ABOUT THE AUTHOR 

Affi Sheik is an aspiring writer whose story is still in progress. Though the journey is far from complete, her mind constantly overflows with fresh ideas. Despite struggling with grammar, she remains dedicated to learning and improving every day by reading numerous books. She believes that, one day, her book will finally be complete. While she’s still figuring out how everything works in the writing world, this brief introduction offers a glimpse into her creative journey.

———

Echoes Of The Unsaid

My heart raced while I was getting ready. I chose this blue frock with white floral prints— cotton embroidery, soft and simple. The moment I laid eyes on it, I knew I wanted it. It’s not like I’m trying to look extravagant or anything. I just want someone to see me… really see me. As a girl. As a woman. As someone who can be loved. Not just a human being or a relative they grew up with.

It’s been two years now, and today I turned eighteen. It’s my birthday. Ammi arranged a small gathering because she knows how much I love being surrounded by family—

especially her side of it. But what she doesn’t know is that there’s someone... someone I love dearly. And today, I’m trying—really trying—to look beautiful in his eyes.

But it feels like there’s this invisible wall, like a mirror between us. He only sees me as a cousin, a little sister. Why? Why am I always the small kid for everyone? I know I’m the youngest one—on both Ammi’s and Abbu’s side—but still. I’m always the "smallest sister," the "smallest daughter." And they treat me like I’m made of glass, like a doll that’ll break.

They always want me to smile. Always.

It irritates me like hell sometimes. Even I want to be scolded once in a while. But no one ever does.

Except him.

That one time when he scolded me—my heart stopped.

I was climbing the staircase in the library to get hold of a book—a red one that was kept right at the top of the shelf.

We’re at Nani’s bungalow today, celebrating her birthday. She turned 72, and mashaAllah, she still looks so young—just like my mum. Both are so similar. Aunty does share a few traits, but Ammi and Nani? They’re like carbon copies of each other. And I’m a carbon copy of my Ammi—same small figure, same features. I’m also quite fair compared to my siblings. They have a lovely dusky-brown complexion, while I’m a bit lighter. Maybe that’s another reason everyone fusses over me more. Khair, let me focus on this book.

Nani had this habit of covering her books in velvet—proper fancy ones. Every book has its own colored cover: some are black, some blue, and others in all kinds of rich shades, matching the shelf’s polished wood. But this one book with the red cover caught my eye today. It’s stashed up high with some old papers around it, like it’s hiding something. It looks mysterious. I want to know what’s behind that cover. Do I know this book? Have I already read it?

Every time we visit Nani’s bungalow, I end up hiding in this library. It’s my little escape. There are nearly a thousand books here, in every genre you can imagine. I’ve read so many that I now place the ones I’ve finished upside down so I don’t reread them by mistake. I prefer adventure, horror, and of course—romance.

I know Nani is quite old now, but ya Allah, her taste in books? Especially romance? Stunning. The way the hero makes an entry—uff, it’s so dreamy. That’s exactly why I want to know what’s inside this red-covered book.

I was on top of the staircase, balancing on my toes to reach that one red-covered book,

but—ugh—my height betrayed me at the most crucial moment. My legs didn’t help either. I slipped, and for a second, I thought I was going to crash to the ground.

Whomp!

I didn’t fall. I was in someone’s arms.

My voice felt like it was on mute. I couldn’t even open my eyes. And to top it all off—I was in a frock.

Call me crazy, but I have this thing—I only wear frocks. I love them. My entire wardrobe is filled with them. I rarely wear salwar kameez or jeans. Today, I was wearing a red satin frock, one of my favorites.

“What is wrong with you?” a deep, manly voice rang in my ears. I opened my eyes—and saw Uzair.

Uzair bhai.

But... I don’t know why, it feels weird calling him “bhai.” That title is reserved for my Zain bhai. Not for Uzair. Even though he is older than me.

“Uzair…” I was speechless. One, I was in someone’s arms.

Two, it felt like a scene straight out of a love story—love at first fall maybe? And three, I had the red-covered book in my hand.

“You’re very notorious. You know dadi scolds anyone who enters this room. And still, you sneak in here every time,” Uzair scolded.

