Saddiq was staring long and hard at his rather unexpected reality lying quite comfortably on his legs. He was trying hard to decipher what he felt and what he had expected to feel on such intrusion. Nothing was coming to mind despite the million questions and feelings he wanted unraveled. They seemed futile at that very moment. Later, he would ask why he was chosen and she would tell him there was nothing special about her reason. He wouldn't believe, at least not entirely, but he wouldn't question her reason. It was enough that she was by his side. It was enough that she chose him. However, tonight he was staring;

And wondering what was it about her which was making him lose sight of himself.

His conclusion was obvious. He couldn't be sane. What sane person would risk losing everything for a stranger merely a week old in their life? A stranger who might never hold onto him when push turns to shove. A stranger who could disappear this very instant and he wouldn't even know where to start looking. A stranger wrapped in an ocean of deception he could drown. Yet he was staring. . .and wondering,

And then he thought about cigarettes.

It's strange. He doesn't even smoke; maybe once or twice when he'd rebelled at sixteen—more for its famed aphrodisiac than it was for its toxic wrist, but not anymore. Perhaps it has something to do with the packs of cigarettes always within his reach—he might not like to smoke but he has always loved the smell of unlit cigarette; it helps him think best when he has one trapped within his lips. Or perhaps it was a memory.

The twins enjoyed smoking. Marijuana. It was the only vice they had all shared; Saddiq lived in utter fascination of technological strides, Sameer was more into books and movies focused on dying and death, and Sayeed was more into daredevilry and mischief. It was a rather unique experience.

They would meet once a month and for an hour; no more, no less, to smoke. The date and location was chosen randomly; Sunset on a beach,  sunrise on a road in the middle of nowhere, on a safari—each different, each exotic. And on such days, Sayeed smoked like a sailor curses; arrogantly, persistently, in careless abandonment while Sameer smoked romantically —slowly, gently, in rapturous infatuation. He would stand in the middle like an island with his hands wrapped around each their necks and an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips feeling like the luckiest person on earth.

They called it, 'sexy dalliance with death', this once a month ritual in indulgence.

He had never quite grasp the madness behind this obvious ruse. Why chase something which would eventually catch up with you? It was insanity. However, it hadn't mattered much those easy days when the sun would rise and set on his acres of scars yet leave him intact; on those endless night where he'd escaped unscathed on yarns of nightmares knitted by hands he loved. As Sayeed would laugh whenever he raises his doubt about the edges they dallied;

"Killing yourself despite knowing you're doomed is sexy, Saddiq. I mean how else would you really know life?"

Was he right? Saddiq never agreed. Life is life. Death is death. He doesn't think extreme sports is sexy nor does it makes any profound statement about life (or death). There is nothing to understand either. But he loves them and he indulged them as much as he can; watching movies he doesn't quite get when he'd rather play games with Sameer or provides moral support whenever Sayeed thinks of more sexier ways of living life. And yet now, he wonders if perhaps he could have done more even if deep down he know he'd done his very best.

Looking back, it was quite obvious the twins had a rather morbid obsession with the boundaries that marks life and death. It's a shame they hadn't lived long. He wonders if they might have, perhaps, gotten the answers they had desperately seek by now if they had. Would it have made them happier? Saddiq would never know. But they had been happy. He would know. He was there.

What was he like those years? He is thirty three but he doesn't quite remember any significant happening about his first twenty five years of life—before the accident, and even less in the eight years after. Nothing, it would seem, had really happened to him before Aisha even if he hadn't minded much in the former; he hadn't minded living life vicariously through his best friends, and for the former, he had been busy trying to live life as best as he could deciding it was what he owed the dead for surviving. However, whatever his life was or wasn't, he wasn't quite sure how sneaking into his home after midnight fits? Or his sleepwalking bride?

He hadn't seen her all day, a purely intentional happening, even though she'd been in his thoughts throughout the day and now it would seem it was all for naught. It might not seem like it seeing how he wasn't shaking her off him, but waking up cuddling a stranger wasn't exactly on his bucket list nor was, it would seem, liking said intrusion. But here he was again nonetheless.

