The pre-wedding festivities had begun, and the Khan household was brimming with joy. Relatives and friends came and went, filling the space with laughter, music, and the aroma of freshly cooked delicacies. Zaina, however, found herself retreating to the sanctuary of her room more often than not.

Today was the mehndi ceremony—the day she was supposed to have her hands adorned with intricate henna designs. But instead of feeling excitement, Zaina was filled with dread.

She sat on her bed, staring at her hands. The scars crisscrossing her forearms, remnants of years of pain and bullying, were a secret she had guarded fiercely. She couldn't imagine anyone seeing them, let alone the crowd gathered downstairs.

Her mother knocked gently before entering. Zainab's eyes softened as she took in Zaina's anxious expression.

"Beta, the mehndi artists are here," she said, sitting beside her. "Everyone's asking for you."

Zaina hesitated, looking down at her lap. "Ammi, I don't think I can..."

Zainab reached out and took her daughter's hand. "What's wrong?"

For a moment, Zaina thought about confessing everything—her scars, her shame, her fear. But the words lodged in her throat. Instead, she shook her head. "I just... don't like being the center of attention."

Zainab smiled gently. "I understand. How about this? We'll have the artist come to your room. No one else needs to be there."

Relief washed over Zaina, and she nodded. "Thank you, Ammi."

Azaan's Thoughtfulness

As the mehndi artist set up in Zaina's room, there was a knock at the door. Zainab opened it to reveal Azaan, holding a small box.

"I brought something for Zaina," he said, glancing at her mother.

Zainab smiled knowingly and stepped aside to let him in.

Zaina looked up, startled. "Azaan? What are you doing here?"

He held out the box. "Open it."

Curious, she took it from him and lifted the lid. Inside was a pair of embroidered wrist-length gloves in a soft ivory fabric, designed to perfectly complement her wedding outfit.

Her breath hitched as she ran her fingers over the delicate material. "You... you made these for me?"

He shrugged, his casual demeanor not quite masking the thoughtfulness behind the gesture. "I figured you'd want to keep your hands covered for the ceremony. The henna will still show, and no one else has to see anything you don't want them to."

Tears pricked Zaina's eyes, but she quickly blinked them away. "Thank you," she said softly.

Azaan smiled, leaning against the doorframe. "No need to thank me. Just wear them. And maybe try not to look so surprised every time I do something nice."

For the first time in days, Zaina laughed—a soft, genuine sound that made Azaan's heart feel lighter.

Later that evening, Zaina stepped out of her room, the gloves covering her hands as she joined the celebration. The intricate henna designs peeked out beautifully from the lace edges, and the guests marveled at how unique they looked.

Azaan, dressed in a deep emerald kurta that perfectly matched her outfit, watched her from across the room. He couldn't take his eyes off her, and when their gazes met, he gave her a small, reassuring nod.

Zaina's heart fluttered. For once, she didn't feel like running away.

The morning of the nikkah arrived in a flurry of preparations. The house was transformed into a vision of elegance, with golden drapes and fresh flowers adorning every corner. Zaina sat quietly as the makeup artist worked on her, her crimson lehenga shimmering under the soft light.

Her mother adjusted the dupatta on her head, tears glistening in her eyes. "You look perfect," Zainab whispered, kissing her forehead.

When the time came, Zaina was escorted to the main hall, where the nikkah ceremony was to take place. The room was filled with loved ones, their faces alight with joy.

She felt her heart race as she walked in, her eyes instinctively searching for Azaan. When she found him, dressed in an ivory sherwani with subtle gold embroidery, her breath caught. He looked regal yet approachable, his gaze warm as it rested on her.

Azaan's eyes softened as he watched her approach. The small matching details in their outfits—a crimson pocket square in his sherwani and the ivory gloves on her hands—felt like an unspoken connection between them.

The ceremony was simple yet beautiful. The imam led them through the vows, and when it was time for Zaina to give her consent, her voice trembled but didn't falter.

"I accept," she said softly, her words carrying the weight of a new beginning.

Azaan's response was steady and sure. "I accept."

As the ceremony concluded and the families celebrated, Zaina felt a strange mix of emotions—relief, nervousness, and a tiny flicker of hope.

Later that evening, Zaina sat in her room, waiting for Azaan. She fiddled with the hem of her dupatta, her nerves making her hands shake.

When the door finally opened, she looked up to see him standing there, his gaze locked on hers. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"You're beautiful," Azaan said, his voice low and sincere.

Zaina's cheeks flushed, and she looked away. "You don't have to say that."

"I don't," he agreed, stepping closer. "But I want to."

He sat beside her, his movements slow and deliberate, as if not wanting to overwhelm her. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the edge of her glove.

"May I?" he asked.

Zaina hesitated, then nodded.

He carefully slid the glove off her hand, revealing the intricate henna beneath. His thumb traced the designs lightly, his touch gentle and reverent.

"You're stronger than you think, Zaina," he said, his eyes meeting hers. "And I'm here to remind you of that every day."

For the first time in years, Zaina felt a sense of peace settle over her. Maybe she wasn't broken beyond repair. Maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something beautiful.