He looks different now. Stronger. Not bulky—but his shoulders, his arms, his voice… that scratchy tone sent a jolt through me. My heart was racing.

“I… Nani knows…” I mumbled.

It’s a thing with me. I have so many thoughts racing in my head, my tongue gets tangled trying to catch up. My brain just… dumps me.

“Oh please. Dadi would never allow little kids like you to touch her books. This is her sacred space. Only I get to be in here. From now on, stay with your mum, you little demon,” he

said, and that made my heart sink.

I know he’s my mama’s eldest son. He’s the oldest among all the cousins, and five years older than me—but still. No one ever scolds me. Not ever. And now, my eyes were

brimming with tears, about to spill.

“Oh God… your waterworks again. I know it’s you who keeps turning these books upside down. And I don’t know why Dadi tolerates your tantrums,” Uzair continued.

That one hit hard.

My tears started falling. I was sniffling now, tears sliding down my cheeks without a break.

“I… I read those books. And Nani knows…” I hiccupped, words barely escaping my lips while my mind shouted a hundred others that refused to come out.

“Stop crying. I didn’t hit you or anything. And if you tell Dadi—trust me, I’ll be your worst nightmare.” He slowly put me down, and that’s when I realized—I had been in his arms this whole time.

“Let me see which book you’re reading this time,” Uzair said and reached for the book. But I held it tight. I didn’t want him to see it.

“Wait a minute… that’s not Dadi’s book—it’s mine! Give it to me!” Uzair said, trying to grab it. But I didn’t let go. I shook my head in denial.

“I want to see… what it is. I want to read it,” I said, hiccuping.

“You can’t. It’s a horror book. You’ll stay up all night, scared. And we have a function tomorrow,” Uzair said, trying again to take it from me.

“I’m not a small girl. I’m sixteen. I can handle horror,” I said, trying to sound firm. “You can’t. Give it to me. Now,” he raised his voice.

And without meaning to—my hand brushed his cheek. A slap. A light one. But still.

“You… You little demon,” Uzair said, rubbing his cheek. “Fine. Read it. And if you’re awake all night, I’ll come and scare you even more!”

With that, he stormed out of the library.

Leaving me alone. With the red-covered horror book. But I wasn’t scared.

I ended up reading it—page after page. And by the time I finished, it was four in the morning. I was wide awake, alert, and just a tiny bit terrified.

But I couldn’t tell anyone. No one even knows I read from Nani’s library. Everyone thinks I come here to take little naps.

That’s just me. Pretending.

It was seven in the morning, and my eyes were heavy, begging to close. But every time I even tried to doze off, the scenes from that horror book would flash before me—dark, wild, terrifying. My imagination wouldn’t let me rest. It was like a mirror reflecting my fears over and over.

Now it was 10:30 AM, and we were leaving for the family function… in a village. 

The bus was packed, laughter echoing from the back, but I had taken the first seat—away from everyone. I needed to hide my tears. Every time I blinked, those images haunted me again. I couldn’t tell anyone. No one would believe I was this shaken just from a book.

“Let me sit here,” came a voice beside me. Uzair.

“Go away,” I whispered, barely able to speak.

“Keep your head on my shoulder and sleep—for Allah’s sake, you look like a walking zombie,” he said, chuckling.

And strangely… I smiled.

I didn’t even know why. Maybe because he said it like he cared. Maybe because he noticed. I glanced up at him.

His eyes were deep black, calm but intense. His shiny hair—some of it falling onto his forehead—moved with the breeze coming through the window. He was wearing a crisp white shirt paired with blue jeans, his dark eyebrows relaxed, not in that usual annoyed glare. And his smile—it wasn’t forced or robotic.

It was… free.

I’ve always known him to be the serious one in the family, the reserved one. But today, somehow, he made me laugh. And my heart melted just a little.

That day, I leaned on his shoulder—tired, fragile, and free from the horror scenes in my head.

And somewhere between the silence and his shoulder… I think I fell for him.

Days passed quickly, and with every visit to Nani’s house, I found myself naturally drifting toward Uzair. He was caring—undeniably loving in the most subtle ways. But if there was one thing I hated… it was the way he sometimes made me feel like a small girl.

