Three days.
Three days had passed since Vikram Malhotra looked at her with the eyes of a stranger and said,
"I don't know you."
Three days since he rolled up the window of his Mercedes and left her standing outside the gates of his mansion like she was something dirty he had accidentally stepped on.
Three days since Isha Sharma had spoken a full sentence out loud.
She was alive. Technically.
Her heart was beating. The beep… beep… that once echoed in the hospital was gone, replaced by a silence so heavy it felt like cotton stuffed in her ears.
She was breathing.
Eating a bite of roti when Sunita Bua forced it into her mouth.
Sleeping in two-hour bursts before nightmares woke her up.
But she wasn't living.
Living meant having a reason to open your eyes in the morning.
Isha didn't have one. Not anymore.
Vikram's words had become the walls of her room.
"Stop following me."
"Maybe I'm better off not knowing you."
"I will file a restraining order."
A restraining order. Against her.
The girl who had taught him how to tie a tie for his first interview.
The girl who had held his hand when his father died.
The girl who had whispered, "I'm here," for seventy-two hours straight while he lay in a coma.
And now… she was a legal threat.
Sunita Bua came every day. She would sit at the edge of Isha's bed, stroke her hair, and cry quietly.
She didn't say, "He'll remember" anymore.
Even she had stopped believing that.
Now she just said,
"Beti, get up. Go take a bath. Fix your hair. Your mother will get scared seeing you like this."
Isha would nod…
And then go back to staring at the ceiling.
There was a small crack in the corner of the ceiling.
It looked like a question mark.
Why?
Why did you forget me?
Why wasn't I important enough to remember?
She had no answers.
The fourth day. 10:22 AM.
Her phone rang.
She ignored it. What was the point? It wouldn't be him. It would never be him again. Probably a spam call. Or Webnovel. Or her mother asking if she'd eaten.
It rang again. And again.
On the third call, she picked it up just to make the noise stop. She didn't even check the caller ID. She just pressed the green button and held it to her ear.
"Hello?" Her voice was a rusted hinge. Disused. Broken.
"Hello, am I speaking to Miss Isha Sharma?" The voice was female. Crisp. Professional. Speaking in English with a clipped, polished accent that didn't belong to Lalru, or Jalandhar, or even Delhi.
Isha frowned. Her brain was slow, like it was wading through mud. "Yes... speaking."
"Ma'am, this is Ananya from the British Council, New Delhi. I'm calling regarding your application for the Commonwealth Scholarship. Masters in English Literature, University of Edinburgh. Do you remember applying?"
Isha sat up.
Literally. For the first time in three days, her spine straightened. Her heart, which had been beating at a dull, flat pace, gave a sudden, painful thud.
Commonwealth Scholarship?
Edinburgh?
The words fell into her mind like stones into a still pond. And the ripples... the ripples brought memory with them.
Eight months ago.
A rainy evening.
Vikram's one-room apartment in Jalandhar, before he became Vikram Malhotra, CEO. He was just Vikram then. Her Vikram. They were eating Maggi, sitting on the floor, his laptop balanced between them.
He'd been scrolling, and he'd stopped. "Isha, look. Commonwealth Scholarship. Edinburgh. Fully paid. Tuition, living expenses, flight... everything. Masters in Literature."
She'd laughed and hit his arm. "Are you crazy? Me? Edinburgh? I don't even know how to get a passport."
He'd caught her hand. His eyes were serious. Fierce. "You should apply. You're going to be the best writer in the world, Isha. Your stories have life in them. I'll go to Scotland with you. We'll get a new home there. You write, and I... I'll make tea for you every day."
I'll go with you.
She had applied that night. Half-joking. Half-dreaming. She'd uploaded her essays, her stories, her marksheets. She'd even gotten her passport made the next week because Vikram dragged her to the passport office, filling the forms himself because she was too nervous.
Then life happened. Vikram's company blew up. He got busy. She got busy with college. They both forgot about it. She assumed she'd been rejected. Why wouldn't she? Thousands of people applied. Only 15 from India got selected every year.
"Ma'am? Are you there?"
Isha's hand was shaking so hard the phone was rattling against her ear. "Y-yes... I'm here. I... I applied. Eight months ago."
