Room 101 — 4:30 AM
The room was still dark.
Soft breathing filled the silence — the gentle rhythm of sleeping girls, tangled in blankets, lost in dreams C could not see.
She opened her eyes.
The ceiling was unfamiliar.
The walls were unfamiliar.
For a moment, she forgot where she was.
Then she remembered.
California.
Hostel.
Room 101.
She sat up slowly, careful not to wake anyone.
Riya had kicked off her blanket.
Aminah was curled on her side, her dupatta wrapped around her face.
Yasmin had her sketchbook clutched to her chest like a teddy bear.
C slipped out of bed.
Her bare feet touched the cold floor.
She shivered — but kept moving.
She went to the washroom, closed the door quietly, and performed wudu.
The cold water woke her up.
The familiar ritual grounded her.
Some things don’t change, she thought.
Wherever you are, wudu is the same.
Prayer is the same.
Allah is the same.
She came back to the room.
Spread her small prayer mat on the floor.
Faced the Qibla — she had checked the direction last night, asking Aminah, who had shown her with quiet certainty.
She raised her hands to her ears.
Allahu Akbar.
The room faded.
The world faded.
There was only her and her Lord.
She prayed Fajr — slowly, carefully, each word whispered from her heart.
She made dua for her family.
For her studies.
For strength.
Ya Allah, keep me focused.
Keep me strong.
Help me remember why I’m here.
When she finished, she sat for a moment on the mat, her hands resting in her lap.
The room was still dark.
The girls were still asleep.
She felt peaceful.
Then she returned to her bed, pulled the blanket over herself, and closed her eyes.
Sleep came quickly this time.
The Villa — 5:30 AM
Azhan had not slept.
He had lain in bed all night — staring at the ceiling, turning onto his side, onto his stomach, onto his back again.
His mind refused to quiet.
His heart refused to obey.
Why can’t I stop thinking about her?
He had asked himself the question a hundred times.
A thousand times.
There was no answer.
Only her face.
Her eyes.
Her voice.
“I…
I did it.”
He sat up abruptly.
Enough.
He pulled on his gym clothes — black sweatpants, a fitted training shirt — and walked to the private gym in his house.
The room was cold.
The equipment gleamed under the soft lights.
He started with stretches — controlled, precise, the way he did everything.
Then the treadmill.
Thirty minutes.
No more.
No less.
He ran hard — punishing, relentless.
His breathing grew heavy.
Sweat formed on his forehead, his chest, his back.
His muscles burned.
But her face stayed with him.
He moved to the weights.
Lifted.
Pressed.
Pushed.
His body screamed.
His mind screamed louder.
Stop, he told himself.
Forget her.
She’s nothing.
A student.
A favor.
But his heart — his stupid, rebellious heart — whispered back:
Then why can’t you forget?
He finished his workout.
His body was exhausted.
His mind was not.
The Morning Ritual
He showered — hot water, steam, the familiar ritual.
When he stepped out, he stood in front of the mirror.
Water dripped from his hair.
His skin was flushed from the gym.
His eyes — blue, tired, restless — stared back at him.
Slowly, he picked up his earrings.
Silver.
Small.
Discreet.
He slid one into his left ear.
Then the other into his right.
Then his lip ring.
He looked at himself.
The same face, he thought.
The same cold face.
But something feels different.
He dressed carefully — fitted black shirt, tailored trousers, polished shoes.
His hospital coat hung on the back of the door.
White.
Crisp.
Professional.
He put it on.
The weight settled on his shoulders — familiar, comforting, like armor.
He was ready.
Downstairs
The kitchen was warm.
The lady cook moved quietly, preparing breakfast — eggs, toast, fresh fruit.
The smell of coffee filled the air.
Azhan walked past her without speaking.
He picked up a cup of black coffee from the counter.
Took a sip.
Bitter.
Hot.
Perfect.
He didn’t eat.
He never ate breakfast.
“Doctor , you should eat something,” the cook said softly.
He shook his head.
“Not hungry.”
He grabbed his car keys and walked out the door.