No—I’m not. I’m seventeen, for heaven’s sake. And almost half of my cousins have confessed their feelings to me. I didn’t fall for any of them. Not one.

But Uzair? I fell for him—without even realizing when or how.

He’s like a mystery, yet somehow an open book when it comes to me. 

I know his phone password—it’s his birthday.

I know his Instagram password too—it’s his mum’s birthdate.

I even know which book he secretly loves the most: Pride and Prejudice.

But me? I never really liked it. I know it’s a literary classic and super hyped, but somehow… it didn’t meet my standards. Too polite. Too neatly tied.

Lately, I’ve been haunting Nani’s Urdu novel section.

That’s where I discovered Amarbail—and when I finished it, I cried. Uncontrollably. Right there, with my head buried into Uzair’s shoulder.

He didn’t say much. Just let me cry. And when the sobs slowed down, he brought me a slice of dark chocolate cake.

It worked. For a little while, at least.

--

And today… on my birthday… I’ve decided. I will confess my love to Uzair. Yes, I know—he’s

23. I’m just turning 17. But he’s settled, mature, stable. And I’m not a clueless child either. My family adores him. His family spoils me like I’m already theirs.

So it should be easy, right? Easy peasy.

I walked into the library, heart pounding, trying to keep my nerves steady.

“Happy Birthday, little demon.” Uzair didn’t even look up properly at first—just peeked over his laptop, a faint smirk on his face.

He was wearing glasses today. Why did that make him look so... distracting? I didn’t say anything. Just twirled dramatically in front of him like the birthday princess I believed I was.

His eyes flicked up again.

“You’re looking pretty, by the way,” he said casually, and then returned to typing like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he hadn’t just made my insides melt.

I stood frozen for a second, trying to build the courage.

“It’s your favorite color… obviously you’ll say that,” I said with a knowing smile, hoping he’d understand the hint behind my words. Blue was his favorite—he had once said it reminded him of peace.

He just laughed, brushing It off, like always. 

“Would you believe Nani turned seventy-two? Mashallah,” I said dreamily, thinking of her ever-youthful smile. She didn’t look a day over fifty.

“What do you think… how would I look when I turn seventy?” I asked softly, biting my lip. It was another hint. A quiet wish. A future I imagined with him.

He shut his laptop and folded his arms across his chest.

“Maybe like a wrinkly old Nani,” he teased. Then he added, voice casual but firm, “But how would I know? I won’t be with you.”

The world stilled.

“Why would that be?” I asked slowly, my twirling stopping mid-step.

“Because, little demon,” he said with a smirk, “I got a scholarship from Harvard. The most famous university in the U.S. Can you believe it? I worked so hard for this. You know how much this means to me. I’ll probably settle there… marry a gori mem too.”

He laughed at his own joke. But I didn’t laugh.

Yes, I knew he was applying abroad. Yes, I knew he dreamed big. But I never thought he’d be so serious about leaving… or about marrying someone else. I thought I was a part of his future too.

“Say something, little demon.” He nudged lightly. “I expected this reaction. You’re happy, right? I’ll call you once I’m settled. We’ll visit the U.S. together.”

“Congrats,” I murmured, trying to sound normal. “I knew you’d get it. When are you leaving?”

I sank into the chair across from him, heart sinking deeper than words could say.

“Probably next week,” he said, typing something on his phone—probably to Rizwan. “It’s earlier than I thought. Seats are filling fast and attendance is mandatory.”

“Oh… weren’t you working at Mama’s firm?”

“Yeah, just temporarily,” he replied, still glued to his phone.

“Didn’t Mamu say he was bringing a rishta for you?” I asked, voice trembling.

He finally looked up. “Yeah, but once I’m at Harvard, I think Dad will put that on hold.” Then he stood. “Anyway, I need to go. Rizwan’s here. We’re celebrating.”

He handed me a box—my birthday present. A beautiful red gown, the same shade I wore the day we first met.

Then he left.

And I cried. That day. The next day. Almost the whole week. He texted me later saying he was leaving, but I didn’t reply.

The next few months, his Snapchat was full of campus snaps, library shots, group study sessions… and photos with girls. Pretty girls. Smiling, laughing, close to him.

And I kept wondering—where did that moment go?

