Zara's POV

With a meager crackling sound, the opening of the door tumults the placid solace of the surroundings. My eyes linger for some time in the faint darkness which has now got hue of dusk as well. I should go from here. Now or then, I have to do this; we have to get separated and I don't want to get out of his life with a broken heart.

But what should I do with this heart whose every beat speaks his name? I don't even realize when I just fall in love with him. When he becomes so special to me. During the journey of becoming his friend, I give him my heart. I don't know the answers to when, why, and how, but I just know this that I love Armaan so much. How his every word, every way, every touch put a deep impact on my heart. But why in the world I let him kiss me? There is something in his touch which renders me motionless and zips my mouth, causing me unable to move or react. I can't ignore the fact that I enjoy every touch to the kiss we share. Deep down, I have no regret that I let him take my first kiss.

I roam my eyes throughout the whole house. My eyes stop moving at the same door beside the one where I am standing. The same door which leads to that room where it all has started. I let a deep puff of air enter my lungs to calm myself down. I have made a decision and I have to do it.

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I peek at the beautiful sight In front of me through the taxi's glass window. The bungalow is still there; the house where I have spent my childhood and so many years of life.

Dad's house is there but he isn't!

I pay the taxi driver and make my way towards the narrow foyer in front of the locked gate of the house. It's already dawn and the cool and soft rays of sunlight are plunging everywhere, just getting ready to become replaced by sharp and hot dazzling sun rays. The swift, brisk breeze is hitting my body giving a rather soothing effect but that waft is not enough to cool the hot, shearing memories adventing inside of me.

It such a strange thing that Dad has left this house on my name when all the other belongings are named after someone else. I take out the keys from inside of my bag and swivel the right one in the lock. After a few attempts, the gate gets open with a jerk.

I slowly walk inside the porch; my eyes scanning the whole area. Everything is the same as before, just the one who has been using it isn't here. Tears start raiding my eyes when every sweet memory reproduce in my mind as bitter ones. My moving eyes get stuck at the purple colored car. Every car in his use has got named
after some anonymous except this one.

'Dad, why did you bring a new car when I have a car?'

'Because my daughter laid her hand on it and you really like this color, isn't it?'

I remember when I accompanied Dad, for the purpose of buying his new car, this one caught my attention and I just discussed my likeness of it with him and the next day, the car was laying before me.

'But you don't have to do this, Dad.'

'For me, my daughter's happiness is bigger than anything.'

I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand. With trembling hands, I push the glass door leading to the lounge. Everything which was in my use is still there. I wonder why Dad has done this. The house is still so clean giving a false idea that someone still lives here. I can smell Dad's usual fragrance which breaks my heart in pieces; asserting the fact that how much I miss him. I stop when his picture laying on a table just near his room, in a photo frame catches my sight. I quickly grab it.

I go inside his room. With just the first step, his voice reverberates in my ears; his smile gets fixed in my eyes and it becomes difficult for me to move further ahead. I clutch my lips under my teeth to prevent me from crying but a sob leaves my mouth and with that, I lose it. I hug his picture to my chest as tears start cascading down my face.

I miss you, Dad.

I shudder in panic when my phone starts vibrating inside my bag. I take it out and see the name, a sigh leaves my mouth. How can I just forget about it? I rub my eyes and face to stop the tears. After taking a long breath to get my voice back to normal, I attend the call.

'Zara, I think you just forgot that we had arranged a meeting.'

I bite my tongue in apprehension. Why I am becoming so clumsy these days?

'I am so sorry Mr. Wajahat. I have been really busy lately. I am coming to you in an hour.'

I disconnect the call quickly and am about to go when Dad's picture in my hand snags my attention. I kiss the picture and plop it back on the table. My brows knit when I discern a book on the same table. The book is squirted with the mud. I grab the book, out of curiosity and blow the dirt off it with my hand. The book is actually a diary; a dark green cover encasing it. It is worn out with many pages from inside torn and facing outward. I have never seen this diary before.

