My body is heavy, my mind fogged with thoughts of last night. Seeing Ayat again after all these years has stirred something inside me— something I thought I had buried a long time ago. But she is different now, closed off, guarded. It's as if she's built an impenetrable fortress around her heart.

I push myself up and run a hand through my hair. A dull ache lingers in my chest, the kind that comes with unfinished conversations and unspoken truths. I don't know if it's guilt, regret, or something else entirely.

Some might question what kind of man I am—my wife passed away only ten months ago, and yet here I am thinking about another woman. But Ayat isn't just anyone. She has always been the keeper of my heart. When I left six years ago, it wasn't entirely by choice. My Abbu wasn't ready for me to stay and marry her—she was too young, and he feared I would ruin her life with my reckless ways.

But one thing is clear—I can't ignore her, and I won't let her ignore me.

After freshening up, I step out of my room and find the house unusually quiet. I pass by Sara's room, knocking lightly before peeking in. She's still asleep, curled up under a thick blanket.

Downstairs, the scent of fresh parathas and chai fills the air. The house staff moves around quietly, setting the table. Phupo is already seated, sipping her tea, while Ammi is giving instructions to the cook. Abbu is nowhere to be seen—probably out for his morning walk.

I clear my throat. "Where's Ayat?"

Ayat and I were inseparable. She shared everything with me—her thoughts, her dreams, her aspirations. She is my Phupo's daughter, raised by a single mother who never hesitated to fight for what was hers. When Ayat's father died, his family blamed Phupo and cast them out. But we all knew the truth—he had drowned in his own addiction. When Ayat came to live with us, I was the happiest of all. After all, my best friend was now under the same roof as me.

As kids, I didn't understand love, but as we grew, the feelings became undeniable. I knew Ayat felt the same. But as I matured, so did my responsibilities. My father expected me to take over the family business, but my dreams were different. I wanted to explore the world—with Ayat by my side. When I told my parents, they refused. I was naive, thinking I could leave and return on my own terms. Ayat begged me to stay, but I didn't listen. I left.

I lived my life abroad, free and unburdened—or so I thought. Then, I heard Ayat was engaged to Hamza. Jealousy and anger consumed me, though deep down, I knew it was my fault. I distracted myself, and when I met Kubra, I thought it was just a game. But soon, under my parents' pressure, I married her. I never even reached out to Ayat. Looking back, I regret it—I should have asked her to wait for me. Instead, I made a mistake.

Returning to Islamabad is like stepping into a memory. Every corner holds traces of Ayat, and though she smiles, I know she has changed. She even said it herself—we are different now. Maybe time and society shaped her into someone I no longer recognize.

Phupo's gaze flickers to me before she looks down at her cup. "She's still sleeping in."

Sleeping? I frown. Ayat used to be someone who wakes up early in the morning.

I take a seat, my mind still caught on the image of her last night.

"She's not the same girl you left behind, Fahad," Phupo says suddenly, her voice clipped, as if she's warning me. "And she doesn't need any more complications in her life."

I meet her gaze. "And you think I'm a complication?"

Phupo doesn't reply, but her silence is answer enough.

When I heard about Hamza's accident, I couldn't bring myself to call her. My mother told me Ayat was in the car with him that night. Knowing her, she must blame herself. Sara told me she barely leaves her room, locking herself away for the past year. I shouldn't be surprised. I did the same when Kubra died. The only difference is, my marriage wasn't built on love, and even in her last days, I couldn't bring myself to care the way a husband should. That guilt will stay with me forever.

The rest of the breakfast was in silence, until we were joined by Sara.

"Good morning, everyone." She greets.

"What happened?" Sara whispers, sitting beside me.
"Nothing. Why?" I said taking a bite of paratha.
"You all look as if something happened." She says, looking at Phupo then at Ammi.

"Sara, eat your food. You have to go to college." Chachu comes in, settling across me.

And just like that we all fell back into silence.

Later, I step outside, lighting a cigarette. The smoke calms me, a habit I picked up after Kubra's death. I know it's wrong, but it's the only thing that brings me peace. 

"You know it's injurious to health. They even mention it on the box," Ayat's voice cuts through the night. 

I turn, and there she is—wrapped in a black shawl, her braid falling over her shoulder, some loose strands framing her face. The sound of her bangles fills the silence as she adjusts her shawl.

"I thought you were sleeping." I said, stubbing the butt of cigarette.
"I was trying to." She said, looking everywhere but me.

"I'm sorry about Kubra," she says. "If I had known earlier, I would have called."

I look at her, amused. "It wasn't your fault she was taken from me. Just like it wasn't your fault that Hamza is gone."

Her expression shifts—hurt flashes in her eyes. "You don't know what happened, Fahad, so please don't say anything about it." With that, she storms off.

I don't understand her anymore. She has built walls so high that even I can't reach her. We were once so open, so unafraid of words. Now, every conversation is a battle. Maybe she was right—we are no longer the same.

"Hum dono ab bohot mukhtalif insaan ban chuke hain."

(We have become very different people.)

I don't want to believe it. Deep down, I know there's still something between us. We both carry grief, blame ourselves for the past, and are struggling to move forward. Maybe that's what still connects us.

I go inside, and the house felt unusually quiet. Ammi, Phupo and Chachi are in the living room, deep in conversation, but they stop when they see me.

The tension in the air is thick, like I've walked into something I wasn't supposed to hear.

Phupo sighs, looking frustrated, while Ammi just shakes her head.

"What's going on?" I ask, taking a seat.

"It's nothing," Ammi says dismissively.

Phupo, however, doesn't hold back. "It's about Ayat."

At her name, my spine straightens. "What about her?"

