Episode 4: The Name Of The Storm

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and quiet patience. Soumya sat beside Kriti in the waiting area, her fingers twisting the strap of her bag again and again. Around them, people spoke in hushed voices, as if the walls themselves were listening.

Soumya avoided looking at the sign on the door.

Psychiatry Department.

“This doesn’t mean anything bad,” Kriti said softly, sensing her discomfort. “It’s just a conversation.”

Soumya did not respond. Her chest felt tight, as if agreeing to be here meant admitting something she wasn’t ready to accept.

When the doctor finally called her name, Soumya hesitated before standing up. Kriti gave her an encouraging nod and followed her into the room.

The doctor was calm, middle-aged, with eyes that did not rush. He asked simple questions at first—about work, sleep, stress. Soumya answered carefully, choosing her words like fragile glass.

Then came the harder questions.

“Do you ever feel like someone is watching you?” he asked gently.

Soumya’s throat went dry. She glanced at Kriti, then back at the doctor. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But it feels real.”

The doctor nodded, making notes. “Do you hear sounds that others don’t?”

Soumya hesitated longer this time. “Yes.”

Kriti’s grip tightened on her hand.

The doctor leaned back slightly. “Soumya,” he said, “what you’re experiencing has a name. It doesn’t define you—but understanding it can help you manage it.”

The word followed soon after.

Schizophrenia.

It hung in the air, heavy and unfamiliar.

As the words settled, Soumya’s mind drifted to a time she rarely allowed herself to remember. She had been very young when her parents died in an accident. One day, they were there—voices filling the house, hands guiding her through homework—and the next, they were gone.

After that, life changed quietly but cruelly. She and Kriti were sent to live with relatives who treated them like burdens. Kind words were rare. Mistakes were remembered. She had learned early to stay silent, to disappear into corners, to pretend she did not need comfort. Whenever she tried to speak about fear or sadness, she was dismissed—told to stop imagining things, told to be grateful for what little they gave.

Over the years, those unspoken emotions piled up. The loneliness hardened into confusion. Fear learned to take new forms. Her mind had been protecting her in its own broken way, creating another world when the real one felt unsafe.

Kriti had survived by becoming strong. Soumya had survived by retreating inward. Somewhere between loss, neglect, and silence, the cracks had begun to form.

The doctor spoke again, but Soumya barely heard him. She was thinking about the small apartment, the nights when someone had seemed to watch her, the strange sounds no one else could hear. She realised that naming it—giving it words—was both terrifying and a relief.

“I’m not broken,” she said suddenly, her voice sharper than she intended.

“No,” the doctor replied calmly. “You’re not. But your mind is under strain. And like any illness, it deserves care.”

He spoke about therapy, medication, routines, about learning to question thoughts without fighting them, about support.

Soumya listened, but part of her resisted every word.

On the way home, the silence between the sisters was thick.

“So now I’m a patient,” Soumya said bitterly.

Kriti stopped walking. “No. You’re still my sister.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Soumya replied. “You’re not the one being told your reality is wrong.”

Kriti took a breath. “I’m not saying your experiences aren’t real to you. I’m saying you shouldn’t have to face them alone.”

Soumya turned away.

That evening, Kriti reminded her about the therapy appointment scheduled for the next week. The reminder sparked another argument.

“You’re monitoring me now?” Soumya snapped.

“I’m supporting you,” Kriti said, struggling to stay calm.

“It doesn’t feel like support,” Soumya replied. “It feels like control.”

The words hurt them both.

Later, alone in her room, Soumya sat by the window, staring at her reflection in the glass. The city lights shimmered behind her. For a moment, she thought she saw a figure standing just beyond the reflection.

Her heart raced.

Then she remembered the doctor’s words.

Question the thought.

She blinked, took a slow breath, and looked again.

There was nothing.

The relief was brief—but real.

As she lay down, Soumya realised that accepting help did not mean losing herself. But learning to trust others—and her own mind—might be the hardest battle yet.

Another World was still there.

But now, she knew it had a name.

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