Before It Gets Cold
Photo: Connor Kelly
Flash Fiction: ‘We don’t talk about the silence between us: the missed birthdays, the calls that went to voicemail, the distance that grew while neither of us looked directly at it.’
“Don’t tell me you’re watching that Indiana Jones stuff again!”
It’s 2 AM. Raghav’s voice crackles through the phone—distant, familiar—like he’s still in the next room, here with me in Seattle, instead of 8,000 miles away in Hyderabad. The TV is paused on Harrison Ford mid–whip crack, the blue light turning my studio apartment into something small and underwater. My dinner plate sits on the coffee table, dal solidifying into orange wax.
“Leave me alone,” I say, smiling despite myself. “What do you want?”
“Can’t call my favourite idiot?”
“You calculated the time difference, didn’t you? So, no.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just the sound of traffic, a horn, his faint breathing. I picture him leaning against his car, hair falling over his forehead like always. Then, quietly:
“The interview went badly.”
*
Back in medical school, Friday nights meant IMAX. He would tear apart every film I liked; I’d snore halfway through his favourite ones. We argued through the interval, loud enough that people changed rows.
“Lazy writing,” he’d say.
“It’s a superhero movie, not your thesis,” I’d shoot back.
Once, during Game of Thrones, I whispered that my side hurt. Raghav pressed two fingers into McBurney’s point, the laptop’s light flickering across his face, illuminating him in half concern, half command.
“We’re leaving. Now.”
Six hours later, I was post-appendectomy, high on anaesthesia. He never mentioned it again, but for weeks afterward, he’d poke my side in the corridor and smile like a monkey.
When his dad had the stroke during finals, I took his rounds, forged his attendance, and argued with the unit chief. He never said thank you. I never needed him to. But one night, he showed up at midnight with biryani, set it down on my hostel floor without a word.
He only said just one thing before leaving: “Eat before it gets cold.”
*
“Cardiology fellowship,” Raghav says now. “They asked why I wanted it, and I just... blanked. Everything I’d prepared sounded fake.”
“What did you end up saying?”
“Something about innovation and patient outcomes. They looked bored.”
I can almost see him rubbing his forehead, that nervous tic from exams. I say the easy thing first: “Well, you care about it. That counts for something.”
“No.” His voice breaks a little. “That’s the problem. What if I don’t? What if I just picked it because it sounded impressive? Or because of Dad?”
“Okay, stop,” I say softly. A siren passes on his end; I wait for it to fade.
“What did you feel,” I ask, “when your mom called about your dad that morning?”
Long pause. “Like the ground disappeared.”
“And when he came home from the hospital?”
“Like...” He exhales. “Like someone put the ground back. Not the same ground. But something solid again.”
“That’s why,” I say.
“That’s why what?”
“That’s why you want cardiology. Because you know what it means when someone gives the ground back.”
He doesn’t speak. I think I’ve said too much.
And then, “They’ll ask me to explain that,” he says.
“Then explain it. Or don’t. Just stop trying to sound like you belong there and start talking like you already do.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know. Write it down anyway.”
He laughs—short, sharp, real. “Okay. Okay.”
*
We keep talking. About his sister’s wedding, the caterer crisis, my attendant who mispronounces every drug. About the patient who proposed to his nurse while actively having a heart attack.
We don’t talk about the silence between us: the missed birthdays, the calls that went to voicemail, the distance that grew while neither of us looked directly at it.
When we finally hang up, the movie is still frozen. Harrison Ford mid-leap, adventure unfinished. I switch off the TV. The apartment goes dark except for my phone’s glow.
A message pings. A link to a cardiology article from Raghav. No caption.
I send back a biryani emoji.
For a moment, the room feels less empty. My reflection stares back at me from the black TV screen. The dal on my plate has gone cold. I microwave it. Some things are worth warming twice.
***
Nagireddy R. Sreenath is a physician and writer from Phoenix, United States. A versatile storyteller, he explores everyday moments with warmth, wit, and emotional depth. You can find him on X: @IMSREENATHVS.
