Chapter 27: 23. Past

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As I stood up with Zeeshan, preparing to leave the sitting area, I suddenly caught a snippet of a conversation from the group of ladies nearby.

My attention snapped toward them as the voice of my bua—sharp and cutting—pierced through the air.

"Areh dekhi tumne Hayaan ki biwi kitni saadi si hai, wou aur gareeb gharane se bhi hai. Meri beti tou us se laakh gunah sundar hai," she said, her words dripping with disdain.

"Aur ameer baap ki beti kya kami thi meri larki mein? Aairah se tou sundar hai, aur gori bhi... Hayaan tou heere jaise hai, uske liye kou heera hai pasand karte mei..."

I froze, the air around me thick with tension as her cruel words continued to ring in my ears. My blood began to boil, and I could feel my fists clenching instinctively, my jaw tight as a hot wave of anger surged through me. Every single word she uttered felt like a direct hit, not just against Aairah, but against everything I stood for.

I closed my eyes, trying to control the storm raging inside me. But as I opened them again, my gaze immediately found Aairah.

She was standing nearby, looking down at the floor, her posture stiff and her hands balled into tight fists. I could see the tension in her shoulders and the subtle trembling of her body. The pain in her eyes was unmistakable, and it ignited something deeper within me.

It was clear that her confidence, her innocence, was being shaken by the venom in my bua's words. My

heart ached as I watched her, and the protective instinct within me swelled. No one—no one—had the right to speak to her like that, to belittle her in front of others.

Aairah's eyes darted briefly toward me, and I could see a flicker of uncertainty. The weight of my bua's words had clearly struck her harder than I realized.

My fists tightened further as I struggled to compose myself, to find the right way to confront this without making things worse for Aairah.

I wanted to yell, to lash out, to silence my bua and her cruel remarks. But as I looked at Aairah again, I knew this wasn't just about confronting my bua—it was about protecting my wife, showing her that I would always stand by her, no matter what.

The room seemed to close in on me as I stood there, filled with rage yet determined to stay composed. I turned toward Zeeshan, my jaw still clenched, but I could feel my body trembling with the urge to say something. Anything.

It wasn't just about the words—it was about the hurt that they carried, the way they made Aairah feel less than what she truly was. And I couldn't let that happen. Not now. Not ever.

The tension in the room escalated, thickening the air with every word spoken. Zeeshan's voice rang out, sharp and unyielding as he turned to face my bua.

"Apko sharam nai aati apne he ghar ki bahu ke bare mein aise baat karte hue? Isi liye shayad apke shohar ne apko aur apki heere jesi beti ko dhake deke bahir nikaal diya, bua jee," he taunted, his glare cutting through the space between them.

My bua gasped, her expression a mix of shock and embarrassment. The words hit her like a slap, her self-assurance crumbling under the weight of the truth.

"Zeeshan, aise baat karte hain baron se? Be careful with what you're saying, there's press outside," my father interjected, his voice steady as he tried to regain control of the situation.

But I could see his eyes narrow, a flicker of anger hidden behind his calm demeanor. I, too, was struggling to control my rage.

"Dad, aise baron se aise hi baat karte hain! Why don't you say anything to your sister? She's speaking nonsense about bhabhi!" Zeeshan shot back, his voice rising with frustration. My father turned his attention back to my bua, his voice cold and firm.

"Shayena, you have no right to speak like this about the daughter-in-law of this house. It's a shameful act. If you can't say something nice, then at least keep quiet. And do you even know anything about Aairah? She's the perfect wife and daughter-in-law of this house. So just drop the topic."

The words hit their mark. Bua looked down, her shoulders slumping in defeat. She nodded quietly, but I could see no real remorse in her eyes. There was no guilt, no shame—the woman still believed she was in the right.

I could feel my anger rising again, and this time, it wasn't just for my bua—it was for Aairah. Turning back to face my bua, my voice was icy, every word a warning.

"Aapki beti itni achi hai tou uski shaadi kyu nahi karwate kahin aur? Meri biwi se baar baar compare karne se woh achi nahi ho sakti. Aairah un sab se alag hai. She's perfect for me, perfect for this family. Aur uske jaisa koi bhi nahi ban sakta—chahe kitne bhi heere lage ho aapke beti mein. Aur agar aap ne mere biwi ke baare mein ayenda aise baat ki tou ap jaanti hain darwaze ka raasta."