It made him angry. Her indiscriminate cuddling. It made him angry that there might have been others she had cuddled whenever she sleepwalks and the more he thinks about it, the more sanity he loses and the angrier he becomes. Why else would he be thinking such nonsense? But he couldn't help himself. The more he draws the line between them, the blurrier the boundaries become. He hadn't been sure when he'd left home this morning but he was sure now. Aisha meant something to him. And it was a work in progress.

Perhaps he should have confronted her this morning instead of leaving like he'd done when she'd caught him staring at her sleep like a creep. It wasn't his fault. She had intruded his privacy. Yet he hadn't been able to face her. He had extricated himself as fast as he can, ran to the bathroom where he took his bath and performed ablution—it was the namaz for prayers that had shook him awake, and as soon as she disappeared into the bathroom, he'd quickly dressed and left the house. And now, it was happening again. He had crashed on the sofa but she'd found him anyway.

His head throbs reminding him of its soreness and he wonders briefly if Aisha would care about his gaping wounds; and how he'd gotten them. However, like everything with her, he was at a loss. He could never know what thoughts lives in that beautiful head of hers or even how much of it he could survive. But would he tell if she asked? And how much was he willing to share? He wasn't quite sure.

What was the possibility that a stranger could destabilize his life as easily as she'd managed? A week ago, it was in the negative. Saddiq might have never had any certainty about what he want in life but he'd always known what he doesn't want; he doesn't want to live life in the shadows of greatness, and to him, it was a rather good start. It means there was a destination even if the journey was uncertain. However, he is unsure.

"We wear many colors, Saddiq, and no matter how similar, no two color looks exactly the same. So don't let the light deceive you." Sayeed had once counselled on those days when a particular feeling had festered to the point of decay. He was always like that; he let feelings run amok stack with an insane certainty they could be curtailed until eventually, they fester and like unchecked wounds, they decay.

Would it be the same this time? Is everything happening to him a figment of his imagination? Or was it something he wanted to desperately matter? Aisha has to matter. The timing couldn't be more right. It has to be fate. Or it could be insanity. But what is the chance that he would meet his bride on the birthday of his dead best friends? It could be mere coincidence but for some reason, he refuses to see it that way? How can he when the first mail she had sent to him was on the day they died?

'Can we meet?' The mail had simply read. No Salam. No Hello. Just a direct message to meet. He had ignored it of course, trashing the message and blocking the sender after drawing the conclusion it was merely spam even though it was quite a mystery how the sender had managed to get his private mail address which only his family and closest relations knew of its existence.

He got the same message the next day. And the day after. And continuously for the next eight months and in alternation; sometimes in his mail and other times on his personal mobile number. It hadn't really bothered him until he realized something weird about their timing; there wasn't a particular order to when they were sent but they were sent in moments when he was enjoying his leisure time no matter how randomly the time had presented itself, almost as if he were being watched.

Paranoia? Perhaps. But when you use the best cyber security system in the world with impregnable firewalls but someone takes them down easily just to ask you to meet them you're allowed some degree of paranoia, right? Especially if you're tried hacking them and found it impossible to pinpoint their exact location as their IP address bounces across no less than a dozen countries across and continents. Saddiq prided himself on being an exceptional hacker but even he knew his stalker floored him.

He was still yet to know if Aisha is the hacker or she paid someone else? Or if marrying him was her endgame or the beginning of something unfathomable—like maybe revenge on his family which wasn't entirely bogus considering the pool of enemies his family boasted? But why marry him, the prodigal son, and for just for a year if revenge was the motivation? And if revenge isn't the motivation, what was? It couldn't be because of money since she'd made a fuss about not wanting a single penny from him which wasn't exactly surprising with the skills and resources she pulled. What about his growing feelings? Were they real? Do they matter, or rather, would they matter?

Saddiq stared, and thought, and stared until eventually, sleep finds its way into his eyes and laid rest his excited mind only to wake and find himself living his greatest nightmare;

Aisha had disappeared.

And he's left alone, again.