The morning sun filters through the sheer curtain, casting a soft golden streaks across the room. I blink against the light, turning onto my side, willing sleep to pull me back in. But it doesn't. It never does.

Because mornings are the worst.

They start the same way every day — waking up to an empty bed, an empty heart.

I pull the blanket over my head, trying to shut out the world, but the sound of birds chirping outside is relentless, as if mocking my desire to stay buried under the covers forever. With a heavy sigh, I throw the blanket off and sit up, rubbing my face.

Another day. Another battle with myself.

I stare at the closed door, knowing that the moment I step outside, I will have to pretend. Pretend I am okay. Pretend I am moving forward. Pretend I don't miss him.

Hamza.

His name is the first thought in my mind every morning, just as it is the last before I go to sleep.

I shake my head, pushing away the ache that comes with his memory. Not today, Ayat.

Dragging myself out of bed, I grab my shawl from the chair and wrap it around my shoulders before heading to the bathroom. The cold marble floor sends a shiver up my spine as I wash my face, watching water drip down my chin in the mirror. Dark circles stain my under-eyes, proof of yet another sleepless night.

By the time I step out of my room, the house is already filled with the usual morning chaos. The clinking of dishes, the murmur of voices, and the faint smell of cardamom tea wafting through the air.

I walk into the kitchen, where Ammi is standing by the stove, stirring a pot of chai. She looks up and gives me a glance—one that holds unspoken words, unreadable emotions. I know what she wants to say.

You can't keep going on like this, Ayat.

But she doesn't say it. She just gestures to the tray on the counter.

"Take this to your Abba Ji," she says instead.

I nod, picking up the tray, my fingers tightening around the handle as I step into the dining room. Abba Ji is seated at the head of the table, flipping through the newspaper, while Sara is already halfway through her breakfast, chattering away about some movie she watched last night.

"Good morning, Ayat," she greets, her voice overly cheerful, trying to compensate for my silence.

"Morning," I mumble, setting the tray down.

"You know, you should really come with us tonight," Sara starts, and I stiffen immediately, already dreading the conversation I know is coming.

"It's just a dinner party," I reply flatly. "Not exactly my idea of a great evening."

Sara rolls her eyes. "You say that about everything."

"Because it's true."

"But it's been over a year, Ayat—"

"Sara," Ammi warns, but it's too late. The words have already left her mouth, the reminder hanging between us like an open wound.

I push my chair back. "I'm not hungry."

"Ayat—

I don't wait for her to finish. I turn on my heels and leave, my heart pounding.

I hear Sara sigh behind me. "I swear, she's impossible."

I make it back to my room, closing the door behind me and leaning against it, breathing heavily.

I know they all mean well. I know they just want me to live again. But what they don't understand is that I am trying.

It's just that some days, breathing itself feels like a task.

And tonight... tonight will be one of those nights.

Because stepping into that dinner party means stepping into the world again.

And I'm not sure if I'm ready for that.

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"How long do you think you can keep yourself locked up in this room, Ayat? You should come out," Sara yells from the other side of the door, banging loudly.

"Go away, Sara. Stop forcing me," I reply, matching her high tone. I've never liked her speaking to me this way—she should understand that even Ammi disapproves of it.

"Fine, I'm calling Ammi. Maybe then you'll listen," she threatens.

Hastily, I get up from my bed and open the door. If Ammi comes here, she'll make sure I go with them by any means necessary—and I'll have to endure a long lecture as well.

As soon as I open the door, Sara stands there with a smug look. "I knew it."

"Sara, you should know I don't like going anywhere," I say, turning back inside.

She lets out a sigh, stepping past me. "Ayat, I know you don't like it. But do you think Bhai Jaan would have wanted this? Seeing you like this—closing yourself off, shutting out life, blaming yourself?"

Her words hit hard. The bitter truth pricks my heart, and a lone tear slides down my cheek. "I don't know anything, Sara. Without him, nothing feels right. It should have been me, not him," I whisper, the ugly truth spilling from my lips.

