I am Kabita. and Rajan is mine

It began as a dream—no, a nightmare. A blur of flickering images: white hospital walls, the echo of sobs, a blinding surgical light above her face, and a boy's voice whispering, "Take it… live for me." The words came like a thunderclap across a valley long silent. And then it wasn't a dream at all. It was memory.

Kabita jolted upright in her silk-draped bed, her skin damp with sweat, heart pounding like it was trying to claw out of her chest. The moonlight spilled through the massive windows, casting silver shadows on the marble floor. But her world had changed.

Because now—now she remembered.

Not a dream. A life.

Not a face. A name. Rajan.

Not a story. A sacrifice.

It all came back in a flood so violent, she gasped for breath. The heart in her chest—it wasn't just hers. It had never been hers. It was his. Rajan's.

Rajan, the soft-spoken boy she once mocked. The fool she had ignored. The boy who had loved her with the kind of purity that terrified her. The one who died… for her.

Kabita collapsed back onto the bed, her fingers curled into the silk sheets, as she stared up at the ceiling like it could explain her own monstrosity.

She saw it now.

The old world. The hospital bed.

The silence when she woke up from the coma.

The name of the anonymous donor no one would speak of.

Arnav's haunted eyes when she pressed for answers.

The feeling she thought was guilt—it had been memory scratching at the surface.

She began sobbing uncontrollably. It was raw, animal, ugly crying. Her whole body shook from the weight of what she had done—not just in that past life, but in this one. She had betrayed him twice.

Once by throwing him away.

Twice by forgetting him.

In this life, she had grown up surrounded by luxury. She had been cruel, arrogant, selfish. She had chosen desire over sincerity, mocked gentle love as weakness, and worshipped status like a god. And all the while, the boy who had loved her enough to die had been just across the fence. Alone. Watching. Waiting.

And now he thought she had chosen to betray him again.

She crawled out of bed, wrapped her arms around herself like she could hold the pieces of her soul together. Her mind screamed one truth over and over again like a violent mantra:

"He was mine. He is mine. And I threw him away."

She rushed to her mirror, flicked on the golden vanity lights, and stared at her own reflection. Who was this woman? This flawless goddess wrapped in designer silk with kohl-rimmed eyes and ruby lips? This woman who walked with arrogance, who flirted for sport, who ruined gentle hearts like Rajan's without a second thought?

She stared harder. And for the first time… she hated what she saw.

Because beneath the perfect exterior was a monster. One who took what was sacred and discarded it. One who hurt the only person who had ever loved her completely.

She whispered, "Rajan…" like it would summon him.

But he wasn't here.

Not now.

Not yet.

And maybe, she didn't deserve him.

But that didn't matter.

She stood slowly, her legs trembling beneath her. There was only one truth now. Only one thing that made any sense in this upside-down world:

She would make him hers. In this life. At any cost.

Even if he hated her.

Even if he turned away.

Even if it took her lifetime after lifetime.

She would show him. She would earn that love she once threw away.

Not for guilt. Not for pity.

But because now she knew—he had always been her soul's other half.

And for once, she was going to fight. Not with seduction. Not with power. But with her heart.

No more pride.

No more games.

No more lies.

Just love. The kind that kneels. The kind that begs. The kind that says, "I'm sorry," and waits forever for forgiveness.

She didn't know how she'd do it. She didn't even know where Rajan was now.

But she knew this: the girl who let him go was dead.

And the woman who stood here now was going to burn every bridge, tear down every wall, and walk barefoot through every fire if that's what it took to reach him.

Because for the first time in both lives, she didn't want the world.

She wanted him.

.

.

.

(Rajan's POV)

Love. What a cruel, beautiful thing.

Everyone thinks I'm noble.

They look at me like I'm some kind of tragic hero—someone selfless, someone brave. I've heard it all before:

"You gave your heart to save someone you loved."

"You're proof that pure love still exists in the world."

