Meher’s POV

One year and four months into med school, and I still hadn’t figured out how not to look like a zombie on four hours of sleep.

But I had figured out how to take someone’s blood pressure while mentally revising the hepatic portal system. So, I’d call that progress.

Kashi Global University didn’t just live up to the hype – it chewed you up with syllabus, threw in 3-hour lectures, made you cry into your own dissection gloves, and somehow still made you love it. It was chaotic, competitive, and beautiful in the weirdest way possible.

My days started early. Really early.

I was usually the first one up in the entire block. My alarm buzzed at 5:45 AM, and I’d jump out of bed before it could get loud enough to wake the others. Shower. Toothpaste. White coat. Stethoscope. Notes packed. ID card. Hair in a ponytail so tight it could survive a tornado. All done in under 15 minutes.

The hostel corridor would still be dark. That weird, pre-sunrise silence where you could hear someone flipping a page three rooms away. I liked it. It made me feel like I was ahead of the day before it even started.

Sometimes, before leaving, I’d glance back into our shared room.

Aanya would be curled up under three blankets, her long hair spilling everywhere, mumbling something in her sleep about exam schedules. Yagna, on the other hand, would be starfished across her bed with one arm dangling dramatically and her leg hanging off the edge like she was trying to win an Olympic medal in sleeping.

I’d smile and pull the door shut quietly. That was our rhythm. My mornings were all ECG and case studies; theirs were coffee-fueled chaos.

By the time I reached the hospital wing, my real day would begin. Ward rounds, lab practice, attending lectures, sometimes being quizzed in the middle of a hallway by a professor who clearly thought we were all walking encyclopedias.

And yet, there was this strange thrill in it. I loved medicine. I loved the way it challenged me. The adrenaline of diagnosing something correctly, the satisfaction of understanding a complex system. I wasn't the top of the class, but I held my own. I was the dependable one. The steady one.

Then came the day that would stay etched in my mind forever.

It was a routine rotation in the emergency wing. We were supposed to observe. Just observe. But everything changed when a 13-year-old boy was rushed in, unconscious and barely breathing. The attending doctor wasn’t available, the junior resident froze, and for a terrifying few seconds, no one moved.

My hands did. Automatically. I checked his airway. I ordered suction. I asked a nurse for his vitals, then called for oxygen. It wasn’t heroism. It was training, instinct, fear. My voice didn’t shake even though my legs nearly gave out.

When the attending finally arrived and took over, he looked at me—really looked at me—and nodded. “Good work, Singhania. You kept him alive.”

I couldn’t stop shaking after that. But I didn’t cry until I got back to the hostel and Aanya hugged me before I even said a word.

Back in the hostel, the energy was totally different.

Afternoons were for post-class meltdowns, rants about cafeteria food, and Aanya dramatically collapsing on the bean bag saying things like, "If I hear the word 'macroeconomics' one more time, I will cry actual tears."

Yagna would counter with her own complaints, usually involving some faculty who gave too much reading or made sarcastic comments about her courtroom mannerisms. “He said I was too aggressive. As if I should smile while arguing federal jurisdiction!”

I was the calm in that chaos. Or tried to be.

I cooked when I could. I fixed jammed drawers. I reminded Aanya of her deadlines and made sure Yagna didn't leave the house wearing mismatched socks. In return, they dragged me to open mic nights, dance events, and late-night hostel parties where the music was always too loud, and someone always cried in a corner.

There was one evening that became legend. The college's annual fest, "Sankalp," had kicked off. The three of us were supposed to volunteer at the first aid booth. Instead, we sneaked out, dressed in matching kurtas, and danced like idiots in front of the music stage.

Aanya lost her jhumka. Yagna got into a fake debate with the anchor on stage. I laughed until I choked on a lemon soda. It was messy, ridiculous, unforgettable.

It wasn’t always easy, though.

There were nights I stayed up crying in the bathroom because a professor told me I wasn't cut out for surgery. Days I felt like I didn’t belong. Moments where everything felt too big, too loud, too fast.

But those were the moments Aanya would walk in with chocolate. Yagna would sit next to me and pretend she just “happened” to be in the mood for quiet.

And I’d remember: I wasn’t alone.

There were so many little victories that made it all worth it. The first time I took blood without fumbling. The first time a patient looked at me with trust in their eyes. When a junior asked me for help and I actually knew what to say.

And I wasn’t just growing as a doctor. I was growing as "Meher".

I learned to laugh more. To let go sometimes. To wear pink again, even if the other girls in the batch only wore neutrals. I learned that strength wasn’t about never breaking down, but about knowing when to ask for help.

Room No. 5 became our universe.

There were nights we danced in pajamas, mornings we argued over who used up the milk, and weekends we spent sprawled across the common hall floor, rewatching movies and predicting plot twists.

Our friendship wasn’t perfect. We fought. We ignored each other. There was that one time I refused to talk to Yagna for two whole days because she borrowed my notes and highlighted them in orange. Orange.

But then she brought me filter coffee and we were fine.

Aanya? Aanya was a rollercoaster. Loud, unpredictable, and endlessly kind. She once cried during a finance lecture because the professor reminded her of her uncle. She also once accidentally signed me up for a dance competition and then joined me on stage so I wouldn’t kill her.

And Yagna was a storm in a teacup. Fierce, proud, and secretly soft. She defended me when seniors picked on me during my first rotation. Later, she claimed it was ‘purely professional advocacy’.

Sure, I lived for medicine. But these girls? They were my heartbeats.

One year and four months later, I wasn’t just a med student.

I was Meher Singhania. Coffee-powered. High-functioning. Future cardiac surgeon. And best friend to two of the best disasters this college had ever seen.

And honestly?

That was more than enough for now.

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