The words came out cold and final, leaving no room for argument. My bua's face drained of color as she absorbed the weight of my warning. She stood frozen, too afraid to speak again. There was no coming back from this for her.

I glanced at Aairah. She seated silentlyon the sitting area, her eyes downcast, but I could see the flicker of gratitude in them. She had been hurt, but I had made it clear that no one—no one—would ever speak ill of her again. I wasn't going to let anyone make her feel small or insignificant.

A deep breath escaped my chest as I turned away from my bua and toward Aairah, my hand instinctively reaching for hers. I would make sure that no one ever doubted her worth, not again. Not while I was standing beside her.

The moment I turned toward Aairah, I saw her face shift from the soft glow of happiness to a subtle sadness. She wanted to stop me, to tell me not to escalate things further, but my look silenced her.

I knew she didn't want me to get involved in the drama, yet this was more than just defending her—it was about making sure she never felt humiliated again.

I took a deep breath, reached into my pocket, and pulled out the bundle of cash I had been carrying. Without hesitation, I rolled it around her head, making sure everyone saw and she was surprised.

The act wasn't just a show; it was a statement—a symbol of how much I valued her, how much I was willing to stand up for her.

I turned and handed the money to my mother, the gesture still heavy with the weight of my words.

"Mama, yeh gareebon mein de deejiye ga. Meri khoobsoorat biwi par bohat buri nazar hain tou shayad uthar jayegi," I said loudly, my eyes flashing with a sharp edge as I glanced over at the ladies who had been whispering and judging. They fell silent, their expressions frozen.

I reached for Aairah's hand, ready to take her away from all the hurt and the noise, but she didn't move. Her eyes were still filled with uncertainty, and her hand clutched my collar slightly tighter, as if trying to find her own courage.

"Hayaan, mere peron mein mehendi hai... it's not dry," she whispered softly, her voice tinged with concern, almost embarrassed.

I looked around once, gauging the reactions of those around us. The attention was now shifted toward us, and I could feel the pressure mounting, but I didn't care.

I wasn't going to let her stand there, uncomfortable, with all eyes on her. With a smooth motion, I bent down, scooping her into my arms without hesitation.

Her gasp echoed in the silence. I could feel her body stiffen for a second, her eyes wide with surprise, her fingers clutching my shirt as if to steady herself.

But I didn't care. Her small gasp only fueled my determination. I carried her effortlessly in my arms, my steps steady and calm as I began walking toward the room.

She was quiet now, her face a mixture of shock and gratitude, and I could feel her eyes on me, but I didn't look back. I didn't need to.

My mind was focused only on her—on making sure she knew that at this moment, I was her protector.

As I walked through the corridor, my heart was strangely calm.

No one could touch her now. No one would dare say another word against her with me standing at her side.

My heart raced as I looked at her, still holding her hand gently.

"Aairah, apko bura tou nahi laga? Agar aisa hai tou mein maafi mang raha hoon," I said, my voice thick with worry. I could feel the weight of my words hanging in the air as I slowly guided her to sit on the bed.

The moment she settled down, I positioned myself near her feet, not wanting to impose, yet wanting to be close enough to offer her comfort.Her eyes, full of warmth and honesty, met mine.

"Nahi, Hayaan, apko maafi maangne ki koi zaroorat nahi hai. Mujhe bura nahi laga, bas thoda heran hui thi mein, lekin mein theek hoon. Apne hi kaha tha ke mere liye sirf apki feelings matter karti hain," she responded, her fingers still lightly grasping mine, a subtle gesture that spoke volumes about the trust she was extending toward me.

I placed my palm gently on her cheek, feeling the soft warmth of her skin. She held my hand in return, her fingers closing around it, seeking the comfort that only a moment like this could bring.

There was something deeply intimate about the way she did it, something unspoken, a silent plea for connection.

But before I could say anything more, the door knocked softly, disrupting the moment. A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I stood up reluctantly, the feeling of guilt still gnawing at me.

I walked toward the door and opened it, finding my mother and father standing there. My mother's face was etched with concern, and the sight of her instantly made my heart tighten.

