It's been almost five years since that night — the night I met him. Even now, it feels like a dream etched into my soul, a memory I will cherish for as long as I breathe. I was just nineteen then, a first-year medical student at AIIMS Delhi, full of hope and a little bit of innocence.
Now I'm twenty-four, standing at the edge of new beginnings — my MBBS is ending in just a month, and my days are filled with preparations for my M.D. and the search for my first real job. Yet, no matter how busy life gets, there are moments when I find myself sitting quietly in the corner of my hostel room, letting my mind wander back to that night.
It was the night that reminded me of an old prayer I had whispered to the God of Israel as a little girl — "Let me meet my future husband when I'm nineteen." Silly, perhaps… childish, even. But that night, it didn't feel silly at all. It felt like the very first scene of my own fairytale — like Cinderella's first dance with her prince under the glittering lights of the palace. Only my ballroom was a rain-soaked Delhi street, and my prince… well, he came with a story of his own.
FOUR YEARS AGO,
After dinner, I decided to take a slow walk near my hostel campus. The night wrapped around me like a velvet blanket — quiet, peaceful, the air cool with the scent of rain still lingering from earlier in the day.
And then, the peace shattered.
A desperate male voice tore through the stillness, pleading, "Please, don't kill me!" My steps froze. My heart slammed against my ribs as my eyes darted toward the sound.
Under the weak glow of a streetlight, I saw him — a man clutching a knife, his body tense, his voice low and threatening. His prey was a young man, roughly my age, who stood with his hands slightly raised. "I don't have anything," he was saying, his words laced with a heavy foreign accent that made it clear he wasn't Indian.
I don't know what came over me. My body moved before my mind could catch up. My hands reached into the bushes beside the path, closing around the rough surface of a wooden stick. With every ounce of strength, I swung it against the thief's back.
The man let out a cry and collapsed onto the wet ground. In that heartbeat of chaos, my gaze locked on the stranger's. His eyes widened in shock — but there was something else there, something that felt like recognition, as if fate had just pushed us into the same moment.
I reached for his hand, and he didn't hesitate. His fingers were warm, his skin smooth against mine, sending a strange, unspoken current up my arm. And then we ran — breathless, side by side — as if some invisible beast was chasing us, our joined hands the only anchor in the wild night.
We didn't stop running until the bright red glow of the Hospital Emergency sign came into view. The area was bustling with patients, relatives, and nurses rushing in and out. Only when we reached the edge of the crowd did we finally pause to catch our breath.
The stranger's shoulders were trembling, his eyes unfocused. He was scared — terrified — and though I didn't know him, my heart ached. Without thinking, I stepped closer and wrapped my arms around him. His body felt tense at first, then slowly eased against mine. I could feel his warm breath against my chest, quick and uneven, sending an unfamiliar shiver racing down my spine. For a moment, the world outside that embrace faded away.
When he finally calmed a little, I noticed blood trickling from his foot. Without a word, I led him inside. The smell of antiseptic wrapped around us as I found an empty seat and quickly gathered supplies. My hands worked automatically, cleaning and dressing the wound, while he sat in silence, his gaze fixed somewhere far away.
Still, I knew someone needed to be told. Spotting his phone in his jacket pocket, I gently asked for permission and called the most recent contact — his mother. My voice was steady as I explained what had happened, but inside I was still reeling from the night's chaos.
She arrived within minutes, worries etched into every line of her face. Her eyes softened with gratitude as she listened to my account. Quietly, she told me about his father's recent passing, and how she had brought him to India to help him heal… only for this night to leave another scar on his heart.
I felt a deep sadness for him, and silently prayed to the God to bring peace into his life — to heal him in ways medicine never could.
Before I knew it, his mother was leading him away, back toward their hotel, and soon after, back to his country. She thanked me again and again, but he didn't speak a single word. Perhaps he couldn't. Everything had happened so quickly that I never even learned his name… or where exactly he had come from.
In the end, it felt almost like Cinderella's story.
He left — just as she did — without telling the prince her name or where she came from. All I had were fragile, glittering memories of that night, as delicate and irreplaceable as Cinderella's glass slipper.
And yet… deep down, I held onto one hope — that my prince would find me again, just as he had found his Cinderella.