His eyes swept across the garden, as he saw children running around, playing with the football. Their laughter and shouts were a different kind of music, distinct from the one the walls of this academy were used to. In about fifteen minutes, they'd go back to their instruments, working on their techniques and vocal range. This respite was needed. Even music can become overbearing if you don't stop for a breather.

"Wasif? Are you listening to me?"

The voice of Shahid Dar, the head of his son's music label and his close friend, reached him loud and clear. Wasif Hassan nodded, rolling his amethyst ring around his finger.

"All I'm saying is, it's not the end of the world. Career ups and downs are a part and parcel of this life. Zarrar needs to accept this reality."

Wasif Hassan gave the man a light smile. "He's aware, Shahid."

He was not. But Wasif wouldn't tell this to the person his son's music career depended on.

"I hope that you're right. The latest incidents will not vouch for it, though." Dar's tone wasn't scathing. He was just putting a fact out there. Zarrar had given his label several commercial hits. A flop album wouldn't sway the man's favor. Shahid wasn't Wasif's biggest worry anyway. That would always be Zarrar and his stubbornness.

"I will talk to Zarrar but I want to make this clear that he won't ever do anything to sabotage your company, Shahid. He's not that stupid. It's a phase, you know, when you've gotten used to success, setbacks like this one hurt."

"Trust me. I know. We're in this together. But Zarrar is overreacting. The album did moderate business. Yes, we were expecting a lot more but I won't say this was entirely a flop."

Shahid Dar's optimistic approach toward his business was probably his biggest asset and nastiest vice as well. But Wasif sighed internally. This was a relief. At least, Shahid was not thinking along extreme lines.

He took his leave after a while. The customary silence of Wasif's office was once again unbroken, his thoughts running around his son.

Shahid Dar hadn't been wrong. In this career, highs and lows go side by side. But Zarrar had never gotten the hang of this aspect. He was an instant hit the moment he graced the Pakistani music scene. His popularity skyrocketed with every new release. For a long time, there were just hits in his career, and the thought that things could turn and not for the better, never even crossed Zarrar's mind.

For a while now, Zarrar's music wasn't as impactful as it had been in the beginning. It wasn't a cause for worry, nothing too drastic. Wasif was himself a seasoned artist and even though his son hated to hear his unsolicited criticism, Wasif had never held it back.

Zarrar's new songs lacked the kind of depth that was expected after his debut album. But they were still doing business, and pulling numbers. The industry had suited Zarrar and he was among the country's elite tier of musicians and vocalists, something Zarrar was proud of, to the point of smug arrogance. He always wanted to be at the top and he figured the way up there was in producing content then and there. Quantity over quality because he had made a niche for himself and was at the point in his career where people would listen to whatever he released, just because it had the Zarrar Hassan tag on it.

Turned out, that the recipe would no longer produce the wanted results. His latest album tanking on the charts was the blow Zarrar had never seen coming. And he was finding it hard to come to terms with it. His fights with his staff, frequent outbursts, and mindless partying were the most worrisome aspects for Wasif.

Zarrar's career was not going to the dogs. Wasif was sure of it. He had painstakingly worked hard to bring Zarrar where he was today. It was just a setback and before they knew it, the next hit would take its place, making them forget that it even happened.

But making Zarrar understand this was the difficult part. He had always been impulsive and inflexible. It was his first taste of something less than his own set standards and that would take a while for him to make his peace with.

He'd have to. Wasif would make sure of that. Otherwise, his less-than-pleasant personality would become an inside joke in the industry and once it got out of the music circles before they'd know it, Zarrar would lose the unflinching support of so many of his loyal fans because they'd draw a line at their favorite artist being violent and a manchild. Cancel culture wasn't lethal but he wouldn't take any risks.

Because if people started digging deeper into Zarrar's past...

No.

Wasif would never let that happen. Zarrar would have to straighten his act. They hadn't worked so hard just for him to jeopardize it all the moment he tasted his first flop.

No one would know. Zarrar would always stay unapologetic yet the wholesome vocalist his fans regarded him as. Wasif would make sure of it.

𝄞

Placing his water bottle on the table, Mahad opened his wardrobe to get his clothes out. He had just gotten back from his morning run. By his schedule, he had just enough time to shower and have his breakfast before his first meeting of the day rolled in.