"Aairah theek hai na?" My mother asked, her voice laced with worry as she glanced past me, looking at Aairah, searching her face for any signs of distress. I nodded quickly, opening the door wider to let them in.

As my mother stepped in, she moved towards Aairah with a comforting grace, her arms wrapping around her in a tight hug.

Aairah closed her eyes, sinking into the embrace like she had been starved for affection.

In that moment, I realized how much she needed this—the warmth, the solace that only a mother's touch could provide.

And yet, it was something I hadn't been able to give her, and the thought made me feel like a failure.

"My baby, are you alright?" My mother's voice was soft, almost broken as she apologized.

"I'm sorry from her side." Aairah pulled back slightly, her eyes still closed, but she smiled softly.

"Mom, you don't have to apologize. Apki koi galti nahi hai. Aur Hayaan already apologized, it's fine." Her voice was calm, but I could sense the unspoken depth of gratitude in it. My mother, slightly taken aback, raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"He did?" she asked teasingly, her eyes flicking toward me, a playful glint in them.

I felt my face flush as I nervously rubbed the back of my neck, avoiding eye contact. I hated that they were drawing attention to something I wasn't entirely comfortable with.

"Aairah agay se apko aise koi baat sune ko nai milege yeh mera wada hai or meri behen ki tickets karli hai book maine jani ki, I am sorry frim her side" My father said placing his head on her head Aairah was surprised then, her face sincere, though still touched by the support.

"Baba, aap aisa kuch na karein, mujhe sach mein koi masla nahi hai. Mein bilkul theek hoon. Aur Bua jee toh shadi attend karne aayin, unko aise na bheje, acha nahi lagta." She spoke with such earnestness that it almost surprised me, her concern for others despite everything weighing on her heart.

My father smiled at her, his expression softening as he reached out to gently tap her head, giving her his blessing.

"Tumhari soch bohot achi hai, beti," he said, his voice warm with pride.

But then his demeanor changed, and he turned to me with a serious expression that instantly caught my attention.

"Hayaan, I need to talk to you. Come." His tone left no room for questions, and I followed him as he walked out of the room, my heart beginning to beat faster with the anticipation of whatever was coming next.

We walked into his office, the door closing softly behind us. As I took a seat across from him, I couldn't shake the unease that was crawling up my spine.

He tossed a newspaper in front of me, the pages rustling as they hit the table with a sharp sound.

"Have you seen this?" he asked, his voice low and serious. "Do you know who is against you in the elections?" I rolled my eyes, already knowing the drill.

"Baba, mujhe maloom hai. Koi bada businessman hai, uska beta hai, usne apna naam confidential rakha hai." I had done my research, but I found nothing.

It was just a name with no face, no trace. It was the kind of challenge I had been expecting, but not quite like this.

He didn't respond immediately, and instead, he leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he stared at me. Then, he dropped the bombshell.

"That businessman," he said slowly, his voice thick with meaning, "is none other than your father—Shayan Sikandar. And his only son, your stepbrother, is fighting against you."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "Your father—Shayan Sikandar." My breath hitched in my chest, the air suddenly thick and suffocating.

My father.

The man who had abandoned us years ago, leaving nothing but a trail of pain and broken promises behind. And now, he was back—again, attempting to destroy everything I had built.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips, the sound hollow and devoid of humor. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms, grounding me as my mind spun in a whirlwind of confusion and fury.

How could he? After all these years of silence, of abandonment, he was back, and now he wanted to tear down the very thing I had worked my whole life to build.

The anger burned in my veins like wildfire.

But as the shock faded, something darker began to stir in my gut—a feeling I had long buried deep inside me, a truth I had refused to acknowledge for so long.

I remember the whispers in the house when I was younger—half-heard conversations, hushed voices, my mother's tear-streaked face when she thought I wasn't paying attention. She never said anything directly, but I knew. I had known all along, even as a child.

The realization now, years later, crushed me again, a deeper wound than I had ever realized.

And now, he was back. My mind raced, overwhelmed with shock, confusion, and burning anger. Why was he doing this? Why now? Was he trying to ruin everything for me?

It wasn't just politics now. It was personal. He had come back to destroy everything I had worked for, just like he had destroyed something back.

