The morning had started peacefully enough. Zaina was seated in her studio, her pencil gliding over the sketchbook in rhythmic strokes. She'd finally begun to feel a little lighter, her sketches coming to life with fresh ideas. The deep crimson bridal gown she was designing was intricate, with delicate embroidery inspired by traditional floral motifs.

A faint smile touched her lips as she added the finishing touches to the neckline. For the first time in days, her thoughts were quiet.

Then her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it absently, expecting a notification from her mother or a message from Azaan. But the moment her eyes landed on the screen, her heart stopped.

It wasn't a name she recognized—just an unknown number. But the message it carried sent her world tilting.

"You think you've moved on, Zaina? I know who you really are. Everyone will, soon enough."

Her breath caught, her fingers trembling as she clutched the phone. The room seemed to close in on her, the walls pressing tighter with each passing second. The light that had warmed her just moments ago now felt harsh, exposing her vulnerability.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven gasps, her vision blurring as panic began to take hold.

Zaina tried to tell herself it wasn't real, that the words were just empty threats. But the voice in her mind, the one she had fought for years, whispered louder:

They'll never let you forget. You'll always be that broken girl. Useless. Laughable.

She stumbled back from her desk, her knees buckling as she sank onto the small couch in the corner of the room. Her hands gripped her phone tightly, her knuckles white as the message burned into her mind.

Who was it? Him? Someone else from her past? Nida? All of them?

She closed her eyes, but that only made it worse. Memories she'd buried deep came rushing back—the laughter in the school hallways, the cruel taunts about her weight, her body, her very existence. The days she'd spent hiding, her arms wrapped around herself as though she could shield against the world's harshness.

Her breathing grew more ragged, and she pressed her palms to her chest, willing the suffocating tightness to go away. But it didn't.

"Zaina?"

The sound of his voice pierced through the fog of panic.

Her head shot up, her wide, tear-filled eyes meeting his. Azaan stood in the doorway, his brows furrowed with concern as he took in the scene: her trembling hands clutching the phone, her shallow breaths, and the terror etched into her expression.

In an instant, he was by her side, kneeling in front of her.

"Zaina, look at me," he said gently, his voice steady but filled with urgency.

She blinked, tears spilling down her cheeks as her breathing hitched. "I—I can't..."

"You're okay," he said firmly, his warm hands reaching out to cover hers. He didn't take the phone from her but gently coaxed her to loosen her grip. "You're safe. Just breathe with me, okay?"

She shook her head, her chest still heaving. "I can't... It feels... I can't breathe..."

"Yes, you can," he said softly, his thumbs brushing over the backs of her hands in soothing strokes. "Listen to me, Zaina. Look at me. Inhale slowly—just like this." He took a deep, exaggerated breath, holding it for a moment before exhaling slowly.

"Try with me," he encouraged, his gaze unwavering.

Her breaths came in uneven gasps, but she tried to mimic him. He kept his voice calm, steady, coaxing her through it.

"That's it. You're doing so well," he said, his tone like a warm blanket around her frayed nerves.

Gradually, her breathing began to even out, the tightness in her chest easing as she focused on him.

When she finally calmed down enough to speak, her voice was shaky. "I'm sorry..."

"Stop," Azaan said gently, brushing a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "Don't apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for."

Her lips quivered, fresh tears spilling over. "I just—I don't know who sent it. Or why. It's like they won't let me move on."

"What did the message say?" he asked, his voice careful.

She hesitated, but the warmth in his eyes reassured her. Slowly, she handed him the phone, her fingers trembling.

Azaan's jaw tightened as he read the message, his body going rigid. But when he looked back at her, his expression softened.

"Zaina," he said, his voice low but resolute, "no one—and I mean no one—gets to talk about you like this. Whoever sent this is a coward."

Her voice cracked. "But what if it's true? What if—"

"No," he interrupted, his tone firm but kind. "It's not true. Not even a little. You've been through so much, and you're still here. That doesn't make you weak, Zaina. It makes you stronger than anyone I know."

She shook her head, her tears falling faster. "I don't feel strong. I feel... broken."

Azaan reached out, gently cradling her face in his hands. His touch was warm and steady, grounding her.

"You're not broken," he said, his voice filled with conviction. "You've been hurt, yes. But you're still standing. You've got so much strength in you, Zaina, even if you don't see it yet. And until you do, I'll keep reminding you."

Her breath hitched as she searched his eyes, seeing nothing but sincerity.

"Do you trust me?" he asked softly.

She nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "I do."

"Good," he said, pressing his forehead lightly against hers for a brief moment before pulling back. "Because I'm here for you. Always."

Azaan stayed with her for the rest of the day, refusing to let her retreat into herself. He guided her back to the couch, wrapping her in a soft throw blanket and placing her favorite chai in her hands.

"Drink," he said with a small smile. "Doctor's orders."

She gave a weak laugh, the sound surprising both of them.

"That's better," he said, settling beside her.

"What if they message again?" she asked after a long pause.

"Then we'll deal with it together," Azaan said firmly. "I've already started looking into it. I'll find out who it is, and I'll make sure they never bother you again."

"But—"

"No buts," he said, cutting her off gently. "You're not alone in this, Zaina. Not anymore."

She looked down at the mug in her hands, her chest still heavy but her heart feeling a flicker of something she hadn't felt in years: hope.

That night, after Zaina had gone to bed, Azaan sat at the dining table with his laptop open. His friend from cybersecurity had already agreed to help trace the message, and Azaan wasn't going to rest until he had answers.

Whoever was behind this had no idea who they were messing with.

As he closed the laptop and leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifted toward the closed door of their bedroom.

"You've hurt her enough," he murmured to himself, his voice low and dangerous. "Not anymore."