The Hospital
The city was waking up.
Streets filled with cars.
People walked quickly, coffee cups in hand, phones pressed to ears.
The sky was pale blue, dotted with white clouds.
Azhan drove through it all — focused, composed, unreachable.
He parked in his reserved spot and walked toward the hospital entrance.
The building rose before him — glass and steel, gleaming in the morning light.
The words “City General Hospital — Surgical Wing” were etched in bold letters above the doors.
He stepped inside.
The smell hit him first — antiseptic, clean, familiar.
The sound of monitors beeping.
Nurses walking quickly.
Patients in wheelchairs, waiting.
This was his world.
His only world.
The Team
His team was waiting for him outside the operating wing.
Dr.
Michael Hayes — trauma specialist.
Dr.
Omar Khalid — vascular surgeon.
Dr.
Emily Brooks — anesthesiology lead.
Dr.
Sadaf Rahmani — fellow surgeon, former classmate, current…
something.
He didn’t know what to call her.
He didn’t want to.
They stood in a loose cluster, reviewing charts, discussing cases.
When Azhan approached, they straightened.
“Morning, Doctor,” Michael said.
Azhan nodded.
“Morning.”
He took the patient files from Omar and began scanning them — vitals, history, surgical notes.
His eyes moved quickly, absorbing everything.
“The Anderson case,” he said.
“Where are we?”
“Stable,” Emily replied.
“BP normalized overnight.
Ready for the procedure at 9.”
Azhan nodded.
“Good.”
Dr.
Sadaf stepped closer.
Her smile was professional — but something else flickered beneath it.
“Long night?” she asked softly.
Azhan didn’t look up from the charts.
“Work is work.”
She laughed lightly, trying to bridge a gap he kept deliberately wide.
“You should try sleeping sometime, Azhan.
It’s good for the soul.”
He finally looked at her.
His eyes were cold.
Unreadable.
“I’ll sleep when the work is done.”
He turned and walked toward the patient wing, his team following behind him.
The Patient
Mr.
Anderson was awake.
He was in his late fifties, with gray hair and tired eyes.
A heart monitor beeped beside him.
Tubes connected his arms to machines.
His wife sat in a chair beside the bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
Azhan entered the room.
The temperature seemed to drop.
The air grew sharper.
“Mr.
Anderson,” he said, his voice calm and steady.
“I’m Dr.
Rehman.
I’ll be performing your surgery today.”
The man’s eyes widened slightly.
He had heard the name.
Everyone had heard the name.
“Doctor…
am I going to be okay?”
Azhan looked at him directly.
“I will do everything in my power to make sure you are.”
He checked the monitors.
Reviewed the charts. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
Spoke quietly with the nurses.
His team waited in the hallway.
Sadaf leaned against the wall, watching him through the glass window.
“He’s different today,” she murmured.
Omar raised an eyebrow.
“Different how?”
“I don’t know.
More…
distant.
Even for him.”
Michael shrugged.
“He’s always distant.”
“No,” Sadaf said slowly.
“Something else.
Something changed.”
Inside the room, Azhan finished his examination.
He stepped back, nodded at the patient, and walked out.
His team fell into step behind him.
“Prep the OR,” he said.
“We start in two hours.”
The Corridor
Nurses stepped aside as he passed.
Whispers followed him — they always followed him.
“He’s only twenty-three.”
“Brilliant surgeon.”
“Cold, though.
So cold.”
Azhan heard nothing.
He walked toward his office, his coffee cup still in his hand, now cold and forgotten.
He closed the door behind him.
Sat at his desk.
Stared at the wall.
And for a moment — just a moment — he let himself remember.
Brown eyes.
Soft voice.
“I…
I did it.”
He closed his eyes.
Stop.
Focus.
You have surgery in two hours.
He opened his file and began to read.
But the words blurred again.
And somewhere in the city, in Room 101, a girl with brown eyes was still sleeping — unaware that she had already walked into a surgeon’s heart.
The Hospital — 8:45 AM
Azhan sat in his office, the patient file open in front of him.