"Yes. And congratulations, Miss Sharma. You have been selected."
The world tilted.
"Selected?" The word came out as a whisper. A prayer. A curse.
"Yes, ma'am. Full scholarship. The British Council will cover your full tuition at the University of Edinburgh, your accommodation, a monthly stipend for living expenses, and your round-trip airfare. It is a two-year program. Your session begins on 1st September."
Isha's eyes darted to the calendar on her wall. It was still on July. She hadn't had the energy to flip it.
"Today is... today is 21st August," Ananya continued. "That gives you exactly 10 days. But actually, it's 7 days, ma'am. Because your flight is booked for 28th August. We need you to reach Edinburgh by 30th to complete enrollment."
Seven days.
She had seven days to pack her entire life into a suitcase and leave the country.
Leave him.
"Ma'am, I... I don't... I didn't expect..."_ Isha couldn't form a sentence. Her brain was short-circuiting. Too much information. Too much hope. Too much pain.
"I understand this is sudden,"Ananya's voice softened, just a fraction. "The candidate who was originally selected had to withdraw due to a family emergency. You were number one on the waiting list. Your profile, your writing samples... the committee was very impressed. But we need your confirmation by End of Day today. If you accept, we will expedite your visa. The British High Commission has a special slot for Commonwealth Scholars. Your ticket will be emailed to you tonight."
If you accept.
If.
There was a choice. Stay here. In this room. In this city. Where every street corner had a memory of him. Where the air smelled like his cologne. Where she could, theoretically, stand outside his gate again and get arrested for it.
Or... go.
Seven seas away.
To a country where no one knew her name.
Where no one would look at her and say, "Aren't you that girl Vikram Malhotra forgot?"
Where she could be Isha Sharma. Just Isha Sharma. Not Vikram's Isha. Not the girl he left.
"Ma'am," Isha said, and her voice didn't shake this time. It was quiet. But it was steady. "I need to talk to my family. Can I... can I call you back in an hour?"
"Of course. But please, Miss Sharma. Opportunities like this... they don't come twice. We'll wait for your call. Have a good day."
Have a good day.
The same words the lawyer would have used if Vikram had actually sent that restraining order.
Isha hung up. She stared at her phone for a full minute. At the call log. British Council. 6:34 minutes.
This was real.
She stood up. Her legs were weak, but they held. She walked to her mirror.
The girl looking back at her was a ghost. Hair uncombed for days. Eyes hollow, with dark circles that looked like bruises. Lips chapped. The blue kurti she'd worn to the hospital was still on her body. Stained. Wrinkled.
This was what loving Vikram Malhotra had done to her.
And he didn't even remember her name.
She picked up her phone again. And she called Sunita Bua.
5:00 PM. Sunita Bua's house.
Isha didn't wait to be invited. She walked in, sat down in front of Bua, and said it straight. No preamble. No tears.
"Bua. I have to go to Edinburgh. To study. For two years. I got the scholarship. The flight is in seven days."
Sunita Bua's hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes, already red from weeks of crying for her son, filled up again. But these tears were different.
"Edinburgh? That... that's abroad, isn't it? Near London?"
Isha nodded. She explained everything. The scholarship. The call. The 7 days.
When she finished, she expected Bua to cry. To say "don't go." To say "what if he remembers?"
Instead, Sunita Bua stood up. She walked to her prayer corner, took out the small aarti plate, lit a lamp, and brought it to Isha.
She performed Isha's aarti. Like mothers do when their children leave for something big.
"Go, my daughter," Bua said, her voice thick but strong. "Go with your eyes closed. There is nothing left here for you. My Vikram... he is not mine anymore. His mind is gone, but with it, his heart went too."
Isha's breath hitched.
"I spoke to him yesterday,"Bua continued, and now the tears did fall. "I folded my hands. I said, 'Son, this is your Isha. The one you couldn't live without for a single day. The one you would have given your life for.' Do you know what he said?"
Isha shook her head. She didn't want to know. But she had to.
"He said, 'Mom, please. Hearing all this gives me a headache. I want to live my life on my own terms. Old stories, old people... they suffocate me. Tell Isha to move on. I already have.'"
Move on. I already have.
There it was. The final nail.
Isha didn't cry. She was empty. But she nodded. "So I am moving on, Bua. Across seven seas."
