Dr. Kavya Malhotra, First‑Person POV
The morning sun sliced through the tent flap in pale blades as I arrived for my first session of the day. Outside, the Siachen wind had calmed to a restless breeze, scattering patches of dirty snow among the footprints in the mud. Inside, the heater hummed, and the familiar cavalry of gurneys and stretchers lined the canvas walls. I carried my leather satchel as though it contained my own heartbeat, my thumb grazing the cool metal of Shashwat's "lucky rupee" tucked inside.
Cot 5 held Captain Daiwik Khanna. He sat propped against his pillows, sleeves rolled to reveal the knot of stitches on his forearm. His ink‑stained thumb flicked nervously against the IV pole, as though the steady drip threatened to swallow him. When he saw me, he offered a tight smile.
"Good morning, Doctor." His voice was practiced—courteous, controlled. But his eyes betrayed the exhaustion of a man who hadn't slept in days.
"Morning, DK." I set my satchel down and offered him tea. He accepted without a word, wrists trembling as he lifted the cup. "How are you feeling?"
He cleared his throat. "Better, I think. The nightmares haunt me less." He glanced away, gaze settling on the floor. "But there's something I haven't told you."
My pulse quickened. We had made so much progress in our sessions—yet I knew the deepest wounds sometimes lay beneath even the hardest breakthroughs. "Tell me," I encouraged gently.
He exhaled. "It isn't just survivor's guilt." His voice caught. "It's the secret I carry—about Shashwat."
My heart stuttered. The day I thought he'd share his hidden love for me had arrived. But I braced myself: some secrets tremble in the dark until the light of confession burns them into ash.
I pulled my chair close. "What is it?"
He sipped his tea, as though borrowing courage from its warmth. "When Shash went missing—declared MIA—I was the first to know."
My breath caught. This was the turning point he'd never revealed: the night he'd chosen secrecy over truth. "You knew he wasn't dead," I murmured.
He nodded, eyes hollow. "I saw the radio transmission. I was patching into the encrypted channel for medevac updates when they called his name. It wasn't on the death roster—only a disappearance code. But I kept quiet."
I stared at him, mind racing. "Why?"
He swallowed hard. "Because you needed closure. You'd gone through hell believing he'd died. And... and I couldn't bear to shatter you again."
I pressed my hand to his. "But you did. You shattered me with the lie of silence."
His shoulders slumped. "I thought I was protecting you. But every time I saw your eyes search for him, I felt like a coward." He closed his eyes. "I traded one guilt for another."
Tremors shook his voice. "I should have told you. And maybe you'd have been angry. But at least you'd have had the truth."
Tears burned my eyes. I swallowed, forcing my voice to remain even. "You betrayed my trust, DK. Not because you lied to me, but because you didn't trust me with the truth."
He flinched, pain flickering across his features. "I know. And I don't expect forgiveness. I only... needed you to know."
My chest ached with a tumult of anger and compassion. "It's time to unpack this," I said, drawing breath. "This secret you carried has enforce your survivor's guilt with a new dimension—betrayal. We have to face both truths, or neither wound will heal."
He nodded, chin trembling. "I'm ready."
Flashback: That Night in the Radio Shack
Weeks before the memorial, after our trust‑building exercises had turned into late‑night conversations, I found DK hunched over the radio console, face ghostly in the green glow of the screen. I'd stumbled in, seeking him out after a long day of counseling war‑torn soldiers.
He looked up, startled. "I'm sorry, Kavya. I didn't know you were still here."
Concern gripped me. "You sounded upset. What's going on?"
He avoided my eyes. Then, with a confession that cracked the calm of the night, he said: "Shash is not dead."
I froze. His words echoed. "What do you mean?"
He tapped a key, replaying the transmission. A voice—not the brass‑toned announcer, but someone clipped and urgent—read Shashwat's last known coordinates and code: MIA, "Grey Eagle." But no final casualty report. "He's alive, somewhere on the glacier. They're keeping him off duty roster—classified mission."
I stared at him, shock punching the air from my lungs. "Why didn't you tell me?"
His face collapsed. "I couldn't. I didn't know if I'd lose you again. You were already collapsing under the weight of false loss."
My heart pounded, tears stinging. "You lied to me. You lied to me to spare your own conscience."
"I... I thought it was mercy," he whispered, voice torn. "I was wrong."
Present: Confronting the Hidden Wound
I refocused on DK in the cot, the memory's sting still fresh. "You've carried this secret like a blade at your back, but what you need now is to put it down beside the truth. We'll do this together."
He exhaled, shoulders collapsing in relief and dread. "How?"
I guided him through naming the secret as its own grief: the shame of betrayal layered atop survivor's guilt. "Let's speak it aloud, then practice releasing it."
He took a shaky breath. "I hid Shash's status from you. I lied when you asked about him. I poisoned your healing with my fear."
Tears welled in his eyes. "I hate what I did."
I placed a hand on his chest. "You aren't your worst moment. You're the man who saved lives at the cost of burying his own integrity. Now we'll restore it."
I instructed him in a simple ritual: he wrote the confession on a scrap of paper. Then, under my guidance, he folded it and placed it into a small tin—one I used for storing herbs in my home clinic. We lit a candle. As the flame caught the edge of the paper, DK closed his eyes, whispering:
"I release you, my secret, into the fire. I reclaim the truth I withheld. I forgive myself for fear's betrayal, and I embrace honesty, even when it breaks me."
He watched the paper curl into ash. His shoulders shook with a sob that was both grief and relief.
I held him until the tears subsided. Then I whispered, "Let's breathe that truth into you. In... and out."
We sat in the warm candlelight, the tin empty and his heart unburdened by that last lie.
Bridging to Forgiveness
Later, after DK drifted into a sleep heavy with absolution, I wandered outside the tent. The afternoon breeze carried shards of mountain air, and the canvas walls hummed like a living thing. I pressed my palm to the wood, feeling the echo of loss and healing.
I thought of Shashwat, out there on classified duty, unaware of how his friend's secret nearly poisoned our fragile bonds. I thought of DK's courage to confess, to burn that final shadow. And I believed, with a clarity I hadn't felt before, that honesty—painful as it is—can be the greatest act of love.
Evening: A New Covenant
At sundown, DK emerged from the clinic, uniform crisp, eyes quiet but determined. He found me by the lantern outside my tent.
"Kavya," he said, voice steady. "Thank you for not letting me hide anymore."
I smiled, reaching for his hand. "Thank you for trusting me with your darkest truth."
He drew me close, forehead against mine. "I will never lie to you again."
I closed my eyes, letting his promise settle in my bones. "And I will meet you in truth, no matter how broken it feels."
We stood in the fading light as two people who had both carried burdens far too heavy—and who now found strength in laying them down together.
That night, the snow whispered against the canvas, and I wrote in my journal:
"Love demands honesty.
Even when secrets seem gifts of mercy,
their revelation is the true path to freedom."
And I knew that when dawn came, we would face whatever awaited us—together, unafraid, with nothing left hidden beneath the surface.