He had read the same paragraph four times.
Anderson.
Male.
57.
Coronary artery bypass graft.
Previous history of hypertension.
He knew the case.
He had reviewed it yesterday.
And the day before.
But today, his mind refused to cooperate.
He rubbed his temples, closing his eyes.
Focus, he told himself.
You have a life in your hands.
Focus.
He opened his eyes.
The words on the page stared back at him.
Still blurry.
The OR Preparation
At 8:55 AM, he stood up.
He walked to the scrub room — the familiar ritual, the familiar routine.
He scrubbed his hands with surgical soap, each movement precise, automatic.
The water was warm.
The soap smelled like hospital.
He didn’t think about her.
He didn’t.
He dried his hands, pulled on his surgical gown, and snapped on his gloves.
A nurse handed him his mask.
He tied it behind his head.
Only his eyes were visible now.
Blue.
Cold.
Focused.
This is who I am, he thought.
A surgeon.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
He pushed open the OR doors with his shoulder.
The lights were bright.
The monitors beeped.
The team was ready.
“Let’s begin,” he said.
Room 101 — 9:00 AM
C woke again.
The room was brighter now — soft morning light filtering through the curtains.
Her roommates were stirring, some still asleep, some slowly waking.
Riya stretched dramatically, her red hair wild on the pillow.
“Morning, little girl,” she mumbled.
“Assalam o Alaikum ,Good morning,” C said softly.
She lay in bed for a moment, listening to the sounds of the hostel waking up.
Footsteps in the hallway.
Water running in the washroom.
Girls laughing somewhere nearby.
New sounds, she thought.
New rhythms.
She close eyes may be she is dreaming when she open eyes: ya Allah am really away from home
The New Girl
At 10:00 AM, there was a knock on the door.
Aminah opened it.
A girl stood in the hallway — tall, with short black hair and kind gray eyes.
She wore a simple sweater and jeans, and carried a large suitcase behind her.
“Hi,” she said, smiling.
“I’m Sophia.
Sophia Edward.
Nursing department.
Is this Room 101?”
Aminah nodded.
“Yes, come in.”
Sophia stepped inside, her eyes scanning the room.
She looked at Riya, at Yasmin, at Neha — then her gaze landed on C.
She smiled wider.
“And you must be the new scholarship student?
From Pakistan?”
C nodded.
“Yes.
I’m C.”
“Nice to meet you, C.” Sophia extended her hand.
C hesitated for a moment — then shook it.
She’s friendly, C thought.
Not too loud.
Not too bold.
Just…
kind.
Riya waved from her bed.
“Welcome to the chaos, Sophia.”
Sophia laughed.
“Thanks.
I heard you’re the one who causes most of it.”
Riya grinned.
“Guilty.”
Aminah helped Sophia find an empty bed — the one above C.
They chatted easily, swapping stories about New York, about university, about why they had chosen California.
C listened quietly.
She didn’t speak much.
But she felt something shift in her chest.
Maybe, she thought, I won’t be alone here.
The Hospital — 1:00 PM
The surgery was over.
Azhan stepped back from the table, his hands steady, his breathing controlled.
“Closure complete,” Michael said.
“Vitals stable.”
Azhan nodded.
He walked out of the OR, pulled off his gloves, and removed his mask.
His face was pale.
Tired.
But his eyes — his eyes were still far away.
Sadaf followed him into the corridor.
“Good work in there,” she said.
Azhan didn’t respond.
She walked beside him, matching his pace.
“You seem distracted today.
Everything okay?”
He stopped walking.
Turned to look at her.
His blue eyes were cold — colder than usual.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Then he turned and walked away.
Sadaf stood there for a moment, watching him go.
Something is wrong, she thought.
Something changed.
She didn’t know what.
She didn’t know about brown eyes and airport signs and a girl who said “jee” instead of yes.
She didn’t know that Azhan — the cold, unreachable surgeon — had spent the night dreaming of a stranger.
She didn’t know that he was losing a battle he hadn’t even realized he was fighting.
