7.

"Leave alone what does not concern you, and leave alone what does not belong to you,"

—Imam Ali as

3rd person POV

The wedding preparations had reached their peak, transforming the house into a bustling hub of activity. Laughter, instructions, and the hum of anticipation filled every corner. Anam moved through it all quietly, her hands busy with chores, her face carrying a soft smile that masked the storm brewing inside her. She had become the silent force keeping everything in place, the one who worked tirelessly but was hardly noticed. It was better that way, she thought... better to remain invisible than to confront the ache in her heart that grew heavier with each passing day.

Each passing moment seemed to reinforce the finality of the situation. Seher and Feras's names were spoken together so frequently that it felt as if they were already joined. The casual way the family referred to them as a pair twisted something deep inside her, but she refused to let it show. She had trained herself to be composed, to push her emotions aside and focus on what needed to be done.

The dholki was the first major event of the wedding. Women gathered in the brightly lit living room, singing traditional songs and clapping along to the beat of the dhol. The atmosphere was joyous, with Seher at the center of it all, dancing and laughing freely. Anam stood on the periphery, clapping softly, her practiced smile never faltering. Yet, her heart felt heavy, weighed down by the knowledge that this was all leading to a union she was struggling to accept.

As the night wore on, Ayub approached her, tugging at her arm. "Api, you've done enough today. Come sit with me for a while."

"I'm fine, Ayub," Anam said, shaking her head with a small smile. "There's still tea to serve."

"You're always fine," Ayub muttered, clearly frustrated. She grabbed Anam's hand, pulling her toward a quieter corner of the house. "You can't keep ignoring how you feel."

Anam stiffened. "Ayub, not now. Please."

"Then when?" Ayub hissed, lowering her voice. "After the nikah? After he's married to her? Api, you love him, and you're letting this happen like it doesn't matter."

Anam took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Ayub, this isn't about what I want. It's about what's right. Feras is older, wiser, and he's chosen this. We have to respect that."

Ayub's eyes burned with unshed tears. "I know, I know, you've already said it dozens of times... he's older, wiser, etc... But. You're too good, Api. You're always sacrificing yourself for everyone else. But what about you? Don't you deserve happiness?"

Anam forced a smile, patting her sister's hand. "My happiness lies in Allah's plan. If this is His will, then I accept it."

Ayub opened her mouth to argue, but the sound of approaching footsteps made her stop. Ayaan appeared, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced with a serious expression.

"Anam, Feras bhai wants to speak with you," he said, his voice tinged with hesitation.

Anam's heart skipped a beat, but she quickly composed herself. "Unoone kuch btaya, ke kyu bula rhe hain?" (Did he tell you the reason for calling me?)

Ayaan shook his head. "No, but he's in his study room. You should go."

For a moment, Anam felt rooted to the spot. Then she nodded and made her way to the study, her pulse racing. She knocked softly on the door and heard Feras's deep voice call out, "Come in."

She entered, keeping her gaze lowered as she always did in his presence. He was seated behind the desk, his sharp features illuminated by the warm light of the desk lamp. He looked up as she stepped inside, his expression unreadable.

"You didn't join the shopping trip," he said, his tone calm but probing.

Anam clasped her hands in front of her, her voice steady. "Chachi asked me to stay back and oversee the decorators."

Feras frowned slightly. "You should've gone. It's not your job to handle everything."

"I didn't mind," she replied softly, avoiding his gaze. "There was a lot to be done."

He studied her for a moment, then sighed, leaning back in his chair. "You work too hard, Anam. You need to take care of yourself."

Anam's heart ached at the unexpected concern in his voice, but she quickly pushed the feeling aside. "I'm fine, Feras bhai. Is there anything else you needed?"

His jaw tightened at her use of "bhai," but he said nothing. "No, that's all. You can go."

Anam turned to leave, but his voice stopped her. "Anam."

She froze, glancing back at him. His gaze was piercing, as if he was searching for something in her expression. But he didn't say anything more, and after a moment, she left the room, her heart heavier than before.

The mehndi ceremony was vibrant, with fairy lights twinkling under the evening sky and a swing adorned with marigold garlands taking center stage. Seher sat on the swing, her hands and feet decorated with intricate henna patterns. Guests clapped and sang, passing trays of sweets and sherbet. Anam worked tirelessly in the background, ensuring the guests were comfortable, the food was served on time, and every detail went smoothly.

She couldn't stop her eyes from drifting toward Feras, who stood near the entrance, his sharp features illuminated by the warm glow of the lights. He watched everything with a detached calm, his expression unreadable. Once or twice, their gazes met, and Anam quickly looked away, her heart hammering in her chest. She reminded herself of her prayer, of Imam Ali's quote: leave alone what does not belong to you. It became her mantra, a shield she used to guard her fragile heart.

Later that night, as the house grew quiet, Anam sat on her prayer mat, her knees pressed to the cool fabric. She had performed ablution with slow, deliberate movements, her body and mind preparing for the solace of prayer. She poured her heart out in sujood, her forehead pressed to the ground as tears flowed freely.

Ya Allah, this love is a test, and I accept it as such. Take it from my heart and replace it with Your love, with patience and contentment in Your decree. Let me find peace in what You have planned for me.

When she finished, she felt lighter, though the ache hadn't entirely disappeared. It was a small step, but it was enough to carry her through another day.

The following days passed in a blur of ceremonies and preparations. The sangeet was a lively affair, filled with music, dancing, and laughter. Anam watched from the sidelines, her hands folded in her lap, as Seher and Feras were pulled to the dance floor by their cousins. She smiled at the scene, but her heart felt like it was being torn in two.

Ayub sat beside her, fuming. "I can't stand this," she muttered under her breath. "How can they all act like this is normal?"

"Lower your voice," Anam whispered back, glancing around nervously. "People will hear you."

"I don't care," Ayub retorted, her eyes blazing. "Feras bhai doesn't belong with her. He doesn't even like her."

Anam didn't respond. Instead, she focused on her hands, silently repeating her prayer for patience and strength. Ya Allah, guide me through this storm. Let me find peace in Your wisdom.

As the ceremonies continued, Anam worked harder to bury her feelings. She immersed herself in the tasks at hand, refusing to let her emotions overwhelm her. But late at night, when the house was quiet, she allowed herself to feel the weight of her sorrow. She prayed fervently, asking Allah to help her let go, to free her from the chains of a love that could never be.

The night before the nikah, the house was filled with a tense excitement. The final preparations were being made, and everyone seemed to be running on nerves and adrenaline. Anam stayed up late, helping Ayub iron her clothes for the next day.

"Are you okay, Api?" Ayub asked suddenly, her voice soft.

Anam looked up, surprised. "Why do you ask?"

"You've been so quiet lately," Ayub said, sitting beside her. "I know this isn't easy for you."

Anam forced a smile, placing a hand on her sister's shoulder. "I'm fine, Ayub. I've made my peace with it."

But Ayub wasn't convinced. She watched her sister carefully, her heart aching for her. She wished she could do something, anything, to ease Anam's pain. But for now, all she could do was stand by her and hope that time would heal her wounds.

As Anam lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, she whispered one final prayer. Ya Allah, let me find solace in Your plan. Replace this longing with contentment, and guide me to what is best for me. With that, she closed her eyes, ready to face whatever the next day would bring.