Zaina's days had grown busier, but the memory of Azaan's unwavering presence at the fashion showcase stayed with her. His words, his constant support, and his confidence in her were slowly becoming the foundation on which she was building her own self-belief.

Still, a small part of her held onto old fears—of judgment, of whispers behind her back. Though she was finding her voice as a designer, she avoided certain things, especially social media.

For years, her accounts had been a minefield of memories—photos from her teenage years, old acquaintances who never had anything kind to say, and the haunting possibility of seeing her ex's name pop up again.

But curiosity had a way of tugging at her, especially now.

It happened one quiet evening. Azaan was working on his laptop in the living room while Zaina curled up on the couch beside him, flipping through a notebook of sketches. She glanced at him every so often, marveling at how absorbed he looked.

Her phone buzzed with a notification—a friend request from someone she vaguely remembered from university. She frowned, swiping it away, but the interaction sparked a thought.

"Do you use social media much?" she asked suddenly, her voice soft.

Azaan glanced up, his lips curving into a small smile. "Not as much as I used to."

"Why not?"

He shrugged, closing his laptop and turning his attention to her. "Didn't seem as important anymore. My focus shifted."

Something about the way he said it made her heart flutter, but she didn't press further. Instead, after a moment of hesitation, she unlocked her phone and opened her dormant Instagram account.

It had been over a year since she'd last checked it, and the flood of notifications was overwhelming. She scrolled through cautiously, her nerves prickling as she saw friend requests, tags, and comments. But one thing stood out immediately—Azaan's name appeared at the top of nearly every notification.

She clicked on his profile.

Her breath caught.

His account, once filled with posts about work, friends, and travels, was now an ode to her. Every photo, every caption, every story—it was all about Zaina.

The first post was from the day of their nikkah. It was a candid shot of her looking down, the delicate embroidery of her bridal dupatta catching the light. The caption read:

"My life begins and ends with her. Welcome to my world, Mrs. Zaina Khan. #JaanEMan"

Her fingers trembled as she scrolled further.

There were photos of her sketching in her studio, the sunlight streaming through the window.
"The artist at work. My muse. My pride."

A shot of her laughing during one of their late-night drives:
"Nothing compares to the sound of her laughter. #MyEverything"

Her hands, adorned with henna, resting on a drafting table:
"She creates beauty with every touch. #Mashallah"

Even small moments—like a picture of the anklet he'd gifted her with the caption:
"She makes every step worth it."

Her eyes filled with tears as she continued scrolling. The most recent post was from the fashion showcase—a photo of her standing beside her mother, both women beaming with pride.

"Two queens in one frame. But my heart belongs to just one."

Her thumb hovered over his "following" list, and curiosity got the better of her. She clicked on it, her eyes widening when she saw only one name: hers.

She looked up at him, her voice shaking. "You only follow me?"

Azaan set his laptop aside, leaning back on the couch with a faint smile. "Of course. Who else would I need to follow?"

"But... you used to follow so many people," she said, her brow furrowing.

He reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers. "That was before you became my world, Zaina. Why would I need distractions when I have you?"

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down at their joined hands. "I didn't know..."

"That's because you've been hiding from social media," he teased gently, lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. "Which, by the way, I completely understand. But I've been posting about you because I want the world to know how proud I am to be your husband."

Tears welled in her eyes as she whispered, "You're proud of me?"

"Every day," he said, his voice unwavering. "I've been proud of you from the moment you walked into my life. And I'm not afraid to shout it from the rooftops—or, in this case, Instagram."

For a long time, Zaina stayed silent, her emotions swirling. Finally, she glanced at him, her lips curving into a small but genuine smile. "Can I tell you something?"

"Always," he said, his tone soft.

"I was scared to look," she admitted, her voice trembling. "I thought... I thought I'd see people saying things about me. Mocking me. Judging me."

Azaan's expression turned serious, and he squeezed her hand. "Zaina, you don't have to be afraid anymore. Let them say whatever they want. Their opinions don't matter—not to me, and they shouldn't to you."

"But what if—"

"No 'what ifs,'" he interrupted, leaning closer. "Tum meri ho, aur bas yeh hi kaafi hai." (You're mine, and that's all that matters.)

Her heart swelled at his words, and she nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I don't know what I did to deserve you."

"You just had to exist," he said, his lips curving into a warm smile.