He was immersed in the task at hand when his phone vibrated on the bedside. He glanced in its direction and once his clothes were sorted, picked it up to check the notification.

The text message on the top was enough to make him quirk an eyebrow. It was just one word and he raked his brain to understand what it meant but came up with nothing. Better ask the sender what the hell was it about.

In Wadia House, Haleh had just finished ironing her clothes for work when her phone rang with an incoming call. She checked the name flashing on the screen and made a face. But at last, she picked it up. She had to.

"What?" That was her greeting. Any other person would be taken off guard by her less-than-warm approach but Mahad would be more worried had she been welcoming and mindful of etiquette.

"Your text. What language is this? Or it's a keyboard smash?"

Haleh opened her clip to let her hair loose. "Are you for real? Just Google it."

"Why should I? You texted me so you owe me an explanation."

"My mistake. I will keep in my mind to not text you again."

Mahad didn't grace it with a reply. But he didn't cut the call as well. Just waited for her to say something.

She did, at last.

"It's a gel...for your foot injury."

A devilish smirk appeared on Mahad's face. "Correction: The injury you caused."

Haleh's eyes blazed. "You broke into my house. What did you expect? A warm welcome with garlands and rose petals?"

"Anything which didn't involve physical harm. I couldn't walk properly for two whole days, all thanks to you."

She bit her lip, running a hand through her long tresses. "Is...it better now?"

"Is that concern I hear in your voice?" He asked, excited as a child at the prospect of candy.

"No. I just don't want any charges against me for violent misconduct. That shit stays with you for your whole life. That's all."

"Hmm...I see. In that case, my foot needs surgery, I'm going to contact the higher authorities and my lawyer, and you should expect the police at your doorstep anytime now."

Despite her tries, her face broke out in a smile which turned into a light laugh. Mahad heard it. He had accomplished a huge task. The first win of his day.

"Will an apology help me evade the lawsuit?" She asked hopefully.

Mahad took a dramatic pause.

"Okay. Let's hear it."

Haleh got right to it, lest she'd get distracted and lose the plot altogether. She was better than that.

"I'm so sorry about your toe, Mahad. I have no excuses. I take full responsibility for my actions. I do regret it but I can't do anything to undo it. So, if you want to go ahead with the legal process, I won't stop you. But please don't make it an expensive one. I'm a regular 9-5er. And I don't think I'll do well in jail. But it's your call to make."

Mahad bit the inside of his cheek to stop the laugh that threatened to get out. Her being so candidly bashful was a rarity. He wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.

"Not bad. But I'll consider my options." He said instead.

"What options?"

"Hmm. I'll let you know. Let's see what I come up with."

Haleh couldn't believe him. "What the hell? Is that it? You said an apology will make you forget the lawsuit!

"Forget? Nope. I don't forget these kinds of offenses. Apology accepted but the legal proceedings will only be kept at bay if you cooperate."

"Cooperate???? How?!"

"Cook something for me." He said with a hint of smugness. Haleh could imagine him smirking at her. Yeah, the day she decided to be a better human being, she got played by this Lallu.

"I have a better plan. What if I cook you?"

Mahad tsked. "My lawyer or the police straight at your door. What will be your pick?"

Haleh wanted to swear loudly. "What do you want to eat?"

This time, Mahad's loud snort broke through the barrier of any subtlety. Shoving his head through the oven never seemed more tempting to Haleh.

"Anything other than a carrot cake. Be creative and be very grateful that I'm in a good mood today. I'll leave you to brainstorm now. Bye, Haleh."

"And I hope you drink a bug in your morning tea! And your car breaks down and you—"

There she was. As Mahad knew her and as he liked her to be.

"Yeah, yeah. You too, have a good day."

Even after the call ended, Haleh remained lost, running her hands through her hair in frustration, planning the ways to torture him in her head.

"Who left the iron running?"

Amal's voice broke her reverie of violent thoughts. Her confusion gave way to horror. No! This couldn't be happening to her! This day needed a start over and it hadn't been 9 am yet!

As if on cue, Amal appeared at the door, laughing evilly. "You're so dead, Haleh Shams!"