I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to steady my breath. My fingers curled into fists at my sides, my body shaking with the weight of my emotions. The anger burned in my veins, and the ache in my chest wouldn't go away.

How had I been so blind all these years? How had I allowed myself to hope that one day, he would show up, apologize, and make things right? But he was still the same man who had left us broken. He never cared.

The betrayal wasn't just in his absence—it was in his return, in his attempt to tear me down. And I couldn't let him. Not this time.

I sat on the couch, hugging my knees to my chest as though it might shield me from the storm raging in my heart. The silence of the room pressed down on me, amplifying every thought, every memory I had worked so hard to bury.

Sufiyan's words from earlier played on a loop in my head: "Just give us a chance."

A chance? How could I, when trust felt like a foreign concept, when my heart was still piecing itself together from the wreckage of my past?

I couldn't bear to explain it to him. I couldn't risk being vulnerable again. My past incident is still fresh in my mind. I still remember it evidently.

Junaid Ahmed, the worst mistake of my life.

I remember the day everything fell apart as if it were yesterday. The day I lost not only the man I thought I would spend my life with, but also the person I trusted more than anyone else—my best friend and my family.

It had started innocently enough. We fell in love while doing internship, his family background was not good, but he was so nice with me.

My parents were against it but somehow they got agreement after a lot of forcing done by me. The wedding preparations were in full swing, and though I was exhausted, I was happy—or at least I thought I was.

I had spent years believing he was the one, the person who would make all my broken pieces feel whole again. But beneath that illusion, something darker had been brewing.

The first sign was the distance. He became colder, distracted, his smiles more strained. I asked him if everything was okay, but he always had an excuse—a work deadline, wedding stress, anything but the truth.

I told myself it was normal, that he was just overwhelmed. After all, my best friend was always by my side, reassuring me. She said, "You're overthinking, Hala. He loves you. You'll see." I believed her. I believed him.

The truth came crashing down on me a week before the wedding. I had stopped by his apartment, hoping to surprise him with his favorite coffee and to discuss last-minute details. But when I opened the door, I found them together—my best friend and my fiancé.

The flashback hit me.

My hands trembled, the coffee cup I had brought him slipping from my fingers and shattering on the floor. The sound startled them, but it felt like the perfect representation of my heart—broken into so many pieces that I could never put it back together.

He didn't even flinch.

He stood there, shirtless, as if his betrayal was something ordinary, something I should have expected. My best friend—my best friend—quickly grabbed her clothes, fumbling to cover herself, but she didn't meet my eyes.

That silence, that refusal to even acknowledge what they had done, made my blood run cold.

"Hala," he said, his voice calm, as if he was discussing the weather. "This isn't what you think."

I let out a bitter laugh, though it sounded foreign to my ears.

"Not what I think?" I said, my voice shaking. "You're in bed with her, and you have the audacity to tell me it's not what I think?"

He ran a hand through his hair, sighing as if I were exhausting him. "Look, this isn't working, okay? Us. It hasn't been working for a long time. You've been too blind to see it."

His words sliced through me like a knife. "Too blind to see it?" I repeated, my voice rising. "I've been planning our wedding, dreaming of our future, and you've been sneaking around with her? My best friend?"

"She's not the problem," he said, his tone sharp. "You're the problem, Hala. You're so desperate to control everything, so needy, it's suffocating."

I felt my breath catch in my throat, my chest tightening as his words hit me.

"Suffocating?" I whispered. "I gave you everything. I trusted you. I trusted her."

Finally, my so-called best friend spoke. Her voice was quiet, trembling, but it felt like another betrayal.

"Hala, I didn't mean for this to happen," she said, tears streaming down her face. "It just... it just happened."

"It just happened?" I repeated, laughing bitterly. "You don't accidentally fall into bed with someone's fiancé, Sana." She opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off.

"Hala, don't act like a victim here," he said coldly. "You're not some saint. I've seen the way your colleague looks at you. Your so called dates and sneaking around Don't think I don't know about your little affair."

My mind went blank for a moment, his accusation so absurd that I could hardly process it.

"What are you talking about?" I managed to say. "I've never—"

"Don't lie," he snapped, his voice growing louder.