The one where I was going to tell him I loved him. Where I thought he might say it back. Where I dreamed, just for a second, that I mattered.

Yes. I love Uzair.

He was my mama’s kid. Older. Wiser. But he never treated me like a delicate doll. He teased me, guided me, laughed with me. He was my friend. My protector. Sometimes, even like a mother, in the way he cared.

He made me feel real. And I thought he completed me. But he left—just like that.

And now? I used to wait for month-end visits to Nani’s house. Now I avoid them. The library feels empty. Everything feels off.

No one noticed my changes. No one ever really saw me.

Uzair still texts me sometimes. Even called. I told Ammi I was busy. But truth?

I feel betrayed. Not because he left. But because he never saw me as a woman. And here I am—eighteen, in love, aching silently.

“Don’t you think you’re ignoring me?” Uzair said on video call.

I was in my room. It was my birthday, and he’d been calling me non-stop. I kept rejecting his calls—until Ammi walked in and said Uzair was on video call, wanting to wish me. I didn’t have a choice but to pick up.

He looked even more handsome than before, which made my heart ache, but I kept a neutral face. 

“I’m not,” I said while combing my hair.

I knew he loved my hair. He’d said it so many times—that it reminded him of Rapunzel. Short height, long hair. A perfect combo, he’d say. I used to call him Flynn just to tease him, and he’d just laugh it off.

“Happy birthday, little demon,” Uzair said, running his fingers through his hair. “Thank you,” I replied while fixing my bed, pretending to be busy.

“You were going to sleep… oh, sorry. Okay, bye. I’ll text you then. I need to head out now anyway,” he said, standing up and glancing at something off-screen. His dorm looked neat, just like his room back home. He has this light OCD—not serious, but he likes his things arranged a certain way.

“Where are you going? It’s Sunday noon, I guess?” I asked, watching him. He was dressed casually—ready to go out.

“Oh, now you notice me? I’m going out with some friends,” he replied.

We spoke for a bit—just casual stuff—and then disconnected. And again, I cried.

The next morning, I freshened up and started scrolling through stories. Uzair had posted again. Some snaps, some random café pictures—and then one close friends story.

He was hugging a girl.

She was in a tight black dress.

He had his arm around her waist, and she was leaning on him like they were more than just friends.

That story hit like a slap.

He’d added me to his close friends list. Why? So I could see this? So I could break a little more?

In that moment, it was clear—he never saw me the way I saw him.

He probably has a girlfriend now. He’ll announce it soon. That’s why I’d been avoiding his calls, his texts. That’s why I didn’t reply.

Because to him, I’m still just a kid. His little sister. And I hate that.

That day, my eyes were so swollen from crying that Ammi thought I had conjunctivitis.

 As days were passing, I could feel myself changing.

My silliness was slowly turning into maturity. I had started focusing more—my studies were going well. Just one more year left, and I’d be a graduate.

I’d even started thinking about further studies. Maybe if I kept studying, I could avoid that inevitable point where everyone starts talking about marriage.

Some proposals had already come, but I wasn’t ready for it. Not now…..Not ever.

I couldn’t imagine anyone else. It should be Uzair. But for him… I don’t think I’m the one.

And today—today I passed with flying colors. I turned 21. Ammi had invited some people over.

For my rishta.

“You’re okay with it?” Uzair asked, biting his lower lip. How badly I wanted to scream no. How badly I wanted to tell him that my heart was never mine—it always belonged to him. But I couldn’t.

I’m 22 now. He’s 27.

And today… it’s my wedding day. No, I’m not okay.

Last month, when that family said yes—when they were ready to marry their son to me—I didn’t know what to do. I was so unsure, so lost. And for the first time ever, I called Uzair. I told him I might be getting married. I thought maybe… maybe he’d say something.

But he didn’t.

He just said “Congratulations” and disconnected the call. That’s all. No pause. No hesitation. ….Just… gone. ….That day, something inside me broke.

I cried all night. I prayed harder than ever. Uzair had always been part of my prayers. Every single one of them. But not even one was answered.

And now—on the day I’m dressed as a bride—he’s standing in front of me. Looking at me with those same deep eyes, darker than I remember.

His hair’s grown out a bit. His face looks sharper.