"One time doesn't count!" She tried her best but the opponent was Amal. Winning from her was not going to be possible.

"A rule is a rule. Your made rule, if we are going to stick with the details. So, no uts and buts. My clothes are your responsibility for the whole week. Eekss! I love it here."

Instant regret hit Haleh. She had never known this would come to bite her. Morning hassle was always the most chaotic part of their routine and so it happened that one such day, one of them left the clothing iron running at its full capacity (Reen). Only when the machine started puffing smoke did Saleema find it but till then both the table cloth and the iron had given up on being useful ever again.

That's when Haleh, with her frugal housewife capabilities, came up with this rule. Whoever let the iron running, would have to iron the clothes of the one who found it that way, for the whole week to come.

She never thought she'd be the first victim of her own rule.

"Arghhhhhh!" She shrieked into the pillow but that couldn't muffle Amal's cackling.

New rule: never talk to a certain Lallu early in the morning. Scratch that, don't interact with him at all. He'd suck all the positive energy out of your day, like a dementor.

𝄞

It had been more than a week since Raed's return to the USA. He got busy with his commitments right after landing there but amidst the unbelievably hectic schedule, he was in constant contact with Amal through phone and social media. Amal hadn't expected that. She didn't have a good experience with time zones. It only happens when there's a mutual effort. If that's not the case, sooner or later, the contact just severs.

But Raed proved her wrong. As a professional necessity, he had to stay in contact with her because his research work for his book was still ongoing and Amal had proven herself to be an asset in exploring Karachi. But calls at random times and frequent text messages didn't come under the professional tag. Whatever it was, Amal couldn't say it didn't make her happy and a bit giddy.

Well. A lot giddy but she wouldn't let anyone know that. Especially a best friend who wouldn't stop wriggling her brows at her whenever Raed's name flashed on her mobile screen.

Now that she didn't have Raed's assignment to work on, she was committing all her time to her Ph.D., which entailed extra hours in Inam Uddin's office and Sami's company. He was all the more snarky these days. Amal didn't dwell on his mood swings. There was no point in doing that. That was his usual, and he was making sure it'd stay that way.

"I don't think we need to add this material to the suggested reading." He emphasized his point again. Amal wanted to snap at him, very badly.

"I'm going to ask you for the last time. Why? And try to make your answer carry some sense at least."

He dismissed her flippantly. "It's irrelevant. It will only increase the bulk of the syllabus and the students will cause a racket. You should know Inam Uddin hates when they come barreling through his office and ask for compensatory marks."

Amal shook her head with a mocking smile on her face. "Yeah, bring Inam Uddin in to add weight to your argument. You just don't want to have that topic included. It doesn't interest you. It isn't your area of research. So, you don't want anyone else to study it as well."

Sami's face showed his disdain. He leaned forward so his disapproval would be loud and clear. Amal couldn't give two flying hoots about it, though.

"If you've forgotten the drill, thanks to your other commitments, let me remind you. We decide on the coursework as a team, Amal. You can't always have your way."

Amal got up, picking up her purse and folder. "Thank you for enlightening me, that it's me who always gets her way and not someone else. I'll keep it in mind. For now, I have other better things to do. So, excuse me."

She knew he'd hate that. He wanted to argue further and she snatched that chance out of his hands. But if he was going to throw around baseless accusations, she had no time to waste on him. What was his problem, anyway? Not that he was the most cheery person in the room, but for the last couple of days, his personality had taken a new edge, and not for the better.

She made her way outside the office space, into the main meeting room of the history department where she could find some of her students, colleagues, and faculty members already seated to discuss the upcoming conference.

Now that was worth coming here every day and enduring Inam Uddin's overbearing personality and Sami's insufferable company.

She had always been pretty creative in the conferences and seminars she conducted. And the last few weeks with Raed had her brain working in this direction.

It was an interactive session with interested students on the history of resistance to occupation of every kind. And not so surprisingly, she had chosen Palestine.

She had yet to choose the sub-topic for her presentation. She'd have to get the green signal from Inam Uddin as well but so far, she was excited to see what they could do here.