"People talk, Hala. I know you've been spending time with him, laughing with him, going out for lunch. You think I wouldn't notice?"

Tears blurred my vision as I shook my head, trying to make sense of the madness.

"He's just a colleague," I said, my voice breaking. "A friend. Nothing more. I would never—"

"Save it," he interrupted, waving me off like I was nothing. "You're no better than me."

My legs almost gave out, but I hold myself up longer. My chest heaved with sobs, the humiliation, the betrayal, the sheer cruelty of his words crashing down on me all at once.

I looked at her, the woman I had shared everything with—my secrets, my fears, my dreams.

"How could you do this to me?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. She stepped back, her face pale.

"I didn't mean for it to happen, Hala. But... I love him."

That was it. Those three words shattered the last piece of me. "You love him?" I repeated, laughing bitterly through my tears. "And what about me? What about our friendship? Was that nothing to you?"

She didn't respond, and that silence was enough.

He stepped forward then, towering over me, his face twisted with disgust. "You're pathetic, Hala," he said, his voice dripping with contempt.

"Crying like this. Maybe if you weren't so weak, so desperate, I wouldn't have had to look elsewhere."

I felt my stomach churn, bile rising in my throat. I wanted to scream, to lash out, to tell him how wrong he was, but the words wouldn't come. His words had stripped me bare, leaving me exposed, broken, and humiliated.

He laughed then, a cold, heartless sound. "You think you're so perfect, Hala, but you're not. You're clingy, overbearing, not my type and frankly, you're not enough for me. I deserve someone who understands me. Someone like her."

I felt the ground give way beneath me. His words tore through me, each one sharper than the last. Not enough. Those two words echoed in my mind, drowning out everything else.

I turned to leave. But before I walked out the door, I looked back at them one last time. "You can have each other, " I said, my voice hoarse. "You deserve each other losers."

I don't remember how I got out of there. I only remember the crushing weight of betrayal, the humiliation, the way my heart shattered into a million pieces.

The man I loved, the woman I trusted—they had destroyed me, and for what? Lies? Convenience? Their selfish desires?

In the days that followed, the news spread like wildfire. The wedding was canceled, and people whispered about how I must have driven him away, how I was the one who had failed. No one cared to hear my side.

I became a spectacle, a cautionary tale of a woman who couldn't hold onto her man.

Since then, I've been trying to pick up the pieces, but nothing fits anymore. His words, her betrayal, the whispers of people who heard their twisted version of events—they haunt me.

Every time I try to trust someone, I hear his voice: "You're pathetic." Every time I think of friendship, I see her face: "I didn't mean for it to happen."

And when I thought the worst was over I walked out of their lives—the man I loved, the best friend I trusted. But nothing could have prepared me for what came next.

It wasn't just the whispers of strangers or the cruel remarks from people I barely knew. It was the people who should have been my support, my foundation—my family.

I walked into my parents' home, hoping for solace, hoping to find refuge from the storm that had torn through my heart. But the moment I stepped through the door, the coldness hit me like a slap in the face.

My mother was the first to speak, her voice sharp and filled with disappointment. "Where have you been, Hala?" she asked, barely looking up from her knitting, as though my presence no longer mattered.

"We've been worried sick."

But her words weren't the worst of it. As soon as I sat down, my father's heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway.

He came into the room, his face hard, his eyes narrowed. He didn't speak right away, but the silence between us was thick with judgment.

Finally, he broke it. "I hope you realize what you've done, Hala," he said, his voice low, but filled with an anger that I'd never heard before. "You've shamed this family. The entire neighborhood is talking about you. You made a fool of yourself."

My heart dropped. The shame I had already been carrying, the brokenness in my chest, felt like it was magnified under the weight of his words. "What do you mean?" I whispered, struggling to keep my voice steady.

"Don't pretend you don't know," he spat. "You think your mother and I haven't heard the gossip? That we haven't seen the way people look at us? Everyone's talking about you—how you were too desperate, too weak, to keep a man, and how your so-called best friend stabbed you in the back. You're the reason this is all happening."

His words were like daggers, piercing my already fragile heart. He didn't look at me with sympathy or love—only disgust.

