The ward was busy as usual. Nurses rushed, interns scribbled, patients cried. Amidst it all, she sat at the desk, the glow of the computer screen lighting up her face as she discussed the latest admission with her colleagues. I couldn’t look away. Those lips, those eyes…God, she was beautiful. But why wouldn’t those eyes meet mine?

I was a man of my stature, born into privilege, mummy ka dulara and papa ka chirag. I excelled in everything- topped college, got a perfect NEET score, and made my parents proud. People admired me. I admired myself. Life was perfect……Until her.

She wasn’t the first to catch my eye. But there was something about her. The way she carried herself, her laugh… She was magnetic. Untouchable. For weeks, I watched her from a distance. Always professional. Always perfect. And yet, there was a fire in her, I could see it. I wanted to be close to her, to bask in that warmth.

It began innocently. Waiting in the hallways to catch a glimpse of her, lingering in spaces where I knew she’d be. But she never really saw me, did she? Not in the way I wanted. She wasn’t mine, wouldn’t be mine. That thought consumed me.

I caught myself staring. No, wait. Was she looking at me now? No, it was someone behind me. My heart sank. I’d been trying to talk to her for days. One of these nights, I’d make her notice me.

That night was like any other. I hated night shifts—lonely hours and endless tasks. I couldn’t do this without my special tonic. I decided to have a drink. After all, one sip wouldn’t hurt would it? But one sip turned into two glasses. I can manage… I am a man after all. The bitterness burned my throat, but it made the night seem bearable. Or maybe it gave me courage.

Midnight came and went. I desperately needed a break, so I took a walk.

That’s when I saw her. Alone, in the seminar room, hunched over her notes, deep in study. Her lips moved softly as she whispered the words she read. This was it—my chance. My heart pounded as I entered the room.

“Hi,” I said, my voice breaking the stillness.

She looked up, startled, but smiled when she recognized me. That smile—warm, trusting. She didn’t know. Couldn’t know what was brewing inside me. I mumbled something about how exhausting night shifts were, and she nodded, sharing her own struggle. We talked. Or rather, she talked, and I watched. Her words faded away into the darkness. All I could see were those lips, the soft curve of her smile. I wanted her to stop talking, to look at me, really look at me. The room felt smaller, hotter. I was drowning in her presence.

I don’t remember the exact moment… Why? How? It just happened. One second, she was explaining something about a patient, and the next, I was beside her. Close. Too close. My hand brushed hers, and she froze.

She tried to laugh it off, shifting uncomfortably. But I didn’t step back.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice steady.. there was something else in her voice… Was it fear..?

I should have stopped. Walked away. But the fire inside me burned too brightly, consuming every rational thought. I grabbed her arm, harder than I intended. She pushed back, panic flashing in her eyes. That look. That fear. It ignited something in me,..something I never knew existed.

I didn’t listen to her cries, her pleas. They only fueled me. She fought, her nails clawing at my skin, her strength surprising me. But I was stronger. I overpowered her, pinned her down, silenced her.

It wasn’t about desire anymore. It was about control. About making her mine.

When it was over, the silence was deafening. She lay there, trembling, tears running down her face. She didn’t scream. Didn’t move. Just stared at the ceiling without seeing.

And me? I just stood there, breathing heavily. My shirt was soaked with sweat. I looked at her and felt…nothing. No triumph, no guilt. Just an eerie calm.

I left the room quietly, my mind racing. Should I feel bad? Should I turn myself in? But then I remembered who I was. A respected doctor. A man of means. This wouldn’t ruin me. It couldn’t.

By morning, the world continued as if nothing happened. People still saw me as the charming, accomplished man I’d always been. If she spoke out, who would even believe her? Who was she, really, compared to me?

I replayed the night in my head over and over, searching for something—regret, remorse, anything. But all I felt was the faintest flicker of satisfaction.

Sometimes, I imagine her years from now—sitting across from a therapist, eyes hollow, trying to explain why she flinches when someone stands too close. Why she wakes up screaming. Why she doesn’t trust kindness? They’ll call it trauma. PTSD. A tragic case. They’ll give it names. But no label will return what I took. No diagnosis will make the world see her the way it should have. She’ll be told to “move on,” to “heal,” to “let go”—as if survival was her choice, and the violence wasn’t mine.

And me? I’ll be at a conference, maybe in a crisp suit, talking about ethics in medicine. Applauded for my insight. Celebrated for my empathy. I’ll win awards. I’ll teach students how to care. They’ll call me sir.

Because society is generous with its silence when the monster wears a stethoscope. Because boys will be boys, and promising futures must not be ruined. Because she should have screamed louder. Fought harder. Because her “no” was too soft.

They’ll never ask what I did to her.
Only what I’ve achieved since.
And no one will ever wonder why she stopped smiling.

Because, after all, I am a man.

.    .    .