"Thank you for taking your time out, everyone. Sir Inam had an urgent meeting with the dean's committee and he's currently busy there but rest assured, he will join us shortly."

Sami announced as soon as he walked inside after Amal. She sat close to Miss Rehana, an associate history professor and one of Amal's favorites in the faculty. She had helped Amal a lot in the selection of the topic of her dissertation.

"There's not much to discuss as it is. We just need to run the contents through him and get his approval." An MS student put in, distributing the list among the members. Amal was going through it when she heard a snort. She looked up and saw Miss Rehana also looking at the source. So, she wasn't the only one.

Mohsin, a visiting lecturer, eyed the list before him. Amal narrowed her eyes at him. "Is everything okay, Mohsin?"

He nodded but the know-it-all smile stayed intact. "Yes. All good."

"But you want to say something." Miss Rehana added. She'd known, given he was her former student.

"It's nothing. I just feel the topic selection for this year's conference is rather interesting."

Amal had put up with the likes of him all through her academic career. So, she knew he'd get to his point anyway, without any prompting. For him, his opinion was all the most important.

"I mean no offense. It's just I was expecting a more familiar arena. Isn't this," He rapped his knuckles against the paper. "A bit taking it too far for the woke brigade?"

Amal couldn't believe him. "Talking about a besieged community isn't a fashion trend!"

"It's not. I'm sure. But it feels like it. I mean for the sake of hashtags, sure. But how many students know anything about the conflict? The ground realities?"

"I can't say." Ruby, another MS student quipped. "But most people I know are aware that when the difference between the two parties is so striking economically, politically, administratively, and in terms of global opinion, it is far from a conflict."

Mohsin didn't like her interruption if his scowl was to go by. But Ruby was one of those students who wouldn't sugarcoat hard facts just to make them more palatable for the other party.

"If there's so much difference, then why make things more difficult by resisting?" He hit back.

"Maybe this is why we need this session. To see why they resist?" Amal suggested, putting an end to his spiel. He looked stung, his own words were used to validate the importance of the upcoming event.

Amal leaned into her seat. For the time being, she had resolved the conflict here but it only told her how important this was to highlight the importance of this cause. And she just knew what she had to do.

𝄞

The conference was halfway through and it was her turn now. She felt the eyes on her back as she made her way toward the stage. There was no fright. She had long stopped getting flushed by the crowds. And a crowd it was. More students had flooded inside the auditorium than they had expected. And none of them were here for the hashtags, as they were just listening and absorbing, posing some queries every once in a while. Take that, Mohsin.

She stopped at the rostrum, facing the crowd. "Assalamualaikum, everyone. First and foremost, thank you for coming here. We are very pleased to see the turnout. It reinforces our belief that seekers will always be the face of the changed opinion. Hashtag: Not so bad."

Her light approach elicited laughter from the audience. She felt Mohsin's glare but there was no time to even grace that with an acknowledgement.

"I'm supposed to begin my presentation but I'm afraid that I won't be using any words."

She took a pause.

"Instead, I'll play something for you all and then ask you a simple question. So, without further ado, let's get into it."

As the words left her mouth. The auditorium fell into darkness. Behind her, on the huge multimedia, a picture appeared. It was a house in a contemporary alley. But then it distorted into a grainy photo. What remained? The house, in another time, its edges the same, its dimensions not so much.

"The first picture you saw is of a house in Tel Aviv, Israel. It was captured in 2018."

A male voice boomed inside the space, piercing the unbreakable silence.

"And the second picture in black and white is the same house in Palestine. It was captured in 1947."

The camera rolled to a man sitting in a chair in what seemed like an American living room. The tapestry behind him was Tatreez, next to it was a picture of some people in a keffiyeh.

"My name is Raed Suleiman Ayoub. I'm more of a journalist, less of an author, and not at all a conversationalist. But I have a better introduction of myself. The one I feel explains my existence. I'm a Palestinian."

He smiled at the camera. "Which is ironic because, by the definition of being an "ian" of a country, you have to live there. I don't. Until 2018, I had never been to the place I've always known as the only home. Many of you will say what a bogus claim. And I'll say welcome to the life of a Palestinian out of Palestine."