Room 101 — 2:00 PM
The afternoon passed slowly.
She pray zuhr first then
C unpacked her bag — , arranging her books on the small shelf beside her bed, placing her sketch pads at the bottom of her cupboard.
She didn’t look at the sketch.
The one she had started last night.
The airport.
The man.
The sign.
She pushed it to the back of her mind.
Focus, she told herself.
You’re here to study.
She opened her programming book and began to read.
But the words blurred.
And somewhere in her chest — small, quiet, unfamiliar — a feeling stirred.
She didn’t know what it was.
She had never felt it before.
She pushed it away.
The Hospital — 4:00 PM
Azhan stood at the window of his office, looking out at the city.
The sun was lower now — the shadows longer, the light softer.
He thought about the girl.
The one with brown eyes.
The one who had never been on an elevator.
The one who said “jee” instead of yes.
Why can’t I stop?
He didn’t have an answer.
He didn’t know that she was thinking about him too — in her own way, in her own confusion.
He didn’t know that two hearts, miles apart, were beating the same uncertain rhythm.
He only knew that something had changed.
And he didn’t know if he wanted it to.
Chapter 4 : The Hostel Tour [ C side]
Saturday — 11:00 AM
The morning had settled into a soft gold.
Riya stood at the door of Room 101, hands on her hips, a grin spreading across her face.
“Okay, girls — tour time.
I’m showing C everything.”
Aminah closed her book.
Yasmin put down her pencil.
Sophia climbed down from her bunk — the one above C’s — and stretched.
“Finally,” Sophia said.
“I’ve been waiting to see this place.” You are reading on g.com, the official source.
C pulled her large dupatta over her head, covering herself properly, and followed them out.
The Study Room
The study room was on the second floor.
Riya pushed open the door with a flourish.
“Welcome to the place where dreams come true — or die.
Depends on your motivation.”
The room was large — bigger than C expected.
Long wooden tables stretched across the floor, lined with chairs.
Soft lamps glowed on every desk.
Students sat in quiet concentration, books open, laptops glowing.
A large whiteboard covered one wall, covered in notes and diagrams.
Bookshelves lined another, filled with textbooks and reference guides.
C’s eyes widened.
I could study here, she thought.
For hours.
Riya leaned against the doorframe.
“It’s open 24/7.
Perfect for night owls and last-minute crammers.”
Sophia nodded.
“I’ll be here every night, probably.”
C ran her fingers over one of the desks.
Smooth.
Wooden.
Solid.
This is where I’ll sit, she decided.
This is where I’ll work.
The TV Room
Next, Riya led them to a room at the end of the hall.
Soft couches filled the space — blue, gray, comfortable.
A large television hung on the wall.
A few girls sat inside, watching something C couldn’t see.
Riya waved her hand.
“TV room.
Movies, shows, sports — whatever you want.
Good for relaxing when your brain is fried.”
C looked at the screen.
Movies, she thought.
I’ve never watched one.
She didn’t say anything.
Sophia flopped onto one of the couches.
“I’m going to live here.”
Riya laughed.
“You haven’t even started classes yet.”
“I’m preparing.”
The Game Room
The game room was at the far end of the building.
Riya pushed open the double doors, and C stepped inside.
Her breath caught.
Tables for table tennis stood in the center of the room.
A foosball table sat near the window.
Board games lined the shelves — chess, checkers, cards, and games C had never seen before.
A few girls were playing table tennis, laughing and shouting.
Riya crossed her arms.
“Game room.
Good for stress.
Also good for making enemies if you’re competitive.”
Aminah smiled.
“We play sometimes.
You should join us, C.”
C shook her head slowly.
“I don’t know how to play any of these.”
“Then we’ll teach you,” Yasmin said softly.
C looked at her — at all of them — and felt something warm spread through her chest.
They want to teach me, she thought.
They want me to stay.
The Mess Hall — 1:00 PM
The mess hall was crowded at lunchtime.
Girls stood in long lines, trays in hand, chatting and laughing.