Before she can say anything, Ammi walks in. "It wasn't your fault, Ayat. Stop blaming yourself. And now, get ready—you're coming with us to the dinner party," she says in an authoritative tone, leaving no room for argument.

I nod, silently praying for Allah's strength to get through the evening. I know it won't be easy, not under the scrutinizing eyes of everyone.

"I'll send in some dresses. Get ready—we're leaving in an hour," Ammi orders before leaving with Sara.

Sighing, I decide to take a quick shower. As expected, Sara returns after fifteen minutes, knocking loudly. "Ammi said to get ready fast!" she yells.

I step out of the shower, towel-drying myself, and glance at the dress placed on the bed. It's a white, full-sleeved silk kurta and pants, paired with a delicate net dupatta, intricately adorned with resham, zari, beads, stones, and sequins. It's beautiful—more than necessary for a simple dinner with one of Abba Ji's friends.

After dressing up, I straighten my hair and slip into my white juttis. As I give myself one last look in the mirror, only one thought—one person—fills my mind. Hamza.

If he were here, he would have smiled and said, "You look so beautiful, my love, just like the moon." It was his favorite compliment, one he never failed to say whenever I wore white.

My heart aches at the thought. He should have been here, standing behind me, his warm brown eyes watching me with love.

If only I had been in the driver's seat that night, none of this would have happened. It should have been me.

"Wow, Ayat, you look beautiful!" Sara's voice pulls me out of my thoughts. She stands at the door, dressed in a dandelion yellow embroidered Anarkali, paired with white trousers and a beaded white dupatta. Her hair is curled softly, her makeup subtle but perfected with a bold red lipstick—looking effortlessly stunning, as always.

"You don't look bad yourself, Sara," I compliment her. She grins and gives me a dramatic bow.

"Come on, let's go. Everyone's waiting downstairs," she says, pulling me along.

As we descend, I notice Ammi and Abba Ji standing near the entrance. But my gaze freezes when I see the familiar faces beside them—Tayi Ammi and Taya Abbu.

I lean toward Sara, whispering, "What are they doing here? I thought they were in London."

"Oh! I might have forgotten to mention—Fahad Bhai is back. So, of course, Tayi Ammi and Taya Abbu came too," she says, sticking her tongue out playfully before giggling.

But my mind fixates on just one thing.

Fahad. He's back. After six years.

My heart skips a beat—just like it used to before he left.

The last time I saw him, he was a passionate 20-year-old, chasing adventure and purpose. The last I heard of him was when he got married.

"Oh... where are he and Kubra?" I ask, referring to his wife.

To say I wasn't heartbroken when I heard of his nikah would be a lie. But back then, I had no right to feel that way—I was already married to Hamza.

"Oh, you don't know?" Sara's tone softens. "She passed away ten months ago... cancer."

I stop in my tracks. A wave of heat rushes through me, my forehead suddenly damp with sweat. Guilt crashes over me—I didn't even call him. Not once.

"Hey, it's okay. He didn't talk to anyone for months. That's why Tayi Ammi and Taya Abbu brought him back," Sara says, sensing my discomfort.

I want to say something, but then—he walks in.

Fahad.

He looks powerful, just as he always wanted. His presence demands attention, his aura exuding the same intensity. He has always wanted people to fear him, to look him in the eye and dare to speak.

I don't know if I should be relieved or unnerved.

"Assalamu Alaikum," he greets everyone.

Then, he strides over to where Sara and I stand. "Assalamu Alaikum, Sara," he says in his deep, husky voice.

Then, his eyes land on me.

He takes in my appearance, as if trying to piece together a forgotten image in his mind.

"Ayat?"

The way my name rolls off his tongue sends a shiver down my spine.

This is wrong. I shouldn't be thinking such thoughts.

I nod cautiously, feeling like prey under his piercing gaze. "Assalamu Alaikum," I mumble.

