The line went silent.
I could hear Kabir breathing on the other end of the call, but neither of us spoke for several seconds.
My eyes remained fixed on the photograph lying on the desk.
The black X across the doctor's face suddenly felt deliberate.
Personal.
As if the person who drew it had wanted to erase him completely.
Just like someone had tried to erase Meera from my life.
"Kabir," I said carefully, "start talking."
He exhaled heavily.
"Not over the phone."
My jaw tightened.
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Hiding things."
Another silence.
This time, Kabir didn't deny it.
"Meet me tomorrow morning," he finally said. "The bookstore. Before opening."
Then he ended the call.
That night, sleep never came.
I spent hours staring at the ceiling while rain tapped softly against the windows.
Every time I closed my eyes, the same questions returned.
Who was Dr. Malhotra?
Why had I written that note?
And why had Kabir looked terrified the moment he heard the name?
Around three in the morning, I gave up trying to sleep and opened my laptop.
The internet wasn't very helpful.
There were hundreds of doctors named Malhotra.
But after nearly an hour of searching, I found something.
A news article from two years ago.
A photograph appeared on the screen.
The same man from my picture.
The same face.
The same eyes.
My pulse quickened.
The article was short.
Dr. Vikram Malhotra.
Neurologist.
Died in a car accident while traveling outside the city.
No suspicious circumstances reported.
Case closed.
I stared at the article for a long time.
Then something caught my attention.
The location.
The accident had happened on the exact highway where my own accident occurred three years earlier.
A cold feeling settled in my chest.
That couldn't be a coincidence.
Could it?
The next morning arrived too slowly.
By the time I reached the bookstore, Kabir was already waiting outside.
For once, he wasn't drinking coffee.
That alone told me how serious this was.
"You look awful," he said.
"I didn't sleep."
"I figured."
We entered the empty bookstore together.
The familiar smell of books usually comforted me.
Today it didn't.
I placed the photograph on the counter.
Kabir's expression immediately darkened.
"You found this where?"
"In one of my notebooks."
He picked it up carefully.
Almost reluctantly.
For a moment, I noticed something strange.
Guilt.
Real guilt.
"Kabir."
He looked up.
"What aren't you telling me?"
He rubbed his face tiredly before speaking.
"After your accident... things got bad."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you weren't okay."
I stayed silent.
Kabir rarely talked about that period.
Whenever I asked questions, he changed the subject.
Today he couldn't.
"For weeks after the accident," he continued, "you kept asking about someone."
My heartbeat quickened.
"Meera."
He nodded slowly.
"Yeah."
The answer didn't surprise me.
What surprised me was the pain in his eyes.
"Asking isn't the right word," he said quietly. "You were obsessed."
I frowned.
"What?"
"You wouldn't eat properly."
The words came slowly now.
Carefully.
"As soon as you woke up, you'd ask the same question."
"What question?"
Kabir looked directly at me.
"Where is Meera?"
The bookstore suddenly felt too small.
Too quiet.
I could almost imagine it.
A younger version of me lying in a hospital bed.
Desperate.
Confused.
Searching for someone everyone refused to explain.
"What happened next?"
Kabir hesitated.
Then said something unexpected.
"Your father got involved."
I froze.
"My father?"
Kabir nodded.
"He didn't want anyone talking about her."
A strange anger stirred inside me.
"Why?"
"I don't know."
The answer sounded honest.
That made it worse.
Because if Kabir didn't know, then whatever happened had been bigger than he realized.
The conversation ended when customers started arriving.
But neither of us felt normal afterward.
Something had shifted.
For the first time, the mystery wasn't just about forgotten memories anymore.
Now it involved my father.
A dead doctor.
And a hospital.
That afternoon, Meera texted me.
Meera:
How's your day?
I stared at the message longer than necessary.
Then replied.
Arjun:
Complicated.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Meera:
Memory complicated or life complicated?
Despite everything, I smiled.
Arjun:
Both.
A few seconds later:
Meera:
Coffee after work?
For the first time all day, something felt easy.
Arjun:
Only if you promise not to reveal another life-changing secret.
Meera:
No promises.
I laughed quietly.
A customer nearby looked at me strangely.
I didn't care.
That evening, they met at their usual café.
The one with terrible jazz music.
The one neither of them actually liked.
And somehow still kept returning to.
Meera was already there when I arrived.
This time she looked less tired than usual.
More relaxed.
Almost happy.
"Good day?" I asked.
"Surprisingly."
"That's suspicious."
"It probably is."
Her smile widened.
For a while, they talked about ordinary things.
Books.
Movies.
Customers.
Bad coffee.
Normal conversations.
The kind of conversations people have when they enjoy being around each other.
No mysteries.
No accidents.
No missing memories.
Just two people sharing an evening.
And somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else.
At one point, Meera pulled a novel from her bag.
I immediately recognized it.
It was my favorite book.
The one I recommended to almost everyone.
"You read it?"
She looked amused.
"I read it three years ago."
"What?"
"You made me."
I blinked.
"You remember that?"
Her expression softened.
"I remember everything."
The smile faded from my face.
Because suddenly I realized something.
While I had spent years forgetting...
Meera had spent those same years remembering.
Every promise.
Every conversation.
Every goodbye.
Alone.
The thought hurt more than any memory flash ever had.
Later, after leaving the café, they walked together toward the train station.
Neither had planned it.
The route simply took them there.
The moment the station came into view, something inside me tightened.
The platform.
The lights.
The sound of arriving trains.
Every detail felt familiar.
Dangerously familiar.
I slowed my pace.
Meera noticed immediately.
"You okay?"
"I don't know."
A train arrived.
The announcement echoed through the station.
And suddenly—
Another memory hit.
Not blurry this time.
Clear.
Sharp.
Painfully clear.
Me standing on this exact platform.
Three years ago.
Holding Meera's hands.
Crying.
And saying words that shattered everything.
"I'm sorry."
My own voice echoed inside my head.
"I chose this."
The memory vanished.
I stopped walking.
My breathing became uneven.
Beside me, Meera had gone completely pale.
Because she knew exactly what memory had returned.
I looked at her.
Confused.
Terrified.
"What did I choose?"
Tears filled her eyes instantly.
And for the first time since meeting her—
Meera looked genuinely afraid.
"Arjun..."
Her voice broke.
"You asked them to erase me."