, relentless.
The kind of pace that made normal people gasp for air.
He plugged his headphones into his ears and turned on music.
Loud.
Aggressive.
The kind that drowned out thoughts.
Run, he told himself.
Run until you can’t think anymore.
His feet pounded against the belt.
His breathing grew heavy.
Sweat began to form on his forehead, his chest, his back.
But her face stayed with him.
Those eyes.
He ran faster.
The city sprawled below the windows — endless buildings, endless roads, endless lives.
Somewhere out there, she was in a small room, unpacking her bags, starting her new life.
Why do I care?
He ran harder.
His muscles burned.
His lungs ached.
Sweat dripped into his eyes, but he didn’t slow down.
She’s nothing to me.
A favor.
A stranger.
Then why —
Why can’t I forget her?
The Exhaustion
Three hours passed.
The clock on the gym wall read 4:00 PM.
Azhan finally stopped.
His body was trembling with exhaustion.
His shirt was soaked through.
His legs felt like they might collapse.
He stood there for a moment, hands on his knees, breathing hard.
Good, he thought.
Now I’ll sleep.
He dragged himself to the shower — hot water, steam, the familiar ritual.
When he came out, his body was heavy with fatigue.
His mind, finally, was quiet.
He fell onto the bed.
Closed his eyes.
And this time — sleep came.
The Garden Again
He was back in the garden.
The same golden-pink sky.
The same soft grass beneath his feet.
The same flowers blooming everywhere — white, pink, yellow — swaying gently in a breeze he couldn’t feel.
But this time, it was different.
This time, he wasn’t at the airport.
He was sitting on a wooden bench, surrounded by trees that seemed to glow with soft light.
The air smelled like jasmine — like the flowers that grew near his mother’s church, back in New York, back before everything changed.
And then he saw her.
The angel.
She was walking through the garden — slowly, carefully, like she was seeing everything for the first time.
Like in the car, he thought.
When she watched the buildings pass.
When her eyes widened at every new sight.
She stopped in front of a tall building made of glass — a building that didn’t belong in a garden, but somehow fit perfectly.
She tilted her head, studying it.
She’s curious, he thought.
Even in dreams, she’s curious.
He smiled.
He didn’t mean to.
It just happened.
His lips curved upward — soft, natural, unguarded.
The kind of smile he hadn’t worn in years.
He watched her move from building to building, flower to flower, her white dupatta flowing behind her like wings.
She touched nothing.
She disturbed nothing.
She simply observed — quiet, peaceful, completely herself.
She doesn’t even know I’m watching, he realized.
And somehow, that made it more beautiful.
The Bench
He sat on the bench and watched her.
She walked toward a fountain — water sparkling in the golden light, dancing like it was alive.
She stopped at the edge and looked down at her reflection.
Azhan leaned forward slightly, trying to see her face.
But the water showed only ripples.
What are you thinking?
he wondered.
What are you feeling?
Are you scared?
Are you happy?
Do you miss home?
Do you ever think about me?
The last question surprised him.
He barely knew her.
A few hours in a car.
A handful of words exchanged.
That was all.
But in this dream — in this soft, golden, impossible garden — she felt familiar.
Like someone he had been waiting for without knowing it.
She turned suddenly.
Her eyes found his.
Brown met blue.
Time stopped.
She didn’t look away this time.
She didn’t drop her gaze to his rings or his lip ring or the ground.
She just looked at him — those big, brown, shining eyes — and smiled.
A small smile.
Shy.
Sweet.
Like she knew him.
Like she had been waiting for him too.
Azhan’s heart stopped.
Then started again — faster, louder, more alive than it had been in years.
What is this?
he thought.
What is happening to me?
She started walking toward him.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Her dupatta flowing behind her.
He stood up from the bench.
The First Site of Love
She stopped a few feet away.
Close enough to see.
Far enough to breathe.
“Hi,” he said softly.
Her voice came — soft, barely a whisper.
“Hi.”
Just that.
One word.
But it was enough.
It was everything.
He looked at her — really looked at her — and for the first time in his life, he understood what people meant when they talked about love at first sight.
It wasn’t about beauty.
Not really.
It was about recognition.
Like seeing someone you had always known, but had never met.
Like finding something you didn’t know you were looking for.
She’s the one, his heart whispered.
She’s the one.
He reached out his hand.
And she — this innocent, nervous, fully covered girl who had never touched a boy outside her family — reached out hers.
Their fingers brushed.
Soft.
Warm.
Electric.
And the dream began to fade.
The Awakening
Azhan’s eyes opened.
The room was dark.
The curtains were still closed.
Evening light had replaced the morning gold.
He lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, his hand still reaching toward nothing.
It was a dream, he told himself.
Just a dream.
But his heart was still racing.
His fingers still tingled.
And somewhere in the city, in Room 101, a girl with brown eyes was probably sleeping — unaware that she had just walked through a garden in a surgeon’s dreams.
What is happening to me?
he thought.
He didn’t have an answer.
But for the first time in years — he wanted to find out.
Next: Room 101 — The First Evening.
Author’s Thoughts A surgeon’s hands, a surgeon’s heart, He built his walls, he played his part.
But dreams don’t care for walls or pride— She slipped inside.
She slipped inside.
— ✍️ Author’s Thoughts A garden dreamed, a hand reached out, A heart began to learn to doubt— The walls he built, the ice so cold, A story waiting to unfold.
She walked through flowers, touched the light, And something shifted in the night.
Not love—not yet—just something more.
A key that opened a locked door.