The smell of food filled the air — rice, chicken, vegetables, fresh bread.
Aminah guided C through the line.
“Remember — tap your card here,” she said, pointing to the machine.
Beep.
Green.
C took her tray and moved along the counter.
She chose rice — a small portion.
Chicken curry — a small portion.
Salad — a small portion.
“You need to eat more,” Riya said from behind her.
“This is enough,” C replied.
Riya sighed.
“Stubborn girl.”
They found a table near the window — the same one from last night.
The sunlight was brighter now, warming the wood.
Aminah sat beside C.
Yasmin across from her.
Sophia next to Riya.
They ate together — talking, laughing, sharing stories.
C listened more than she spoke.
But she smiled.
And that was enough.
The Garden — 2:00 PM
After lunch, Sophia and C walked outside.
The garden was beautiful in the afternoon light.
Flowers bloomed everywhere — pink, purple, white, yellow — their petals soft and bright.
A small fountain sparkled in the center, water dancing in the sun.
September in California was warm — but not hot.
A gentle breeze moved through the trees, carrying the scent of jasmine.
Sophia walked beside C, her hands in her pockets.
“So, C,” she said casually.
“Your turn.
Introduction.”
C tucked her dupatta tighter around her shoulders.
“I am C Ismail,” she said softly.
“From Punjab, Pakistan.”
She paused, gathering her thoughts.
“Last December, I got a scholarship.
The Golden Excellence.
It changed everything.”
Sophia listened quietly.
C continued.
“I have one brother — Hamad Bhai.
He’s twenty-five.
He works in Baba’s shop.
And two sisters — Anita D and Bisma.
Anita D is twenty-two.
She was my teacher in college.
Bisma is in class eight.”
She swallowed.
“My Baba has an ice cream shop.
He works very hard.
My Ami is a housewife — the best cook in the world.”
Sophia stopped walking.
“Wait,” she said.
“Are you the first one in your family to go to university?”
C nodded.
“Yes.
I am the first.”
She looked down at the flowers.
“The first one to leave home.
The first one to come this far.”
Her voice dropped.
“Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice.”
The Understanding
Sophia touched her arm gently.
“Hey,” she said.
“It’s okay.
I’m far from home too.
My mom is a nurse.
My dad is a surgeon.
I’m from New York — alone here, just like you.”
She smiled.
“And honestly?
In America, families are smaller.
Less kids.
Most of us are single children.
My parents only had me.”
Riya appeared behind them, having followed from the mess hall.
“Same,” she said.
“I’m an only child too.
Most of my cousins are the same.
We focus on career, on fun — not big family families.”
C didn’t fully understand.
Single children, she thought.
No brothers.
No sisters.
No one to share a room with, no one to fight with over the last piece of bread.
She couldn’t imagine it.
But she didn’t say anything.
One day, she thought, I will earn enough.
I will show Hamad Bhai and Anita D this hostel.
This garden.
This life.
They sacrificed their studies for me.
For Bisma.
So they could work.
So I could study.
I will not waste their sacrifice.
The Hug
Riya hugged her.
Not a quick hug — a real one.
Warm.
Firm.
Like she meant it.
“Little hug,” Riya said softly.
“Don’t worry.
University life is fast.
When classes start, you’ll be too busy to think about anything else.
Assignments.
Projects.
Exams.
Life here is fast — furious, even.”
C smiled.
A small smile.
Fragile.
But real.
The September Flowers
Sophia and C continued walking through the garden.
The flowers were in full bloom — September flowers, bright and bold.
Marigolds.
Roses.
Jasmine.
Flowers C had seen before, in different colors, in different light.
Flowers are the same everywhere, she thought.
Only the sky changes.
Sophia walked beside her in comfortable silence.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.
Riya had gone back to the room, leaving them alone with the flowers and the fountain and the warm California sun.
C touched a rose petal gently.
Soft.
Velvet.
Alive.
I am alive, she thought.
I am here.
I will make this work.
She looked up at the sky.
Still blue.
Still endless.
Still beautiful.