 More handsome…..More unreachable…. But I can’t say anything…..Not now. Not when everything’s done.

Because the moment he once said, “You’re like a little sister to me,” that was it.

That was my last straw. That day, I stopped hoping. I thought he was the one. And honestly, he still is. But maybe… maybe I was never meant to be his.

I'm a married woman now.

My in-laws were kind, warm, even loving. But something always felt off with my husband. He barely spoke to me. His smiles were rare, and when they did come, they never reached his eyes. He was always on his phone. And he never… touched me.

At first, I told myself maybe he was just giving me space. Respecting my privacy. Maybe he was just shy or adjusting. But slowly—quietly—the truth started revealing itself.

He had a girlfriend…. He never slept beside me—not once in all these

months. I’d lie on the bed, eyes closed but heart wide awake, and he’d come in much later and sleep on the sofa, far from me.

The only thing that held me in this hollow marriage was my in-laws. They genuinely loved me, kept me busy, kept me distracted… maybe even tried to protect me in their own way.

But the days dragged on, and I started to feel like an outsider in my own home. My husband came home late every night. And now that my in-laws were visiting their daughter abroad, it was just me and him in this cold silence.

Sometimes they'd call and lovingly ask if there was any news—if I was expecting.

And I’d smile weakly, cheeks burning with shame, because how could I say it out loud?

How could I tell them their son had never even touched me? He never treated me like a wife.

And sometimes—when he thought I was asleep—I’d hear things. Vulgar sounds. Shameful things. Things that made my soul shrink and my eyes well up in the dark.

I wasn’t crying because I missed his affection. I cried because my life felt like a punishment.

Why me?

I had loved Uzair—so dearly, so purely. And somewhere deep down, I was glad my husband never touched me. Because I knew, if he had come close, even for a moment—I might’ve said Uzair’s name by mistake.

And that thought alone made me shiver in guilt and pain. Now, it’s been a year. A whole year in this loveless, tortured marriage.

I tried talking to Ammi. Indirectly. She just said, “Give him time.” But I wasn’t that naive anymore. I started collecting proof—photos, recordings. I even installed a hidden camera in the room, just in case he ever video-called that woman.

But none of this made it easier. Because at the end of the day, I was still alone. And just when I thought it couldn’t hurt more… I heard Uzair is engaged. He’s getting married next month. He’s home for now—though his work is in the US. He travels often. But he's here…..Close. Yet never near from me.

And the day finally arrived.

The day I had been gathering courage for… over months.

My in-laws were home, and I had invited my parents over too—just a small lunch get- together. Nothing fancy. Just enough to keep it casual. Manageable. Bearable.

I had to insist my husband to take a leave from work. He agreed—reluctantly, as always.

Lunch went fine. Everyone was seated in the hall, chatting and laughing. I was serving ice cream—it was mid-summer, and the air conditioner made the whole room chill, but I could still feel the sweat behind my neck. Or maybe it was just my nerves.

My hands trembled slightly as I placed the bowls in front of them. But inside… I was ready.

Ready with my papers. Ready with my truth.

Ready with my pain.

My khula documents were complete. Legally prepared. Just one step left—the exposure.

I took a deep breath and looked around. Everyone I loved was in this room. It was now or never.

“Everyone… I want to show you something. What I’m about to say might change the mood of today—but I can’t keep it in anymore,” I began. My voice wasn’t trembling—but my heart was.

I looked at my in-laws, then at my parents.

“Mummy… Papa… I love you both so much. Just like my own Ammi and Abbu. But it’s been almost two years since I got married… and I can’t take it anymore.”

My mother-in-law’s eyes lit up, hopeful. “What happened, beta? Is it good news? Mashallah, I was expecting it… Congratulations!”

I closed my eyes. That hurt more than I thought it would.

“I want khula from your son, Mummy. I’m sorry… but I can't tolerate this anymore.” My voice broke—finally. Quiet tears welled up, but I held my ground.

My father-in-law stood up abruptly. His temper was known to all. That’s why I had planned lunch instead of dinner—just in case something went wrong. Daytime always makes it easier to calm things down.

“What are you saying?” he snapped, his brows furrowing.

