CHAPTER 1:- Lockdown Lives: A Love Unbound

Arun sat hunched on the iron chair, his phone still clenched in his hand. The hospital walls seemed to press in on him, thick with the smell of sanitizers and something far worse—death. His ears picked up snippets of a conversation nearby.

"No space left in the morgue… They're shifting bodies straight to the vans now."

"Did you hear about that young man? Twenty-five. No history, nothing… just collapsed in the isolation ward."

He swallowed hard, eyes darting toward the door. His mind wasn't here, not really. It was slipping into a time before all this madness—before masks, before lockdowns, before the world became a horror story.

A year and a half ago, he had landed his first real job as a junior reporter at Gujarat Varta, a local newspaper with a modest but loyal readership. It wasn't The Indian Express or The Hindu, but it was a start. His articles were mostly buried in the city pages—"Road Widening Project Delayed Again," "Water Crisis in Local Slums," "Temple Restoration Nears Completion"—but he didn't mind. He was earning enough to buy himself decent meals, keep his tiny rented room in Paldi, and most importantly, he didn't have to sit in his father's sweet shop like some shopkeeper.

His father never understood. "Sharmaji's son is handling two shops, and here you are, running behind stories like a beggar. Who reads newspapers these days, anyway?"

The Sharmajis had one shop. His family had two. Ramprasad Mithai Bhandar, a name known across Ahmedabad, stood proud in the heart of Manek Chowk. The second, newer shop was in the posh streets of C.G. Road, where air-conditioned comfort attracted well-dressed customers looking for "premium" sweets.

Arun had grown up surrounded by the scent of ghee and sugar, of fresh jalebis sizzling in the morning and saffron-infused basundi thickening in wide steel containers. But he never wanted to be behind the counter. That life belonged to his father, his uncle, his cousins—not him.

And yet, he remembered the one day he was forced to be there.

It was right after his board exams. His father had dragged him to the shop as punishment for playing cricket all day and ignoring his responsibilities. "If you want to sweat, do it here. Learn how a business runs."

He had sulked behind the counter, wiping trays and weighing laddoos, when she walked in.

A girl, maybe his age, wearing thin white glasses that sat delicately on her nose. A perfect black mole just below her lips. Her hair was neatly braided, her dupatta fluttering as she stepped inside with her father. They had just moved into a house down the lane, and they were here to buy sweets for their new neighbors.

He had never fumbled a ladle before. But that day, his hands trembled as he scooped out the rasgullas.

"What's fresh?" her father had asked.

Arun had tried to answer, but his voice stuck. His father had stepped in, listing out the day's best sweets with practiced ease, while Arun had just… stared. She had looked at him once, just briefly, but it was enough.

For the first time, he hadn't wanted to leave the shop early.

And now, sitting in this godforsaken hospital, his chest tightened at the memory.

He glanced at his phone again. The unread message still glowed on the screen.

NOW OR NEVER.

His fingers itched. His legs bounced against the floor. His mind screamed at him to run.

The door creaked open.

The other doctor—the one who had been staring at his phone when Arun first entered—walked in, checking his watch.

"Six o'clock," the man muttered. He moved to the old man's bedside, pressing fingers to his wrist. The patient hadn't spoken a word since Arun arrived. He just sat there, staring, as if looking through him.

Arun shifted uncomfortably.

The doctor turned, finally acknowledging him. "Rest, boy. You'll get your report tomorrow."

Arun scoffed. "I know it'll be positive. Every report is positive these days. Another number in your system." His voice was rising. "Another victim in this grand hospital scam—"

"Lower your voice," the doctor said calmly. "You'll disturb the patients."

"Who will I disturb? The corpses?" Arun snapped. "Because that's all I see here."

The doctor didn't flinch. He simply smiled, as if he had heard this a hundred times before.

"Save your energy, boy. You'll need it soon."

Arun's stomach twisted at the eerie certainty in his voice.

The doctor stepped toward the door but paused. "By the way, what's your profession?"

Arun hesitated. He didn't want to say it. People didn't respect journalists anymore. Everyone saw them as corrupt, hungry for clicks and controversy.

"Reporter," he muttered.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "Oh. That explains why they assigned you to Dr. Anirudh."

Arun frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The doctor smirked. "He doesn't like reporters much these days. Personal reasons." He didn't elaborate. Just pulled the door open and left.

Arun felt something cold settle in his gut. He was losing control. Of his life, his choices, his body. And now, even his fate was in the hands of a doctor who apparently hated journalists.

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. His thoughts spiraled.

"Why is this happening to me?"

His thumb hovered over his phone screen before finally tapping the call button.

His mother answered on the first ring. "Arun?"

The warmth in her voice was unbearable.

He couldn't do it.

He cut the call.

The old man in the corner hadn't moved all this time. But now, slowly, deliberately, he turned his head. His deep, sunken eyes met Arun's, holding him in place. It wasn't just a look—it was as if he was seeing something beyond Arun.

A shiver crawled up Arun's spine.

He turned away, pressing his palm over his face.

Tomorrow. He would have his test results tomorrow.

If he stayed that long.

Because if there was any way to escape, he would take it.

Tonight.