I tried to say something, to defend myself, but the words caught in my throat. How could I explain the depth of the betrayal, the heartbreak, when all they saw was a girl who had failed to live up to their expectations?

"You think you're the only one who's hurt?" My mother's voice cut through the tension. She finally looked at me, her eyes cold, no trace of warmth left.

"What about us? What about our reputation? We've raised you better than this, Hala. This shame, this embarrassment—it's on you."

I shook my head, unable to understand what she was saying. "What do you mean, it's on me?" I asked, my voice trembling. "I didn't do anything. I didn't betray anyone. He—he—" But I couldn't even say it. The betrayal was too deep, and I couldn't bear to relive it again, especially not with them.

"You chose to be with him, didn't you?" My father's voice was harsh, cutting through the air. "You chose to ignore all the warning signs, all the things we tried to tell you. And now look where we are. You've ruined everything."

I felt my throat tighten, the tears I'd been holding back finally spilling over. "I didn't ruin anything," I choked out. "He—he left me. He cheated on me. She cheated on me. I didn't do anything wrong."

But they just stared at me. My father's eyes softened for a second, but only for a moment. "And what about your colleague, Hala?" he asked, his voice dripping with suspicion.

"Everyone is saying you were seeing him behind his back. Is that true?"

The accusations were too much. I couldn't even process the weight of the lies they were believing about me. My family, the people I thought would stand by me, were now turning their backs. Blaming me.

"No, it's not true!" I cried, feeling the desperation in my voice. "I swear, I never did anything with him. I would never—"

"Enough," my father interrupted, his voice cold and final.

"You're not a little girl anymore. You need to take responsibility for your actions. We'll deal with the damage later, but for now, you need to get out of here. We can't have you bringing more disgrace into this house I have booked your ticket for Australia to vanish from our eyes for some time, complete your two year internship there then we will call you back"

The words hit me like a physical blow, my breath coming in shallow gasps. This was my home, my family, and yet, in their eyes, I was nothing but a stain on their reputation. I had never felt so alone in my life.

I stood up, my legs unsteady, and turned to leave.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, though the apology wasn't for me. It was for them—for failing to meet their impossible standards.

I walked out of the house I had once called home, feeling the full weight of the shame they had placed on me. I didn't know what I was supposed to do, but one thing was clear: my family, the ones who were supposed to protect me, had just confirmed what I had feared the most.

They didn't see me as a victim. They saw me as the cause of all the pain, the disgrace, and the broken trust. In their eyes, I was nothing more than a failure. And that hurt more than anything else.

Since then, I've built walls around my heart so high, even I can't see over them. Trust feels like a luxury I can't afford. Every kind word, every friendly gesture—it all feels tainted, like a trap waiting to snap shut. Because if the people who claimed to love me could betray me so easily, how could I ever believe in anyone else?

I carry the weight of that humiliation with me every day. I've learned to smile through the pain, to act like it doesn't haunt me, but deep down, the scars remain. They're a reminder that love can hurt, that trust can be broken, and that sometimes, the people you hold closest are the ones who will cut you the deepest.

I don't know if I'll ever be whole again. Maybe some wounds aren't meant to heal. Maybe some betrayals are too deep to forgive.

This wedding happened because my father forced me because it might change our reputation. The scar I left on their name might get change.

But I never thought in my dreams that he would ask for a chance.

So Distance was safer—distance was necessary.

So I decided to sleep on the couch. I pulled the blanket up to my chin, as if that could shield me from the feelings I didn't want to face. But just as I thought I might be able to settle into the stillness, I heard his footsteps behind me.

"Hala," his voice was soft, steady, but it startled me anyway.

I didn't turn around. I didn't want to look at him.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked.

"I'm sleeping here," I said, keeping my voice even.

"Why, " His tone held confusion, but also concern.

I tightened my grip on the blanket, refusing to meet his gaze.

"I need space," I mumbled. "I'm creating distance.

I could feel his eyes on me, weighing my words. A part of me hoped he would leave, but another part—a quieter, more fragile part—wanted him to stay.

"Pagal hogyi ho tum, konsi dawayi laun tumhare dimaagko theek karne ke liye" He mocked me.

I shot him a glare, though I couldn't quite mask the way my heart fluttered at his playful tone.