I looked him straight in the eye, holding tightly onto my Ammi’s hand as if drawing strength from her presence.

“Your son has been cheating on me. From the beginning. He never touched me—not on our wedding night, not ever. For two years… I’ve lived like a stranger in his life. In his house.”

There was silence.

The kind that wraps around you like smoke—choking, thick, heavy.

“But beta…” my mother-in-law said, eyes wide, “you didn’t tell us anything. You never expressed anything. Son… what am I hearing?”

I looked at her… and I felt the ache again.

“I didn’t want to ruin anyone’s peace. I kept quiet, thinking maybe… maybe things would change. Maybe I was the problem. But I’ve tried everything. And now I can’t live a lie anymore.”

“This is all rubbish! I’ve been tolerating your daughter for two years,” my husband spat, his voice sharp and loud, “and I think it would be better if I divorce her right now.”

In that moment, I felt like every ounce of silence I had swallowed for two years turned into a scream inside me.

If only I had found the courage earlier. If only I had trusted myself enough.

Maybe I wouldn’t be standing here, shattered, humiliated.

I couldn’t hold it in anymore. My cries broke out loud—raw and helpless. With trembling fingers, I reached for the remote and played the video.

The footage appeared on the screen—him laughing, talking, and being intimate with her. A non-Muslim woman. His actual love.

Gasps filled the room.

His father slapped him hard.

His mother started hitting herself in shock, collapsing on the sofa, sobbing uncontrollably. But none of that comforted me.

I stood there, drowning in my own pain, my tears refusing to stop. Ammi wrapped her arms around me tightly. Abbu didn’t say a word. He just looked at me—eyes full of defeat. Of pain. Of shame.

I was their fourth child. Two brothers. One sister.

And somehow, I felt like a burden today. Like everyone had failed me—and I had failed myself.

No one had truly seen me these two years.

Every family function I attended alone, without my husband, they blamed me. My in-laws, society, even some relatives—they said it must be my fault.

And finally… after six long, suffocating weeks… I was released. Free from a tortured marriage that had never really begun.

But freedom didn’t taste sweet.

I felt locked in a room, even when I was outside.

I didn’t talk to anyone for days. I didn’t cry in front of people anymore, but inside—I was hollow.

I didn’t even know what I was mourning more:

Being free?

Or knowing Uzair was now married to someone else? There was no hope left in me.

My faith—something that had kept me going all my life—was now in pieces. Shattered. Crushed.

Still… I tried. Slowly, tearfully, I picked up those broken pieces and began placing them back in my heart—one by one.

I cried in front of my Allah, asking Him why. Why me? Why this life? Why this pain?

I knew it was wrong, but I felt like I didn’t deserve this many hardships.

I felt like a non-believer some days, and that scared me more than anything else. But still—I prayed. Even when my voice cracked. Even when I had no words left. Because something deep inside whispered that He was still listening.

I never asked my family about Uzair. Never asked anything. They were grieving too—more than they showed. They felt like they failed me. That they destroyed my life. Maybe they did. But I couldn’t blame them. Because pain, when it lives too long, turns everything silent.

It’s Nani’s 82nd birthday today.

She insisted I come. Not through anyone else—she herself called and asked. I could never say no to Nani, but even then, I hesitated.

These past few years had been nothing less than a tornado—sweeping through my life, leaving wreckage everywhere. Dreams, trust, faith… everything lay in pieces.

I felt hollow. Empty. Alone.

Ammi tried—she really tried. She would knock on my door every day, talk to me gently,

bring up small things to distract me, offer me my favorite food, my old books, anything. But I never left the room.

The maid served me my meals in silence.

I felt like a coward. A shadow. A disgrace. And somehow… like I deserved to be hidden. 

People came. Relatives. Neighbors. Some out of concern, others out of curiosity. Maybe some even came to comfort me—but all I could feel was shame. Their presence made me shrink into myself.

I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know if I’d ever be. And then there was Uzair.

He tried to call me. More than once. But I never picked up. Because he was the one person who could see right through me.

The only one who could talk to me in a way that might actually reach my broken parts and put me back together. And that terrified me.

Because what if—just what if—I let myself believe again? Let myself forget everything and start over?

What if I saw him… now married… now someone else’s?