The clip switched to a plethora of pictures on the screen. Black and white. Of faces that were probably no longer alive. Of the homeland that for sure was. Of the spirit that had survived decades and would endure eons ahead. Then it stopped at an elderly couple.

"My grandparents don't understand English and are also not well versed in directions but even in the darkness of the night, blindfolded, through barricaded roads and checkpoints, they will reach their beloved Jaffa. For a huge chunk of my life, I used to think Jaffa was the only language they knew. As I grew up I realized it was the truth. Their Jaffa is their language, and they are fluent in it."

He appeared again on the screen. "And in Jaffa, they would stop right outside their beloved home, no map needed. Sido will produce a corroded key out of his pocket. Its indentations wouldn't fit any lock anymore. Sittee will be by his side, urging him to hurry up. She is getting late to cook falafel for her children. And I'm sure the door will open, welcoming them home. It's a mutual love affair. The love they retain in their heart is reciprocated by the house. It loves them. The walls will be cold. The chairs will be warm. The topmost window will encompass a square of the sea in it. Both of them will stand in it, arguing about the most mundane things. Her gold earrings. His white beard. And witnessing that, the love between them will smile. Only they'll say it's not love. It's Filasteen. For them, there's not much difference between the two."

He looked into the camera. "This house was the outcome of the struggle of years. It was finally completed in 1947. It is still standing there, as evident by the pictures. But those who built it do not have access to it. They are blockades and miles away, in Gaza City, living in another house they call home but wish it was their Jaffa."

There was a long beat of silence. The auditorium became one pause of nothing.

"My Sido built his house with his own hands. Now these few pictures are all he has of it. His only possession. When I went to the port city, because I had a powerful American passport, I was allowed entry. And I snapped these shots for him. He saw his house after 71 years."

He didn't let it show but Amal had learned his mannerisms to know he was trying to hide his heartache.

"Out of the 5 Ws, one I get asked the most is Why? Why don't you let go? Why can't you accept it? Why do your people back home resist? And I'm suddenly lost. Why? Because our existence alone is resistance. If Palestinians are alive then so is Palestine. It's within us even though we might not be in it. It stayed. It endured. So, it's our responsibility to keep it alive and strive for its freedom. We are not liberated so how can our Filasteen be? It liberates us and we liberate it. It's our homeland. Home and land. Some of us have a flag in our hands, some have rocks, some have paint brushes, then some take up a pen and some a mic. Resistance. Each one of them. It's our life. For those who live a besieged life back home, it's even mandatory for them. Resistance makes sure we exist. Resist. Exist. Resistance. Existence."

The clip ended right there. Amal looked at the audience. "That was Raed. This is his short documentary interview at the time of his first book release. But it's time for my question to all of you."

She wasn't looking at anyone in particular. "Why do they resist, you say? I ask this of you."

She leaned forward. "Why shouldn't they?"

With that, she took a step back from the podium.

And then there was applause and a litany of questions.

That's about the resistance of brave people. Its support liberates you. It starts with one thing and if you stick to it, in your life, you'll never bend down to any kind of injustice anywhere.

𝄞

The book was good, the plot intriguing, and the characters a good brand of complex yet vulnerable. The elements that make a read worth your time. She was completely invested, 100 pages in.

A hand slowly crept along her shoulder and suggestively played with the flimsy material of her top. She huffed, holding the fingers and flinging his arm away.

This was the 9th time. Yeah, she was counted. She'd have to. It had everything to do with her interrupted reading time and nothing with her pulse that would jump up. That's what she'd like to tell herself. Her treacherous body would never get used to the familiar touch. Very familiar.

And it happened again. She finally looked up from the book, glaring at him. "What will it take you to let me read in peace?"

He shrugged, his own paperback lay forgotten on the side. "A good time?"

Sila made a face. "Gosh, you're embarrassing. But no. No good time. It's a lazy Sunday. We decided to have some fun activities."

He opened his mouth but she beat him to it. "Innocent fun activities asterisk."

"It's not my fault my book isn't fun." He complained.

"That's what happens when you pick up just anything from the bookstore. You realized it's a white man's biopic only after you sat down to read it."

"Whatever. I never voted for book reading in the first place."

Sila snorted. "And what did you vote for, exactly? Remind me again."