Bua pulled her into a hug. A fierce, tight hug. "And listen. When you get there, you must do one thing. When you become a big writer... write a book. Your story. And on the last page, write... 'Isha Sharma, from Edinburgh. Who no longer needs Vikram Malhotra.'"
For the first time in 10 days, Isha smiled. It was a small, broken thing. But it was real.
Night. 9:00 PM. Home.
Isha told her mother.
Mom fell silent at first. Then she took Isha's hand. There were tears in her eyes, but a smile on her lips. "My daughter will go abroad? To study? To make our name shine?"
Isha nodded. "Yes, Mom. It's a scholarship. Everything is covered. I don't have to do anything."
Mom kissed her forehead. "Then go. You have my blessing. Don't cry. Don't be afraid. You are my bravest daughter. Go and show the world what Isha Sharma is."
No one mentioned Vikram's name.
His name had become a ghost in their world.
Mom fed her curd and sugar. "Go and return successful, daughter. Call me as soon as you land."Her voice was shaking, but she was smiling. For Isha.
Sunita Bua held her face in both hands. "Remember, you don't depend on anyone. Not on Vikram. Not on anyone. You are Isha Sharma. And you are fire. Go, and set the world ablaze with your light. And yes... once you go there, don't look back. What was here is dead. Live as the new Isha."
Isha nodded. She couldn't speak. If she spoke, she'd break. And she couldn't afford to break. Not now.
She turned and walked towards the security check.
Name: ISHA SHARMA
Flight: BA-142
Destination: LHR / EDI
Gate: 14B
She put her bag on the conveyor belt. Walked through the metal detector. It didn't beep.
She was clean. She was leaving nothing behind.
Except a boy who didn't remember her.
And a city that had watched her break.
At the gate, she sat down. Her flight was at 5:30 AM. Three hours to go.
She opened her phone. One last time.
Isha stood in the middle of it all with one trolley bag. Black. Medium. Inside: 4 kurtis, 2 pairs of jeans, a hoodie, her documents, and one diary.
The diary Vikram had given her on her 20th birthday. Leather-bound. Her name embossed in gold. For my Isha, to write all our stories in.
It was empty. She'd never written in it. She was waiting for their story to be finished first.
She hadn't opened it in 10 days. She couldn't. But she couldn't throw it away either. So it was coming with her. To Scotland. A 500-gram piece of her heart.
Sunita Bua was there. Mom was there.
She opened Webnovel.
_Isha Sharma_
_5.96K views_
_50,000 words_
_9 collections_
She opened a new chapter. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
What should she write?
That the heroine lost?
That the hero became the villain?
That love wasn't enough to fix a broken brain?
No.
She started typing.
Ch-25: "I Left"
He told me to stop following him. So I did.
I went so far, he can't file a restraining order even if he wants to.
I'm 35,000 feet away from him now.
And for the first time in 10 days... I can breathe.
If you're reading this, don't wait for someone to remember you.
Go make new memories. Without them.
I am.
She hit post.
And then she switched her phone to airplane mode.
The announcement came:
"Now boarding all passengers for British Airways Flight BA-142 to London Heathrow. Passengers in rows 40 to 55, please proceed to gate 14B."
Row 47. That was her.
Isha stood up. She picked up her bag. She didn't look back. Not at the gate. Not at Delhi. Not at the life she was leaving behind.
She handed her boarding pass to the lady at the counter.
Beep.
"Have a good flight, Miss Sharma."
She walked down the jet bridge.
She found her seat. Window.
She buckled her seatbelt.
She closed her eyes.
When the plane took off, she didn't look out the window.
She didn't want to see Delhi get smaller.
She didn't want to see the city that held him get smaller.
Because he wasn't hers to leave behind.
He'd left her first.
Seven days ago, Vikram Malhotra had told her to move on.
He said he already had.
So she did.
As the plane leveled out at 35,000 feet, somewhere over Afghanistan, Isha Sharma finally let go.
Of the girl who waited outside his gate.
Of the girl who flew kites for a man who closed his curtains.
Of the girl who was Vikram's Isha.
And she decided, right there, above the clouds, with the whole sky to herself...
She would become Isha.
Just Isha.
And that would be enough.