How could I look into those same eyes that once gave me hope and now pretend they belonged to someone else?

It felt wrong. Disloyal. To my love for him.

Even now, after everything, I couldn’t bring myself to blame him. If only I had gathered the courage earlier… if only I had trusted myself… Maybe I would have confessed my feelings to him. Maybe it would have all turned out differently.

But I wasn’t confident enough. I wasn’t enough. And now, here I was—facing Nani’s invitation. Her soft voice in my memory, her gentle demand to see me again. And I knew… this wasn’t just about her birthday. It was her way of reaching out one last time—trying to pull me back into the world I had abandoned.

I wore a simple pink floral salwar kameez. Soft cotton, light on the skin—something I never wore before….but now life hardened around me. I didn’t bother with makeup or jewelry, just tied my hair back and stepped out, heart pounding like it was walking into battle.

Everyone was behaving... normal. Smiling, chatting, laughing—as if nothing had ever happened. As if I hadn’t been through a public, painful, humiliating mess. I was just there, among them. Their doll, dressed up for the day. Looked at. Whispered about when they thought I wasn’t listening.

I wasn’t sure if I was being pitied or mocked—or maybe I was imagining it all—but it didn’t matter. I still felt like a shadow cast into light too harsh.

Still, I walked up to Nani.

She looked frail but radiant in her own way—her eyes twinkled when she saw me. I bent

down and whispered a soft “Happy Birthday, Nani.” She held my hand tightly—longer than necessary—and didn’t let go until I looked her in the eye. There was something in her gaze. Not pity. Not worry. But knowing.

I couldn’t stay there long. The noise, the people, the weight of invisible questions—it all pressed against my chest.

So I slipped away quietly, walking down the long hallway toward her room—the one at the far corner of the house, away from the noise and laughter.

It was dim, quiet, and smelled like old books, sandalwood, and peace.

I closed the door gently behind me and sat near the window, breathing in the silence like it was oxygen. For the first time in what felt like forever, I allowed my shoulders to drop. But my calm lasted only seconds. Because outside the window, across the garden... I saw him.

Uzair.

And he was walking toward the house.

I quietly climbed into bed, pulling the blanket over myself, pretending to sleep. My heart pounded with the certainty that Uzair would come. I knew him too well.

A soft knock echoed on the door, followed by the creak of it slowly opening. I shut my eyes tighter, feigning calm, though inside I was a storm. I felt sixteen again—my heart racing wildly, just like it used to when Uzair was near.

“Don’t be silly… I know you’re wide awake,” his deep voice spoke, soft but unmistakable. The light flicked on. I squinted as my eyes adjusted.

This Uzair… he looked different, but familiar in all the ways that mattered. A neatly kept

beard framed his face, subtle but adding depth to his expressions. His eyes still carried that gentleness, but now held stories I didn’t know. His hair, combed in an old-fashioned way, reminded me of our teenage days. He must be thirty now, but to me, he was still that twenty-one-year-old boy I fell for… and never stopped loving.

“Then why would you turn on the light?” I whispered, slowly sitting up, careful not to meet his gaze—it felt too intense, too heavy with things unsaid.

“My little demon,” he said softly, brushing my hair back with the kind of affection that broke me. That scent… his scent… it hadn’t changed. And I hated myself for still remembering it, for still needing it. I flinched, pulling away.

“Sorry,” I said, voice cracking. “You should be with your dadi, not me.”

He sat down a little closer, ignoring the space I was trying to put between us. “They’ll survive,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t want to be another hot topic today. One scandal is enough, don’t you think?” Despite myself, I laughed. His accent—it had changed. There was a foreign rhythm to his words now. But his smile was the same. Just softer. Warmer. Sadder.

Then I saw it—tears gathering in his eyes. And like a mirror, mine spilled too. Before I knew how it happened, we were hugging tightly, desperately. I sobbed into his chest, and he held me, tapping my back in that old comforting way that always used to calm me.

“I missed you so much, my little demon,” he said, his voice hoarse, heavy with the weight of our years apart. Of what we lost. Or never had. I pulled back, wiping my tears, fixing my

dupatta like armor.

“Everything alright?” I asked, trying to sound composed.

