She took a deep, shuddering breath.
She opened her mouth—but no sound came out.
Her face froze, caught somewhere between intention and collapse, as if the very act of reaching for the words caused something in her mind to recoil. Her lips parted, then trembled. Her eyes unfocused, staring not at Ira anymore but somewhere inward, searching, grasping.
And finding nothing.
It was as though the moment she tried to speak, the moment she attempted to retrieve the information she was so certain she possessed, her mind realized—too late—that it didn't hold it at all.
This was exactly what Ira had intended.
Telling her was never about the content itself. It was about revealing the shape of the thought process. About letting Miss Indira arrive, however briefly, at the realization that the catastrophic, life-endangering "whistleblowing information" she believed she carried wasn't being actively suppressed—
It simply wasn't there.
"…I…I can't…" Miss Indira whispered. "I can't remember, Doctor."
Her voice crumpled under the weight of the admission. Her face had gone pale, drained of color, and one hand lifted awkwardly toward her head, fingers hovering near her temple as if she might physically grasp the thought if she pressed hard enough. Her breathing became uneven, shallow, her shoulders hitching.
She ran her hand through her hair, then again, then clutched at it, nails scraping lightly against her scalp. Her gaze darted wildly now, unfocused, frantic, panic setting in with a sudden, merciless intensity.
"They've—" She swallowed. "They've made me forget, Doctor!"
Her voice rose, sharp and jagged.
"They've made me forget so I don't tell. It's—it's all their plan!"
She looked positively terrified now, eyes shining with unshed tears, fear spiraling rapidly into agitation.
Ira knew this was the moment to de-escalate.
Still, beneath the professional calm, a quiet sense of satisfaction curled in her chest. They had made progress today. Real progress. Fragile, fleeting—but undeniable.
Her response was immediate, practiced, precise. Her voice softened, her posture subtly adjusted, grounding, steadying. She guided Miss Indira's breathing down, slowed the pace of the room, brought the woman back from the edge with a pragmatically empathetic ease that came only with experience.
Miss Indira was a complex patient. One of the harder ones. One of the cases that resisted simple frameworks.
But Ira was good at this.
Not just good—there was something almost instinctive about the way she worked. An uncanny ability to sense the exact point to press and, more importantly, when not to. To know when a mind would fracture further under pressure and when it might, just barely, bend back toward itself.
The session wound down soon after.
Miss Indira looked slightly less brittle by the end. Still shaken, still fragile—but more present. Her hair was disheveled, strands sticking out where she'd run her hands through it repeatedly, but her gaze was steadier than it had been when she walked in.
At the door, she paused.
She turned back slowly.
Her eyes locked onto Ira's—and for a moment, something shifted. The brown irises didn't look hazy or panicked anymore. They were disturbingly focused. Clear in a way that felt wrong. Too sharp.
"You should be careful, Doctor," Miss Indira said quietly.
"They watch the quiet ones. The ones who…see." Her gaze didn't waver. "I can see you're someone who sees things too. They don't like people like you."
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"Be careful. They'll be coming for you too. They come for everyone who knows."
A chill—irrational and brief—traveled down Ira's spine.
She shook it off almost immediately, her expression never faltering from the faint, empathetic smile she'd worn throughout the session.
Transference and projection, she told herself firmly. It's not your first day on the job, Ira. Pull yourself together.
Outwardly, she nodded, choosing not to agitate the patient with counterarguments or logic now.
"I appreciate the heads-up, Miss Indira," she said lightly. "I'll be vigilant."
The professional smile she wore suddenly felt…thin.
Miss Indira didn't reply. She simply turned and left.
The door clicked shut.
The moment broke.
Ira released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, the practiced calm draining from her face as she scribbled another note onto her clipboard—something about adjusting the dosage.
Still, the strange feeling didn't leave her.
It lingered, prickling at the base of her neck, as if Miss Indira's eyes were still on her. As if, for just a second, she could feel exactly what her patient felt—the unsettled, crawling sensation of being watched.
"Water," she muttered. "I need water."
She hadn't had a sip all morning, and the brownie she'd had for breakfast was doing her digestive system absolutely no favors. Well—sue her. She was busy. And late.
Blessedly, her brain switched tracks.
Dietary irresponsibility and chronic failure at adulting provided a far more manageable problem than existential unease.
She rolled her chair back and leaned down to grab her bag from the table. The tote was a mess—items she vaguely believed she'd need throughout the day tossed in haphazardly. Pens. Sunscreen. A protein bar. Lip balm. The usual chaos.
She rummaged through it, hoping to spot the sleek stainless-steel bottle she was looking for.
Nothing.
Where the hell is my water bottle?
The realization dawned slowly.
Oh no.
She'd…left it somewhere. Again.
This was the third bottle she'd lose this year by forgetting it somewhere and never seeing it again. Those thieving swines in the residents' lounge wouldn't even spare her new one. Her new, impulsively purchased, overpriced light-cream bottle she'd ordered while doomscrolling Amazon at 3 a.m.
It had "proud crazy ex <3" written on it in hot pink cursive.
With a bow.
It even had a little bow.
She'd thought it was hilarious and fitting at the time. She still thought so. Apparently, full consciousness didn't fix her sense of humor.
Ira wracked her brain, replaying the day.
She had it during morning rounds—she remembered taking it out for a sip of water, then putting it back still thirsty because apparently you're supposed to fill bottles or something. Unbelievable.
Then lunch. Then the lounge. Then the academic building to fetch something from the department. Then stopping by the nurses' station to argue about a patient's discharge summary.
And then…here.
Ah.
"Oh hell no," she muttered, pushing back from the desk as the chair rolled away. She stood, determination settling onto her face. "No one's stealing my bottle this time."
The professional composure of the gifted shrink evaporated instantly.
She was a woman possessed.
She was halfway out the door when her phone vibrated inside her bag. She fished it out, unlocking it with a quick glance at her face.
A WhatsApp message.
Department group.
From: Dept Coordinator
Dr. Rai. Reminder: your introductory lecture for 4th year MBBS batch is today, 4:00 pm, Lecture Theatre 3. Topic: Introduction to Psychopathology.
Ira stared at the screen, her steps slowing.
Right.
The lecture.
The one she'd been told about. The one she'd been excited about days ago. The one she'd put into her calendar and then completely forgotten about until being reminded two hours before it was supposed to happen.
Four p.m.
She checked the time. 2:03.
Good. She had time. Plenty of time.
She knew the topic like the back of her hand. Of course she did. She'd just…whip up a PPT. She could teach without one, but PowerPoint was practically mandatory for university lectures. Besides, it was her first lecture with this batch.
Everyone had a PPT.
And Ira Rai refused to be that lecturer who didn't.
She'd make one.
A fun one.
Later.
First, she had a water bottle to rescue.
Slipping her phone back into her pocket, she strode down the corridor, Miss Indira's unsettling farewell already buried beneath more pressing concerns—recovering her bottle and last-minute academic improvisation.
The world wasn't full of shadowy thems out to silence you.
It was full of people who might steal your overpriced doomscrolling purchase—and undergraduates who expected fun PowerPoints.