"Workout." He said with a poker face.

"Really? If I remember correctly you said and I quote 'What do you think about pushups with you beneath me'?"

He didn't look even a tiny bit ashamed. "I also voted for 21 questions."

Sila was about to lose it. "The first question you asked me was if I wanted to get down and dirty with you."

"I'm an upfront guy."

"You're an infuriating guy that's what you're."

She saw him trying to get a peek at the pages she was reading. "Does it have smut in it?"

Sila smacked the book on his back. "Not at all. It's a crime thriller. Where's your common sense?"

He grumbled. "Where's Amal's TBR when you need it?"

Sila huffed, finally getting up from the couch. "I'm going to make some coffee. Try to get something else to read from my collection."

He ignored it, opening his phone to scroll down his Insta explore like a normal human. But stopped seeing Haleh's story instead.

"The girls are out." He said out loud.

"I'm aware," Sila replied busily from inside the kitchen.

"Wait a second? They are going to a—"

"Cyrus Diaz's concert. Yes, Aahil. I know."

He heaved himself out of the couch and stood behind her as she brewed the coffee.

"Why didn't you go with them?"

"Too many questions, Aahil." She teased him but he wasn't going to rest. Turning her around, he held her chin to make her look at him. She did, with a smile.

"Concerts are your scene, that much I know. Cyrus is your favorite artist, I'm certain of it. Then why didn't you tag along?"

She held him from his nape, bunching the hair there. "Yes to all of that. And yes, I wanted to go." She slightly tipped his head down. "But with you."

Aahil was left momentarily silent but then, he hurried to say something but she shook her head. "I know it's not your scene and I don't want you to feel bad about it. I'm enjoying my Sunday evening with my husband even though, he keeps talking shit to take me to our bed."

She giggled as she poured the coffee into two cups. He slowly rested his chin on her shoulder, holding her from her sides. "Get ready, hon."

"For what?" She asked, her movements stopped.

Aahil smiled as he kissed her shoulder. "We're going to a concert."

Sila pivoted to look him in the eye. "Aahil—"

But he shook his head. "No questions. Just get ready."

She did not attempt to do as she was told. She just stood there, gaping at him. Aahil kissed her nose which made her scrunch her face.

"I was told that being a putty in the wife's hands is a Jahangir trait. All I want to say is, no shit, Sherlock."

Sila finally laughed. He did the same but then pointed toward their bedroom so she'd get moving. She finally got the hint and hurried out of the kitchen.

"Wait!" She stopped making him look up at her questionably. "What about the tickets?"

He pushed his hands in his pockets. "Don't worry about that. I've got it."

"Gosh, I love being married to you!" She gushed, finally darting out of there, leaving a smiling Aahil behind.

𝄞

Keeping to his word, they had no problem getting inside the venue. For all Sila knew, he had directly called Cyrus. Knowing their friendship Sila had witnessed during ACHC, she was sure that must've happened.

The show had already begun. Sila had texted the girls that they were here but she had to halt her operation of looking for them. Her favorite song by Cyrus was on and Sila was deep in the feels. It could also be because of the company she had. She slowly swayed to the music, enjoying every second of it, all the while whisper-yelling in Aahil's ear how much she loved it. He didn't say much, just held from the side, looking down at her as the myriad of emotions went through her.

They stayed that way, Sila singing along and him just watching her doing that. They didn't know how much time had passed. It became evident only when she suddenly got reminded of the fact that she was supposed to find her friends.

"We thought of going in search of you both but then we said, no. Let the newlyweds enjoy. Also, Cyrus' songs take you to another dimension. We didn't want to witness anything we shouldn't."

Haleh explained to them over the music, once they all were together after the search of twenty minutes. She didn't try to be subtle. They were not perturbed. Her whispering would've been on the same octave so what was even the point?

Perfect Sunday. Sila couldn't have asked for a better weekend getaway. Cyrus Diaz's concert, her best friends, and their unhinged energy.

Him.

As she turned to face him, the band began the starting notes of Cyrus' career-best song.

A slow number about falling in love. Sila blinked. Aahil was saying something to her over the music. She heard it. But maybe she didn't.

She was trying to find every word of the poetry in him.

