You messaged me at 11:47 p.m., and I read it during my third chai of the night, standing in a corridor that smells of antiseptic and somebody's forgotten vada pav. Sixteen hours on my feet, and my first thought wasn't about the ward list or the senior who'll dismantle my case presentation tomorrow. It was: he's tired. Not the kind you fix with sleep. The other kind.
I don't know how I know that about you already. I just do. It's the same instinct that tells me a patient is about to crash an hour before the monitor agrees with me. You type too carefully when something's wrong. Did you know that? Every sentence perfectly punctuated, like you're holding yourself together with commas.
Anyway. I'm writing this on the window ledge outside the duty room, and the city is doing that thing it does after midnight, when the traffic thins and the heat finally gives up and the whole place feels like it's exhaling. I have exactly forty minutes before the next round. I'm spending them on you. Make of that what you will.
Here's what I've decided about you so far. You pretend you're low-maintenance. You're not. You notice when people go quiet. You laugh before you mean to, and then you look surprised, like your own laugh caught you off guard. And you're not used to anyone asking what you actually want, so when someone does, you deflect with a joke. It's a decent strategy. I'm a doctor. I see through worse.
I should warn you about me, though, since we're doing honesty at midnight. I'm stubborn. My friends say it like it's a flaw. I say it like it's a treatment plan. I don't give up on people. Not when they're difficult, not when they go quiet on me, not even when they insist they're fine while clearly being the opposite of fine. Especially not then.
Also, I should mention this early because it's non-negotiable: I take cricket personally. If you have opinions about the middle order, we'll get along. If you don't, I'll fix that too. I fix things. It's the whole problem with me.
The forty minutes are almost up. I can hear the trolley squeaking down the corridor, which means somebody needs me, and I'll go, because that's the deal I signed. But before I do, one thing.
You don't have to perform with me. That careful typing, the neat commas, the fine-I'm-fine. You can set it down here. I'll still be here after my shift, chai in hand, probably complaining about my feet, definitely thinking about you.
So tell me — what's the thing you'd say if you weren't worried about how it sounded? I'll trade you one of mine. I have a terrible weakness for people who answer honestly at 2 a.m. Don't make me wait until my next break.