Phupo exhales sharply. "She needs to do something with her life, Fahad. She just... exists. She barely leaves her room unless I force her to. I keep telling her to work, to at least find something productive, but she refuses. She spends all her time painting, locked away in that room, as if that's enough to survive on."

I frown. "She likes painting."

"Painting isn't going to help her move forward," Phupo snaps. "She needs to face reality. It's been a year since Hamza—" She stops herself, as if realizing she's said too much.

I grip the edge of the table. "She's still grieving."

"We all grieve, Fahad," she says, softer this time. "But we don't stop living."

I don't know how to respond to that.

Before I can say anything, Ayat appears in the doorway, her expression blank but her hands curled into fists at her sides. She must have heard everything.

"Ayat—" Phupo starts, but Ayat cuts her off.

"I'm tired of this conversation, Amma," she says, her voice eerily calm. "I don't need a job. I don't need to 'find something productive.' I am fine the way I am."

Phupo's eyes flash with frustration. "You are not fine."

Ayat laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Because I don't want what you want for me?"

"This is not about me," Phupo argues. "This is about you not wasting your life."

Ayat presses her lips together and turns to leave, but I find myself standing up before I even realize it.

"Ayat," I call out. She stops, her shoulders stiff.

I take a step closer. "What do you want?"

She turns to look at me, her expression unreadable. "Does it matter?"

"It does," I say firmly. "Because right now, all I see is someone trying to disappear."

Her jaw tightens. "Maybe that's what I want."

The words hit me harder than I expect.

She walks away without another word, leaving the silence behind.

I glance at Phupo, who looks tired, and Ammi, who looks worried.

I don't know if I have the right to interfere in Ayat's life anymore.

But something tells me I will.

Later that evening, I find myself outside Ayat's room, hesitating. The conversation from earlier still lingers in my mind, her words cutting deeper than I expected. Maybe that's what I want.

I knock. No answer. 

I knock again. Still nothing. 

Sighing, I push the door open without waiting for permission. 

She's sitting by the window, her back to me, lost in thought. The soft glow of the setting sun filters through the curtains, casting an orange hue around her. She doesn't turn around, but I know she's aware of my presence. 

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to enter without permission?" she finally says, her voice flat. 

"Didn't anyone ever tell you ignoring people is rude too?" I counter, closing the door behind me. 

She exhales heavily but doesn't say anything. 

I step closer, noticing the half-finished canvas in front of her. Swirls of color, chaotic yet beautiful, cover the surface. There's something haunting about it—like a storm trapped on the canvas, waiting to be unleashed. 

"You're good," I say, meaning it. 

She scoffs. "It's nothing." 

"It's not nothing," I argue. "Why do you talk about it like it doesn't matter?" 

She finally turns to face me, her dark eyes unreadable. "Because it doesn't." 

"It does," I insist. "You just don't want to admit it." 

She studies me for a moment before shaking her head. "Why are you even here, Fahad?" 

"I don't know," I answer honestly. "Maybe because I don't like seeing you like this." 

Her lips press into a thin line. "I'm fine." 

"Are you?" I challenge. 

She glares at me, and for a second, I think she's going to snap. But then, her expression crumbles for just a fraction of a second, like a crack in an otherwise unbreakable wall. It's gone before I can fully register it, but I saw it. 

"You wouldn't understand," she mutters, looking away. 

"Try me." 

Silence. Then, she stands up abruptly, crossing her arms. "You think just because you're back, you can fix things? That you can waltz into my life and pretend to care?" 

Her words sting more than I care to admit. 

I take a deep breath, keeping my voice calm. "I never said I could fix anything. But I do care." 

She laughs, bitter and hollow. "You care now? Where was this care when you left six years ago? When you married Kubra? When you never even thought to call?" 

I don't have an answer for that. 

"I made mistakes," I admit. "But that doesn't mean I don't care." 

She looks at me for a long moment, as if searching for something. Then, without a word, she turns back to her canvas, picking up her paintbrush. 

I take the hint and step back. But before I leave, I say one last thing. 

"You can keep pretending you don't care, Ayat. But you do. Just like I do." 

I walk out, closing the door behind me, leaving her with her thoughts. 

And for the first time, I think I might have gotten through to her.

As I was walking towards my room, "Be careful around her, Fahad," my father's voice interrupts my thoughts.

"What do you mean?" I ask, arching a brow.

"She's been through a lot. Don't make it worse for her."

"You think I'd hurt her?" I scoff. "You know the truth, Abbu."

He sighs. "That's exactly why I'm telling you—let her be. Don't hurt her with the truth."

"The truth might hurt, but it changes things. And it needs to be told," I say before walking away.

I know telling someone you love them and not hearing it back is painful. But that doesn't mean they shouldn't know. Maybe Ayat will reject me, maybe she won't. But when the time is right, she will know how I feel.

As I lay in bed, the silence of the room presses in on me. Even though Kubra was never in this house, I had grown used to her presence. The space beside me feels too empty.

Not all my memories with her were bad. I remember one night, after a movie, she insisted we go ice skating. Neither of us knew how, but we tried anyway, slipping and laughing as people around us watched in amusement. It was one of the few nights she was truly happy. Maybe the last. 

After that, things changed. We barely spoke, barely saw each other. I drowned myself in work, staying late at the office. When she was diagnosed, I avoided facing her. Somehow, it felt like she was suffering because of me. I was a coward. 

Maybe coming back to Islamabad will change things. Maybe Ayat will be that change. This time, I won't let her go. I won't let her push me away. 

Maybe this is all happening for a reason. 

Maybe Allah has a plan. 

Maybe. 

And with that thought, I finally fall asleep.

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