Grey Scrubs - Short Story
Two figures sat on a weathered concrete bench just outside Block C of AIIMS Rishikesh. Both were clad in grey scrubs, the uniforms of freshers. Not yet stained by time, but already heavy with consequence.
The girl’s hand rested gently over her abdomen. Her face was distant, but not cold. The boy sat beside her, stiff-backed, eyes fixed ahead. Silent, but not indifferent. Tension clung to them like humidity in the monsoon.
“I can’t…” he finally whispered, his voice barely cutting through the air. “We’re still in college. I don’t even know how to take care of myself yet.”
She didn’t argue. That was the scariest part.
A few silent minutes passed before she stood up. “I have to go,” she said. No anger. No plea. Just fact.
There were two sets of stairs ahead. One was a gently sloping ramp for wheelchairs. The other was just regular steps. As she turned towards the ramp, a mutual friend appeared, climbing up the stairs with a bit of a bounce in her step.
“Hey! I came to walk you back,” the friend beamed, unaware of the emotional wreckage she had just stepped into. She didn’t know about the pregnancy. Didn’t know the girl loved the boy. Didn’t know how tightly silence could choke.
The pregnant girl smiled weakly.
“Wait,” the boy said suddenly, stepping forward. “Don’t take the ramp. The slope might put pressure on your stomach. It’s not safe.”
His concern slipped out before guilt could hold it in.
The girl paused. The friend looked confused. And in that one still second, everything unspoken said more than words ever could.