Her quest wasn't for nothing. She found them all. It wasn't hard. They were all about him.

He was a love song.

The one made only for her. The one only she could listen to.

"Did you hear what I said?" He asked, confused by her lost state. She blinked to her get her bearings but now that she had seen it, she never wanted it to vanish. This warmth, this confusion which made complete sense, still left her perplexed.

"No." She uttered. He was disappointed by her reply but chuckled seeing how lost she was. "You really do love this song, don't you?"

She paused. Then slowly nodded.

"I guess I do."

Oh, no.

Oh, yes.

Gosh.

She was in trouble, wasn't she?

But one look at him and she wasn't so sure. With him, even trouble had a way of turning into a treat. She leaned into him as he casually draped an arm around her.

This was worth it. She was sure of it.

𝄞

"This was one of the best concerts of all twenty-seven years of my life!" Rameen exclaimed as they all made their way outside to the parking. Her friends agreed with her.

"Now I just need a good dinner and my bed. What do you say? Takeout?" Amal asked as they neared their vehicles. Rameen and Haleh nodded, down with her suggestion. But Aahil looked up from his phone. "Not so quick. We are not done here yet."

Four set out curious eyes gaped at him. He showed them his phone where he was busy in a text conversation. "Sonia just invited us all to the after-party."

"Shut up! She didn't!" Haleh's disbelief was shared by both Amal and Rameen. Sila was not surprised. She had gotten the hang of being married to a Jahangir.

"You mean to say, Sonia, Cyrus' wife invited all of us to her husband's after-concert party, and not just you two?" Rameen pointed between him and Sila. Aahil handed her his phone so she could see it for herself. The inspection proved he was right. Their excited murmuring also cemented it.

"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go! She's mentioned the venue as well."

They got into Amal's car but before that, Haleh turned and raised a finger in Sila's direction. "Keep him. I'm not kidding. Do everything to keep this marriage thriving. I love these perks."

Sila rolled her eyes but nodded nonetheless. They saw them pulling away from their spot.

"You just gave them the highlight of their year."

Aahil was proud of making his Saali gang so happy. "What can I say? I also love that they love these perks."

"We should get going or otherwise they'll start blowing our phones." She sidestepped him to open her side of the door but in doing so, a blur ran past her, making her collide in the door. She stumbled on her feet. Her heel twisted and a cry left her mouth.

"Watch where are you going, shithead!" Aahil's angry voice made her look in the direction the person had gone to. Gosh, people really hated using their eyes, hun?

His arms were immediately around her. "Are you okay?"

She held on to him. "I'm already not a fan of these heels and now that person has officially made me hate them."

"It's not their fault. He was just an asshole who needs some solid collar yanking. Is it really alright?"

"Yes! And No! He does not need that. Don't get any ideas...and why are you bending down?" She asked alarmed.

He directed a duh look at her. "Just making sure everything's good."

"Oh, it is! Don't you worry."

But he only stood back up after making sure she was okay. In doing so, he again looked in the direction the guy had run to and a few choice words tumbled out of his mouth, making Sila want to both laugh and cry. She ranted at him. But he just smiled as if it was the praise he worked hard for.

Unaware that a pair of eyes at some distance was trained on them, noting their every movement, their every interaction, everything.

Setting his snapback on his head to conceal himself some more, Zarrar took in the scene without blinking. The couple wasn't a stranger to him. The woman was his acquaintance from work. Sila.

But it wasn't her he was interested in.

It would be her husband, whose whole focus was her. Not once did his eyes wander anywhere else.

He smiled, he laughed, he talked as if he had nothing else to do, he held her hand, the concern, the touch lingering as if he didn't want to let go.

Someone who was well-versed in Aahil Jahangir's patterns would know that she meant a lot to him.

And as his ex-best friend, Zarrar had committed that detail to his memory.

Aahil was happy, more alive than ever. And as always, Zarrar was filled with nothing but the dust of envy.

He hated two things in life. The first was being the second best after Aahil Jahangir. The second was seeing Aahil Jahangir happy.

He had taken care of both a long back but seemed like he had some work to do again.

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Author's Note

Almost 17k words in three parts, all written on the phone. Welcome back to me I guess. xD