"I don't need medicine, I am fine " I shot back, trying to sound defiant, even as the sadness lingered in my chest.

"I just need you to listen for once."He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by my response.

"Oh, I'm listening," he said with a smirk. "But are you sure you know what you need? I huffed, crossing my arms as I looked away.

"You're impossible," I muttered under my breath, trying to push away the warmth spreading across my face.

He stepped closer, his voice softening slightly. "I'll give you space, but just know, I'm not going anywhere. You can't get rid of me that easily yeh faltu harkat karktou bilkul nai."

"Tumhe samjh nai ata kya? Kyun mere peeche pare ho, I don't trust you I don't need you Sufiyaan."

For a moment, he didn't say anything. I thought he might finally walk away, but instead, he stepped closer and knelt in front of me.

I tensed, but he didn't seem to notice—or maybe he didn't care.

"Hala," he said softly, "tumhe mujh par bharosa karne ki zarurat nahi hai abhi. Lekin mujhe ek moka to do. Sirf ek."

Before I could react, he reached out and scooped me into his arms. I gasped, my hands instinctively clutching his shirt as he lifted me off the couch.

"Sufiyan!" I exclaimed, my heart racing. "Kya kar rahe ho? Mujhe neeche utaro!"

"No," he said firmly, his voice steady but quiet.

I struggled, but it was half-hearted. There was something about the way he held me—gentle but unyielding—that made me feel both furious and... safe.

"Sufiyan, yeh galat hai," I muttered, looking away.

"Galat toh yeh hai ke tum mujhse door ja rahi ho," he replied, his tone softening. He carried me into the bedroom, his steps steady, and placed me gently on the bed.

I wanted to get up, to insist on returning to the couch, but the look in his eyes held me still.

"Tum samajhte kyu nahi ho," I said, my voice trembling. "Main toot chuki hoon, Sufiyan. Mujh mein ab kuch nahi bacha."

His hand reached for mine, his fingers threading through mine in a way that felt so natural it made my chest ache.

"Toota hua kuch bhi joda ja sakta hai, Hala," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Main tumhare saath woh hissa banna chahta hoon jo tumhe phir se jod sake."

I blinked, tears threatening to spill over as I looked at him.

"Tumhare liye yeh sab kyun zaroori hai?" I asked, my voice breaking. His thumb brushed gently over the back of my hand.

"Kyunki tum ab zaroori hogyo ho mereliye," he said simply.

His words left me speechless. No one had ever said anything like that to me before—not with that kind of sincerity.

"Tum samajhte nahi ho ke yeh itna asaan nahi hai mere liye," I whispered.

"Main samajhta hoon," he said, leaning closer, his forehead almost touching mine.

My breath hitched, and a tear slipped down my cheek. He reached out, brushing it away with a tenderness that made my heart ache.

"Main sirf ek moka maang raha hoon," he murmured. "Tumhare saath rehne ka, tumhe samajhne ka."

For a moment, I hesitated. Every instinct I had screamed at me to push him away, to protect myself. But something in his eyes—something unwavering, something so real—made me pause.

"Theek hai let me think about it okay ," I whispered finally, the words barely audible trying to close the conversation.

I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, my mind still reeling from the way Sufiyan had carried me there.

My heart was thundering in my chest, but it wasn't just from the shock of him lifting me, it was from the way his eyes had locked onto mine, full of intent, like he could see right through me.

His words echoed in my mind, heavy and impossible to ignore. I wasn't sure I could handle the weight of it all.

Sufiyan sat beside me, his gaze never leaving my face. I could feel his eyes on me, almost as if he was trying to piece together the fragments of my silence, to read every unspoken word in the turmoil I couldn't hide.

The intensity of it made me want to shrink away, but I stayed still, my breath shallow and uneven.

After a few moments, he leaned back, propping himself up on one elbow, his expression softening just a fraction.

"I know you're still thinking about running away," he said quietly, his voice surprisingly gentle, with a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I can see it in your eyes."

I turned my head sharply, my brows knitting together instinctively.

"I'm not running," I said defensively, though my voice lacked conviction. In truth, my mind was screaming at me to run—to flee from the emotions he was making me confront.

But I couldn't bring myself to say the words aloud, not when a part of me, the part I was too afraid to acknowledge, wanted him to stay.

