A Diagnosis Called You

Darkness.

That was the first thing I noticed.

The second was the annoying sound of a machine beeping somewhere beside me.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Seriously? Couldn't even a machine mind its own business?

I tried to open my eyes, but the light hit me like a personal attack. My head throbbed, my mouth felt like a desert, and every part of my body seemed to be asking the same question.

What the hell happened to me?

I blinked several times until the blurry shapes around me slowly became clear.

White ceiling. White walls. Medical equipment.

Oh, fantastic.

A hospital.

I turned my head slightly and immediately regretted it.

“Ow.”

“Please don't move too quickly.”

A nurse appeared beside my bed and adjusted something on the equipment.

“Where am I?” I asked, my voice sounding rough.

“You're in the ICU. You had a road accident last night.”

I stared at her.

A road accident?

Then the memories started coming back.

The empty road. The cool night air. The sound of Deepak screaming behind me.

Diya, slow down!

And, of course, me being me.

Relax, Deepak! I've got this!

Then the pothole.

The sudden jerk.

The world flipping upside down.

Oh.

Well.

That explained the hospital.

“Where's Deepak?” I asked quickly, trying to sit up.

“Please lie down. Your uncle is stable. He fractured his hand, but he's being treated in the general ward.”

I let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding.

“His hand?”

“Yes. He's conscious and doing well.”

“Good. Because if that idiot had died, I'd have to attend his funeral, and I absolutely refuse to wear black for someone who looks terrible in every colour.”

The nurse stared at me.

“What?” I asked. “I'm coping with humour.”

She shook her head, but I caught the hint of a smile on her face.

“You should rest. You've sustained a head injury. The doctors want to observe you in the ICU for twenty-four hours as a precaution.”

“Twenty-four hours?” I repeated. “For a head injury?”

“Yes, just to monitor you.”

“Wonderful. A luxury vacation in a room with terrible lighting.”

Before the nurse could reply, someone entered the room.

And that was when I met her.

A woman in a white coat walked towards my bed, holding a medical file. Her long, dark hair was tied neatly into a bun, and she wore prescription glasses that made her look like she belonged in a library correcting people's grammar.

She had a serious expression.

Not just serious.

Professionally serious.

The kind of serious that made you wonder whether she'd ever laughed in her entire life.

She checked my file before looking at me.

“Good morning, Diya. I'm Dr. Sonya Sharma, the neurologist looking after you.”

I stared at her.

My first thought?

Not pretty.

My second thought?

Do doctors earn so little that they can't afford to look pretty, or are they so busy studying that they forget how to look good?

Of course, I kept that particular opinion to myself.

I might have questionable survival instincts, but even I knew better than to insult the doctor responsible for my head.

“Good morning, Doctor,” I said, giving her my most innocent smile.

She checked my observations and began asking me a few questions.

“Can you tell me your full name?”

“Diya.”

“Your age?”

“Twenty-six. Still young enough to make bad decisions and old enough to know better.”

Her pen paused for a fraction of a second.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Unless this is a very expensive hotel with terrible service.”

She looked at me over her glasses.

“You're in the hospital.”

“See? We're already making progress.”

She ignored that.

“Do you remember what happened before the accident?”

“Deepak and I were riding home. The road was empty, I sped up a little, he started screaming, and then we met a pothole that apparently wanted to kill us.”

“You were riding too fast?”

“That's one interpretation.”

“What's your interpretation?”

“That the road infrastructure in this country is personally against me.”

For the first time, her expression changed.

Not much.

Just a slight narrowing of her eyes.

“Your head injury doesn't appear to have affected your ability to annoy people.”

I stared at her.

Then I grinned.

“Oh, Doctor! Was that a joke? I thought you people took an oath against having fun.”

“I took an oath to treat patients, not entertain them.”

“Tragic. You look like you could use a vacation.”

“And you look like someone who needs to follow medical advice.”

“Touché.”

She continued checking my responses, shining a light briefly into my eyes and asking me to follow her finger.

I did as instructed, although I made sure to sigh dramatically at least twice.

Finally, she put the pen down.

“Your responses are reassuring. We'll continue observing you, and if everything remains stable, you can be moved to the general ward tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Doctor, I have places to be and people to annoy.”

“I'm sure they'll survive one day without you.”

“I'm not convinced.”

“I am.”

I narrowed my eyes.

She adjusted her glasses.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then I asked, “So, Dr. Sonya Sharma, are you always this serious, or is this a special performance for your patients?”

“Are you always this talkative, or is the hospital paying you per word?”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

Then pointed at her.

“Okay. That was good.”

“Thank you. Now rest.”

“You know, you could smile occasionally. It wouldn't hurt.”

“Neither would silence.”

I gasped.

“Doctor! That was practically savage.”

“I'm pleased you're able to recognise it.”

She turned towards the door.

“Wait,” I called.

She looked back.

“Do you have a nickname? Because Dr. Sonya Sharma sounds like the name of someone who files taxes for fun.”

“I don't.”

“Then I'll call you Sonya Super Serious Sharma.”

“No, you won't.”

“Sonya the Serious?”

“No.”

“Dr. Smiles-Once-a-Decade?”

She gave me a long, unimpressed look.

“Get some rest, Diya.”

And then she walked out.

I stared at the closed door.

Sonya Sharma.

What an unnecessarily serious woman.

I had met plenty of people who took life too seriously, but this woman seemed to have turned it into a full-time career. I wondered whether she went home and organised her dreams by category.

Love. Career. Sleep.

All neatly labelled.

The thought made me smile.

Still, she was my neurologist, and I had no intention of making my hospital stay more complicated than it already was.

I had a head injury to recover from, an idiot uncle to check on, and a life waiting for me outside these walls.

The doctor with the glasses was just another person I'd met along the way.

Nothing more.

At least, that was what I believed then.

I had no idea that the woman I'd just judged so mercilessly would eventually become one of the most important people in my life.