How come Dad has a diary? From what I remember, he has never used a diary. I open it and the first thing at which my eyes land is the unknown name; Bia. Who is this?

I flip through the pages and every sheet has neat and beautifully crafted paintings. How comes someone else's diary is present here. Perhaps she is someone Dad knows. When my heart corroborates what my mind is telling, I put the diary back on the table. I am already getting late for meeting Mr. Wajahat and today, I don't want to overlook Dad's case.

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"Have a look at this picture."

I glance at Mr. Wajahat first while taking the picture from his hand. With quivering heart, I peep at the picture. My eyes get narrowed in confusion seeing a woman in the picture; rather an unfamiliar woman. From her look in the photo, she seems like a middle-aged woman.

"Who is she?" I ask him.

"I knew it that you won't know her. She is Rabia-Rabia Nasir; a local retired school teacher in Islamabad. I have got to know from my sources that she is some relative of your father and he has married her five years prior to his death," he explains.

My eyes remain wide open in shock as my heart almost forgets to beat. Dad has married; five years ago; and he doesn't tell me.

"Wait a moment, he can't do this. He can't do this without telling me. Why he would hide it from me?" I mumble as fear starts set settling in my heart: fear of betrayal.

"That is what I was thinking as well. But this is the truth," he replies in an apologetic tone.

"How do you know about it? This can be false. Isn't it?" I stand up in a hurry, my eyes popping out due to struggling to put a halt to my tears.

"His nikkah with her is registered in the court. I have proof as well," he bends down to open the drawer in his table and take out a document, "look for yourself."

My last hope also dies down seeing the document having bold words verification of what Mr. Wajahat is saying. I pull my hair in despair. Dad thought I won't be happy with his happiness. He thinks of me this voracious and selfish. 

"And the case of your father is settled; he himself named his every property to his wife and unfortunately, we can't do anything for you now, " he declares in a serious and remorseful intonation.

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Zainab's POV

The anxiety and perturbation are evident from Armaan's face. This is the first time, I have seen him in the much tumult and unrest. And that's the reason, today I try to read him; scan his every expression, every movement. Thinking about our dates and conversations since he has got married; the only thing my mind is responding to that answer is, he has always been oblivious of my presence. Despite being seated with me, he always remains in a stupor of deep thoughts.

Today, as well, he is rubbing his forehead as his eyes are locked on his phone. His fingers are slamming hard on its screen and his forehead is creasing at the same time. His lips are pursed in a thin line as his attention is wholly on the phone. I wonder what tension he is going through now?

"I got to know about your wife. And I am amazed," I assert.

He abruptly looks up at me like he isn't expecting me to say this.

"So your cousin has informed you," he mumbles, but I can discern the coarseness in it.

"Why not? After all, he is my best friend," I reply with a fake smile.

"I didn't come here to beat around the bush, Armaan," I lean forward and settle my arms on the table, "we have been doing this for two years. I want you to not linger me on sweet hopes. Give my parents a date already."

Instead of saying anything, he smirks.

"He has taught you all this?"

At the same time, he again diverts his attention to his phone. I lift myself a little and peeps at his phone. Resentment flows through my whole body observing Zara's name glistening on the screen. So he has been calling her for the whole time.

"That doesn't matter. Do what I am saying to you," I yell.

I don't realize I will end up shouting at him. Perhaps beholding him getting worried for his wife makes me lose control over my anger.

"I will do whatever you will say but first you have to listen to me," he announces. His voice is steady and calm like he is least affected by my yelling.

"I don't want to listen to you. Whatever you have to say, say it in front of my parents," I stand up from the copper cased chair.

It's clear, this causes many people to look at us but at this time, I don't care about anyone. Why Shaiq's advice is echoing in my ears? And making it feel like something like he has said, is going to happen. Now I get why Shaiq has said about getting bad vibes from them; Armaan's care and unease for Zara are giving me the same anxiety.

"Calm down, Zainab. First, let me talk," he too gets up and says in a low voice.

Should I listen to him?
      

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Salam guys!

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