“It’s not. But you’re here. And that makes it better,” he replied. That pierced through me.

“You should go,” I said sharply. “I don’t want anyone near me. Didn’t you hear them? I’m a walking havoc. Bad luck wrapped in fabric. You should stay away before it touches you too.” He blinked at me, pain flashing across his face. But I forced mine to stay neutral.

“I want to talk to you,” he said, inching closer again.

“And I don’t want to,” I snapped. “Can’t you see I’m avoiding you? Isn’t it obvious?”

“Obvious?” Uzair stepped back, his voice rising. “I’ve been trying to talk to you for years. Don’t you think you’ve avoided me enough already?”

“Yes, I’m avoiding you,” I snapped. “And please—go back to your family. Your wife. Maybe even your children.”

My voice trembled despite trying so hard to keep it steady. I bit my lower lip to stop the

tears, but they brimmed anyway. Every time I thought I was rebuilding myself, I shattered all over again. I couldn't stop loving him. Even after the divorce, when I felt maybe—just

maybe—I had a chance… what was I holding on to? He was married. I couldn’t propose love to a married man.

“That’s your problem,” he said coldly. “You never really tried to know me.”

I looked up, stung. “I never tried? What are you talking about? Just—leave me alone.” I clutched my head and bent down, trying to breathe, to hold myself together.

“Why can’t you just face the truth?” Uzair’s voice cracked, angry, pained. “Ya Allah, you are so stubborn sometimes—so unbelievably—”

He knelt beside me and tried to pull me up, but I was crying. The dam inside me, long held back, was breaking fast.

“I don’t want to know, Uzair. Please… just leave,” I begged, my voice barely a whisper. But he didn’t.

“Why ‘Uzair’ and not ‘bhai’, huh?” he suddenly yelled. “Why is it always Uzair with you? Why not ‘bhai’? Just say it!”

“You want to know why?” I shot up, my voice cracking as I screamed. “Because I can’t! I don’t want to call you bhai!”

He stared at me, breath heavy. “Why can’t you just say it, then? Why—”

“Because I love you, goddamn it!” I screamed, louder than I ever had in my life. “Can’t you see it?! All those years—I loved you! I couldn’t think of anyone else, I still can’t!”

My chest heaved. The living room down the corridor buzzed with distant laughter and clinking cups, but we were here—burning.

“Then why would you marry someone else?” Uzair's voice broke. “Why not tell me first? That day when I asked you, you just said, ‘yes, I’m marrying’. That’s it. No reason. No truth. Not even this so-called confession!”

“Because I was a coward!” I cried, choking. “I was scared you’d draw the line even clearer… maybe you never saw me as a woman. Maybe I was just your ‘little demon’.”

Uzair looked furious. “Have you ever seen me give nicknames to anyone else? It was always you. Only you. But you—” He swallowed hard. “You ruined it by getting married. I loved you, Umaima. I loved you.”

“Then who was that girl in your close friends list, huh? And your marriage—don’t say it’s all to please me, Uzair,” I said bitterly.

“I love you, Umaima!” he shouted, voice hoarse with pain. “It was always you. That girl?

Nothing. And the marriage—it never happened. I called it off the moment I found out about your divorce. It was my father’s wish, not mine. But I couldn’t marry anyone else. I won’t marry anyone else. It’s always been you.”

My eyes widened. “You said my name,” I whispered. “You… never called me by my name before.”

He stepped closer, cupping my tear-streaked face. “Umaima,” he repeated softly, as if tasting the word. “Not just my little demon… but my everything.”

Things became clearer in the days that followed, and soon after, Uzair and I were married— quietly, simply, and beautifully. It felt like my long, tear-filled prayers were finally being answered. Still, a part of me wondered: If only I had spoken up earlier… could I have spared myself all that suffering?

But was it worth it in the end? Yes. Because now, I was with him.

Uzair loved me—openly, sincerely—and he made sure to express it every single day. The world around us wasn’t entirely quiet. Some family members had their opinions—some loud, some judgmental, and some warm and accepting. But it was Nani who truly surprised me. She took my hands in hers, her frail fingers trembling, and whispered that she had always wanted this—me, married to Uzair.

And not long after blessing us, Nani passed away peacefully.