The crash made headlines.
"Promising young racer Vashti Dhiman critically injured during final lap."
"National-level karting champion in coma after high-speed collision."
The news reached everywhere.
Including him.
Shabd was in the middle of surgery observation—calm, focused, everything he had worked for—when his phone buzzed with a single message from an old school friend.
"Did you hear about Vashti?"
He blinked. "Who?"
And then the photo loaded.
Her.
The girl from school. The junior who argued with him over brain anatomy.
The loud one. The one who sent him a rose.
The one who once told him she'd race in F1.
The girl he forgot. Again and again.
Until now.
He read the article. Saw the footage of the crash.
Watched the flames. The wreckage.
And then something inside him cracked.
"Wait…" he whispered.
"She still races?"
The weight of that hit him like a thunderclap.
She hadn't just been a phase. A silly crush. A memory tucked away.
She'd become what she said she would.
And she almost died doing it.
His hands trembled as he dialed her name on social media. The last message from her was from years ago. Unread.
He tapped it open.
It was a meme about engine valves and the human brain.
He stared at it for a long time. Then whispered:
"Vashti... I'm sorry."
Then came the second message—from a mutual friend.
"It was a lie. The text she got about you dying... it was a prank. One of her jealous teammates."
Shabd went numb.
The crash… wasn't just a crash.
It happened because she thought he had died.
Because she loved him that much.
And he had never even said her name properly.
---