There are certain things you learn very quickly when you work in a hospital. People tell you when they are in pain. Not always directly. Not always honestly but eventually they tell you. You learn to recognise it in the things they don't say. The pauses. The avoidance. The carefully constructed "I'm fine."

The problem is that once you develop that habit, it follows you everywhere even outside work especially where Mishka is connected.

I was halfway through reviewing scans between surgeries when my phone buzzed. A message from Saahiba which immediately meant trouble.

Saahiba: Important question.

I stared at the screen.

Me: That's never a good start.

Saahiba: Are you free next Saturday?

I frowned.

Me: Depends.

Saahiba: For Mishka's birthday.

I paused. Birthday?

I looked at the message again.

Then again. Because somehow, despite talking to Mishka almost every day lately, that information had never come up.

Me: Its her birthday next week?

Three dots appeared.

Saahiba: You didn't know?

Apparently not.

Which felt strange because lately I knew ridiculous things about her.

Like how she like her chai, which authors she hated, which expression she made when she was annoyed. The fact she could never decide what to watch and spent more time scrolling than actually choosing something.

And yet—I hadn't known her birthday.

A few minutes later my phone rang.

Saahiba. Of course.

I answered immediately.

"What did you do now?"

"I called you."

"Same thing."

She ignored that.

"You really didn't know?"
"No."

A pause. Then—

"That's probably because she doesn't tell people."

Something about her tone made me straighten slightly.

"What does that mean?"

Silence. Brief. Noticeable.

"Nothing."

I sighed.

"Saahiba."

"Nikhil."

"That's not an answer."

"Its the only one you are getting."

That immediately made me suspicious.

"What happened?" I asked.

A longer silence this time.

"That's her story to tell."

Right. Definitely something happened. I rubbed my hand across my jaw.

"What should I know?"

"Just..."

Saahiba hesitated which almost never happened then she said quietly.

"Don't push her next week."

I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Just trust me."

The line went quiet and for some reason, that answer bothered me more than no answer would have.

The rest of the day should have distracted me but it didn't. I spent six hours in surgery, two consultations, one emergency admission and somehow still found myself thinking about that conversation.

About Mishka. About birthdays. About why someone would want to avoid one.

That evening I texted her.

Me: How was your day?

The reply arrived almost immediately.

Mishka: Productive.

I stared and then typed.

Me: That's suspiciously optimistic.

Usually she'd follow up with something ridiculous like a complaint, a joke or an unnecessary story.

Today—nothing.

A few minutes later I texted again.

Me: Everything okay?

There was a pause before her response, long enough for me to notice.

Mishka: Yep.

Short. In fact, too short for Mishka. I leaned back against the could because that was the thing about Mishka. Most people would look at those messages and think everything was normal but it wasn't. Not quite. Something felt off. Tiny almost invisible but it was there.

I called her. The phone rang three times before she answered.

"Hi."

Her voice sounded normal. Mostly.

"Hi."

A pause. Then—

"To what do I owe this unexpected phone call?"

I smiled faintly.

"There it is."

"What?"

"You sound more like yourself now."

A soft laugh and it did something to my heart.

"You're weirdly observant."

"You have mentioned that before."

"Unfortunately."

For a while we talked about ordinary things and just like other calls this conversation also flowed easily like it always did now.

"What are you doing next Saturday?"

The question slipped out casually. At least I hoped it sounded casual. The silence that followed was immediate and telling.

"Mishka?"

She exhaled softly.

"Nothing."

I sat up slightly.

"Nothing?"

"No plans."

Another pause. Then —"I usually keep that day free."

Something tightened in my chest not because what she said because of how carefully she said it like she was stepping around something sharp.

"Why?"

The question came out quieter than I intended. The line went silent not for a few seconds but longer. Long enough for me to wonder if she'd answer at all.

"It's my birthday."

I already knew.

But I didn't say that.

"Happy early birthday."

A small laugh escaped her. Humourless and unexpected.

"Don't."

My grip tightened around the phone.

"Don't what?"

"Make a thing out of it."

There it was. That wall. The one she rarely let me see and suddenly I understood.

Not the reason, but the shape of it. Birthdays weren't neutral for her.

They hurt.

I stared out of my room's window. The streetlight blurred beyond the glass.

"Mishka."

"Hm?"

"You know you don't have to tell me why."

The line stayed quiet again. A soft exhale. Almost relieved.

"I know."

For a moment neither of us spoke and then she changed the subject.

Deliberately. Obviously.

I let her because pushing wasn't the point. Not tonight.

After we hung up, I sat there for a long time thinking about her laugh, about the sadness hiding underneath it, about the fact that someone who brought so much life into every room seemed determined to disappear on her own birthday and somewhere between all those thoughts—I made a decision.

One that probably wasn't smart but felt right anyway. I wasn't going to let her spend that day alone.

The next morning, while waiting for coffee before rounds, I found myself standing outside of a jewellery store which was concerning because I wasn't there accidentally.

And that realisation hit me all at once.

I wasn't looking for a birthday gift. Not really. I was looking for the right one.

And somehow—that felt infinitely dangerous.

The realisation should have sent me in the opposite direction instead I walked inside which was how I found myself standing under warm yellow lights while a sales associate asked me questions I was completely unqualified to answer.

"Something specific you are looking for, sir?"

No. Yes. Maybe.

I had no idea. The problem wasn't finding a gift.

The problem was finding one that felt like her.

Which was apparently a ridiculous thing to be thinking.

I'd bought birthday gifts before.

For colleagues.

Friends.

Family.

None of them had involved twenty minutes of indecision and a growing existential crisis.

The associate placed a velvet tray in front of me.

Necklaces.

Bracelets.

Rings.

Far too many options.

I immediately regretted coming.

Then my gaze landed on a simple silver necklace.

Nothing flashy.

Nothing extravagant.

Just a delicate pendant shaped like a crescent moon.

Quiet.

Understated.

Beautiful without trying too hard.

For some reason, it reminded me of her.

And that thought stopped me cold because normal people didn't walk into jewellery store and think:

This feels like her.

Normal people bought gifts. They didn't search for pieces of someone inside them.

I picked it up anyway.

Turning it slightly beneath the light.

The silver caught the glow softly.

The same way her earrings always caught the light when she laughed.

The same way—

Right.

Definitely dangerous.

"Would you like me to gift-wrap it?" the associate asked.

I stared at the necklace.

For a second.

Then another.

And somewhere in that moment, a truth I'd been avoiding became impossible to ignore.

Because this wasn't about a birthday.

Not really.

It wasn't about being thoughtful.

Or being kind.

Or being a good friend.

It was about the fact that somewhere between chai, late-night calls, and accidental afternoons together—

Mishka had become important.

Dangerously important.

"Yes," I said finally.

The associate smiled.

I looked away.

And for the first time, I stopped pretending I didn't know exactly what was happening to me.

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Their story is going to be different from what I had in my mind initially but I think you guys will like this version.

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