Before he can respond, Abba Ji interrupts. "Come on, let's leave. We're already late—I don't want Abrar to complain."

With that, we all move toward the cars.

Ammi, Abba Ji, Tayi Ammi, and Taya Abbu take one car. Sara, Fahad, and I share another.

The entire ride, Sara chatters away, making him laugh. But I feel his gaze through the rearview mirror—watching me. I try to focus outside, but his presence is overwhelming. Eventually, I close my eyes, letting the soft breeze calm me.

The moment we arrive, I step out first.

Inside, the dinner feels more like a party—no wonder Ammi wanted me to dress up. I stay in a corner, avoiding attention. Our society loves a scandal, and I refuse to be one.

The air inside the banquet hall feels heavy, suffocating even, as if the walls themselves are closing in on me. I clutch the edge of my dupatta tightly, standing near the farthest pillar, pretending to be fascinated by the intricate gold patterns on the carpet.

But my mind is elsewhere. On him.

Fahad.

I can still feel his gaze from across the room, a silent weight pressing against me, demanding my attention even when I refuse to look his way.

Why does he keep watching me like this?

Six years. That's how long it's been since he walked out of my life without looking back. And yet, here he is, acting as if nothing has changed, as if the past years haven't built an unspoken wall between us.

I exhale slowly, willing my nerves to settle. You have no right to feel this way, Ayat.

He had a life. You had a life. You were married.

But as much as I tell myself this, it doesn't change the way my heart pounds when I finally gather the courage to glance in his direction.

He's standing near Abba Ji, nodding at something Uncle Abrar is saying, but his attention isn't really on the conversation. It's on me.

And when our eyes meet, something in his gaze shifts. A flicker of recognition, nostalgia—pain?

I immediately look away.

No. I cannot do this.

I need air.

I slip away from the crowd, my steps quick and measured as I push open the glass doors leading to the garden. The cool night air greets me, and I breathe it in deeply, wrapping my arms around myself. The silence out here is a relief, far from the murmurs and music inside.

Stars hide behind thick clouds, leaving only the moon to cast its pale light over the garden. I let my eyes trace its glow, its loneliness strangely comforting.

Maybe that's what I am now. A sky without stars.

I close my eyes, tilting my face up toward the night, hoping—praying—for just a moment of peace.

But the universe isn't that kind.

"Still running away from me, Ayat?"

My body stiffens.

I don't turn around, but I don't need to. I know that voice too well. It's deeper than I remember, edged with something unreadable, but still undeniably his.

Fahad.

I exhale sharply. "It's not about you."

"Isn't it?" He steps closer, his presence unsettlingly warm behind me. "Then why did you leave the moment I walked in?"

I open my eyes, forcing myself to stay composed. "I needed air."

"Or an escape?"

My patience thins. "Why are you doing this?" I ask, finally turning to face him.

He looks down at me, hands in his pockets, an expression I can't quite decipher. "Doing what?"

"Acting like we're still the same people we were before you left."

His jaw tightens. "Are we really that different, Ayat?"

I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head. "Everything has changed, Fahad. You left. You built a life elsewhere. I—" My voice falters. "I was married. I lost Hamza."

His expression darkens. "I know."

"Do you?" My voice is bitter, my chest tightening. "Because if you did, you wouldn't be here asking me why I'm avoiding you. You wouldn't be looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you still—" I stop myself, biting my tongue.

No. I won't say it.

I won't give a name to something that should have died long ago.

Fahad watches me, his eyes searching mine, but I refuse to let him see the truth buried in them.

"You should go back inside," I say instead, stepping away from him. "People will start wondering where you are."

He exhales, looking like he wants to say something. But then, he just nods. "You should come back too."

I say nothing.

I wait until he disappears back inside before finally allowing myself to breathe again.

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So, here is the first chapter.

I hope you guys enjoyed reading it.

There won't be many changes in the storyline just something here and there to make it more refined.

Do share your thoughts.
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