He studied me for a moment, that faint smile still on his lips.

"Good," he said, his voice steady but warm, something I didn't know how to handle.

"Because no matter how far you go, I'll always find my way back to you."

The audacity of his words made me scoff lightly, shaking my head in disbelief.

"You make it sound so easy," I muttered bitterly. "Like I can just forget everything and give this marriage a chance to live happily ever after seriously tumhare to tever he badal gaye gai hain.

He leaned closer then, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. His hand, warm and sure, reached for mine.

His fingers brushed over my knuckles, tentative at first, before gently intertwining with mine. The touch was careful, almost as if he were asking permission, though I wasn't sure what I could give him.

"I don't expect it to be easy," he said softly, his voice a low murmur. "And even I didn't realize how I got changed for you.

I swallowed hard, my gaze dropping to our joined hands, the contact making my chest tighten in ways I wasn't prepared for.

His touch was so gentle, so deliberate, it made my insides ache. I wanted to pull away, to put up the walls again, but something inside me told me that if I did, I might lose him.

"Why?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, as I turned to look at him.

"Why do you even care, Sufiyan? This marriage wasn't your choice either. You can walked away, started fresh and find someone else because I am not good for you, you deserve someone better ."

He paused, his thumb brushing the back of my hand in slow, soothing circles. His touch was like a balm, but it only made the rawness inside me sting more.

"Because I see you, Hala," he said softly, as if the words were an intimate confession.

"Not the version of you that's guarded, not the one that's been hurt. I see the person you are underneath all of that. Strong, kind, brave... even if you don't believe it yet and about deserving someone better then become better for me because I want you."

His words hit me harder than I expected. I felt my breath hitch, my heart tripping over itself as his kindness wrapped around me like a promise.

No one had ever spoken to me like this, as if I mattered, as if I wasn't just a shadow of who I used to be. I blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill.

I tried to pull my hand away, but he held firm—not enough to trap me, but enough to make me realize that he wasn't going anywhere. His presence, unwavering, unsettled me in ways I couldn't explain.

"You deserve to be loved, Hala," he continued, his voice carrying a quiet intensity.

"Not because of what you've been through, but because of who you are. And I want to be the one who shows you that."

The tears I had been holding back finally spilled over, one tear slipping down my cheek, despite myself. I turned my face away, trying to hide the weakness that I couldn't control.

"You don't know what you're saying," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I'm a mess, Sufiyan. I'm not what you think I am."

He didn't let go of my hand. Instead, his grip tightened slightly, not to stop me, but to reassure me. His free hand moved gently to cup my cheek, turning my face back toward him. His touch was soft, but the look in his eyes was steady, unwavering.

"Then show me," he said, his voice barely audible.

"Show me the mess, Hala. Show me the parts you think no one could love. I'll still be here."

His words, so simple, yet so profound, pierced me in a way nothing else ever had. No one had ever asked to see the parts of me I kept hidden, the parts I had convinced myself were unworthy of love.

And yet, here he was, asking me to show him, telling me that no matter what I revealed, he would still be there.

At that moment, the world seemed to stop. Everything faded into the background, and all I could focus on was him. My walls, the ones I had spent so long building, began to crack, just a little.

I didn't know if I could let him in fully, but I couldn't deny the warmth spreading through me, a warmth that had been missing for far too long.

"Sufiyan," I began, my voice faltering, but he cut me off with a soft shush.

"Shh," he murmured, pressing his forehead to mine, the warmth of his skin making my heart ache in a way I wasn't sure how to deal with.

"I don't need you to say anything right now. Just... let me stay here. With you. Forget everything"

His words wrapped around me like a blanket, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I allowed myself to relax, just a little. My body, tense and afraid, softened against him, my eyes fluttering closed.

"Okay," I whispered, the word feeling heavier than I expected, like a tentative promise that I wasn't sure I was ready to keep but desperately wanted to.

Sufiyan smiled, his arms wrapping around me protectively. As he held me close, I felt the faintest glimmer of hope—fragile, but real.

Maybe, just maybe, I didn't have to face this darkness alone. Maybe, just maybe, I could find my way back to the person I used to be, with him by my side.

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