Reassigned by Fate

Aditya—no, Adhira—didn’t leave her hospital bed for days.

She refused to speak to the doctors. She ignored the nurses. She turned her face away whenever her mother tried to comfort her.

She wasn’t ready.

Wasn’t ready to face the world. Wasn’t ready to face herself.

Most of all, she wasn’t ready to face her father.

Her father hadn’t returned since the first day.

At first, she thought he was just busy. That he needed time, like she did.

But when her mother came one morning, red-eyed and exhausted, Adhira knew the truth before she even spoke.

"Papa isn’t coming, is he?"

Her mother flinched. "He just needs—"

"Time?" Adhira scoffed, staring at the ceiling. "Or an excuse?"

"Adhira—"

"Don't call me that," she snapped. "That’s not my name."

Her mother looked away, gripping the edge of her sari. "Beta, your father… he doesn’t know how to handle this."

Adhira laughed bitterly. "What’s there to handle? His son died, right? That’s what he thinks."

Her mother bit her lip. "Don’t say that."

"Why not? It’s true."

Silence.

The kind that weighed heavy in the air, pressing down on them.

Her mother sniffled, then reached into her bag. She pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper and placed it on the table beside the bed.

"What’s that?" Adhira asked, not really caring.

"A letter. From your father."

Adhira’s throat tightened. "I don’t want it."

Her mother sighed. "Please, just read it once."

She left it there and walked away.

Adhira stared at it for a long time before finally picking it up.

Aditya,

I don’t know how to say this. I don’t even know if you’ll read it.

But I need to tell you the truth.

When the doctors told us what happened, I wanted to scream. Not because I was angry at you, but because I was angry at the world. At fate. At God.

I don’t understand this, Aditya. I don’t know how to accept it. And that makes me a coward.

I wish I could sit beside you and pretend everything is fine. But I can’t. Not yet.

I need time.

I don’t know if I can ever see you the same way again. And I hate myself for that.

But I do know this: I still love you. I always will.

I just don’t know how to show it anymore.

Papa.

Adhira clenched the letter in her fists.

She wanted to hate him. Wanted to scream at him, call him selfish.

But deep down, a part of her understood.

She wasn’t ready to face this. How could she expect him to be?

She wiped her eyes roughly.

Her father had left. That was his choice.

But what about her?

What choice did she have?

The first time Adhira stepped outside her hospital room, she felt the weight of a thousand eyes on her.

Whispers. Stares. People pretending not to look, but still looking.

She walked past a nurse who had been friendly before. The woman hesitated, then looked away.

Adhira’s hands clenched into fists.

Once, people looked at her with admiration. Envy, even.

Now? They looked at her like she was something to be pitied.

Something unnatural.

She gritted her teeth and kept walking.

She wasn’t ready.

But she couldn’t hide forever.
The first time someone called her Adhira, she didn’t respond.

The name felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else. Not her. Not Aditya Menon, the boy who once raced through the streets of Kochi, laughing at the wind.

But Aditya Menon didn’t exist anymore.

At least, that’s what the world wanted her to believe.

Her mother was the first to use it.

"Beta, you need to start adjusting," she said one evening, sitting beside her hospital bed. "The doctors said it will help if you—"

"No," Adhira cut her off, staring out the window. The sun was setting, casting an orange glow over the city.

"It’s just a name," her mother said gently.

"No," she repeated, her voice sharper this time. "It’s not just a name. It’s… everything."

Her mother sighed, reaching for her hand. "You have to move forward."

Adhira pulled away. "I don’t even know who I am anymore."

A week later, she was discharged from the hospital.

The world outside felt different. Or maybe she was different.

Her father hadn’t come to pick her up. Her mother held her hand as they stepped into an auto, but the warmth didn’t reach her heart.

Kochi was still the same—busy streets, honking vehicles, the scent of freshly fried banana chips from a roadside stall.

But everything felt distant. As if she was watching her own life from behind a glass wall.

At a traffic signal, the auto driver glanced at her through the mirror. His gaze lingered a second too long.

She shifted uncomfortably.

She had never felt this kind of scrutiny before. As Aditya, she had been invisible in a way. Just another college boy, blending into the crowd.

But now?

People noticed.

And she hated it.

Her home didn’t feel like home anymore.

The moment she stepped inside, she felt the emptiness. The silence. Her father’s absence.

Her old room was the same—cricket posters on the walls, a shelf filled with books, the guitar he hadn’t touched in months.

Her mother hesitated at the doorway. "I can shift your things to the other room—"

"No."

She stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

She sat on the bed, staring at her reflection in the mirror across the room.

A part of her expected to see Aditya.

But Adhira stared back.

She hated the sight.

Days passed. The world outside kept moving, but she stayed still.

She didn’t leave her room. She barely ate. She didn’t answer her mother’s worried calls.

Then one evening, she heard a knock.

Her mother entered, holding a small wooden box. She sat beside Adhira, placing it between them.

"Your grandmother gave me this when I was born," she said softly. "It holds all the little things that made me… me."

Adhira didn’t respond.

Her mother opened the box. Inside, there were tiny bangles, a baby anklet, an old photograph. And a yellowed piece of paper.

She picked it up carefully. "It’s my naming ceremony card. My parents chose my name with so much love."

Adhira stared at the card, then looked away. "Why are you telling me this?"

Her mother turned to her, eyes gentle but firm. "Because I want you to choose for yourself."

Adhira blinked. "What?"

"You don’t like ‘Adhira’? Fine. But you need a name, beta. You need something that’s yours."

Silence filled the room.

Adhira swallowed, her fingers curling into her lap.

She wanted to scream that she already had a name. That she didn’t need another one.

But deep down, she knew.

Aditya was gone.

And if she didn’t claim something for herself, the world would keep choosing for her.

She looked at her mother, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Can I think about it?"

Her mother smiled through her tears. "Take all the time you need."

That night, for the first time in weeks, Adhira didn’t fight sleep.

She wasn’t ready to accept her new name. Not yet.

But maybe… just maybe… she was ready to find it.