💖 Sumedh Mudgalkar Fanfiction – Memory Loss Love Story | The Stranger from Seoul (Episode 3)

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 Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction inspired by Sumedh Mudgalkar’s public persona. All events and incidents are fictional and for entertainment purposes only.

Episode 3 — The Stranger from Seoul (Sumedh’s POV)

The smell of antiseptic had become my prison.
Every beep of the monitor was a chain.

So when the doctor finally said the words “You’re fit to be discharged”, my chest filled with a strange mix of relief… and fear.

Two years in a coma.
Five years erased.
And I was stepping back into a world I no longer recognized.

Punyakar drove me home. Mumbai looked the same, yet utterly different. Skyscrapers had grown taller, billboards flashed faces I didn’t know, and the music on the radio carried rhythms I couldn’t follow.

Inside my apartment, dust coated everything. My dance trophies, photographs, posters—each one a fragment of a man I barely remembered being.

I walked slowly to the mirror.
The man staring back was leaner, older. His eyes had shadows no stage light could erase.

“Sumedh?” Punyakar’s voice broke through my thoughts.

I nodded without turning. “I need answers. I need to know how I ended up in Korea. Why Ji-woo… why she mattered so much.”

He hesitated. “You’ll find out. But you have to be strong. Because not all answers are easy.”

That night, I dreamed again.

A dance studio with mirrored walls.
Ji-woo laughing as she stumbled through a Bollywood step.
Her fingers lacing with mine as she whispered, “Saranghaeyo.”
And then—
screeching tires, shattered glass, and her scream echoing in the dark.

I woke up, clutching my chest. My heartbeat thundered.

Was she hurt that night? Did I fail her?

The next morning, someone knocked at my door.

I opened it—and froze.

A young woman stood there. Not Ji-woo… but Korean, her features sharp and graceful. She held a suitcase in one hand and an envelope in the other.

“Are you… Sumedh Mudgalkar?” she asked in careful English.

I nodded slowly. “Yes.”

She exhaled in relief. “My name is Hae-rin. I came from Seoul. Ji-woo sent me.”

The floor seemed to vanish beneath my feet.

“She knows?” My voice trembled.

Hae-rin’s gaze softened. “Not yet. Ji-woo doesn’t know you’re awake. She… left India two months ago.”

“Then why are you here?”

She handed me the envelope. Inside was a folded letter, written in neat Korean script with a few English words scattered across the page.

At the bottom, I recognized the signature.

Ji-woo.

My eyes blurred as I tried to read. But one sentence leapt out, written in bold English:

“If he ever wakes up… tell him I never stopped loving him.”

I sank onto the couch, my hands shaking.

She still loved me. After all this time. After oceans and years and silence.

But before hope could settle, Hae-rin’s voice cut through like ice.

“There’s something else you need to know. The accident… it wasn’t just an accident.”

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