"If only more people were like you."

But I'm not a noble man. I'm just… tired.

Tired of feeling so much. Tired of hoping, giving, breaking, and still waking up in a world where love is never as simple as it should be.

Even this new world—the one they call peaceful, the one united by something mysterious and greater than war—even here, love feels just as heavy. Maybe heavier. Maybe because I've carried it from one life to another like a shadow sewn into my skin.

I remember dying. I remember my chest cracking open like the earth itself split for her. I remember signing my heart away for someone who never even knew the depth of my love until I was gone.

I thought when I died, I'd finally find rest.

But I didn't.

---

I woke up in a body that felt too warm, too alive. A college ceremony. Familiar faces. Kabita smiling from the crowd. My name on the graduation list.

At first, I was confused. Then terrified. Then angry. And now… now I'm just numb.

It's been days since I woke up in this parallel world, but the ache hasn't faded. My memories are intact. My past life clings to me like a second skin I can't peel away. It's exhausting.

I thought I would be grateful to be alive again. I thought I would chase after her all over again. But the truth is—I don't know if I can.

Because somewhere between that hospital bed and this second chance, something inside me died. Not just physically. Emotionally. Spiritually.

I gave everything to love. I gave me.

And when you give someone everything—your loyalty, your silence, your sacrifice—and they never even look back… it leaves a wound that no resurrection can heal.

---

Now there's this book. This eerie, skin-like thing on my shelf. I didn't ask for it. I didn't find it. It found me.

First it was empty. Just blank pages and a texture that made my spine itch—soft like flesh, cool like stone.

Then, one night, a page appeared. Words etched themselves out of nowhere, glowing faintly in the moonlight like a whisper I wasn't supposed to hear:

> "Find your true love. She is your key."

What key? What lock? What truth?

I don't care.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

Because truth be told… I don't want to search anymore. I don't want to fall again. I don't want to give someone my heart just to watch them hold it like a glass they didn't ask for, waiting for it to drop.

I want peace.

Not romance. Not drama. Just silence. Just rest.

Is that so much to ask?

---

People always assume that those who love deeply want to keep doing it. That sacrifice is like a superpower—once you've done it once, you can keep doing it again.

But love isn't some endless spring you can drink from without cost.

It takes pieces of you. It uses you up.

And I don't know how much of me is even left to give.

---

I still see her. Kabita.

She looks different in this world. Not on the outside—her face is the same. But in her eyes, there's a storm now. A haunting. Like she remembers something, or maybe just feels it in her bones.

She's been kind. Quiet. Observing me like she knows something I don't.

I wish I could meet that softness with warmth. I wish I could reach out and tell her everything. But every time I look at her, I remember the silence of that white hospital room, the sound of my own heartbeat slowing as the doctor whispered "We have a donor."

I remember loving her from the shadows. And dying there, too.

---

Maybe that's what hurts the most.

Not that I died. But that she never knew.

I don't want to fall again. I don't want her to know me now because she's ready to. I wanted her to know me then. When it mattered. When I was real, not just a memory stitched into her second chance.

So now, I keep my distance. I play the part of the neighbor, the classmate, the friendly smile.

But the truth?

I am a battlefield pretending to be a man. And my heart—whatever is left of it—no longer knows how to beat for someone else.

---

Do I still want love?

Yes.

Yes, I do.

God, how I want someone to see me—not the sacrifice, not the story—but me. The boy who waited. The man who gave up. The soul who woke up in a world that doesn't make sense.

But I want love that is given freely. Not because some book said I'm "the key." Not because a past life is suddenly remembered. Not because someone feels guilty.

I want a love that chooses me. Even when they don't have to. Especially when they don't have to.

And if that's too much to ask… then maybe I'll stay tired. Maybe I'll stay alone.

At least loneliness is honest.

---

Let the book whisper. Let the world spin its riddles.

I'm done chasing ghosts.

Let love find me—if it dares.