The college campus was louder than usual that afternoon—laughter echoing through corridors, students hurrying to and fro, the usual chaos of youth and ambition. But Ayaan Raheel Shah walked through it all like a man detached from his surroundings, his mind somewhere else entirely.

He sat on the steps outside the lecture hall with Yasir and a few other boys when she appeared.

Everyone noticed her.

Long, glossy hair, confident stride, expensive perfume—sahar(that was her name) was the kind of girl who didn't wait for boys to approach her. Boys approached her. And today, her eyes were fixed on Ayaan.

She stopped right in front of him, folding her arms with a playful smile.
"Hey Ayaan... you missed me today in class," she said lightly, tilting her head.

Ayaan didn't even look up from his phone.

Yasir nearly choked on his laughter.
"Bro... do you realize who that is?" he whispered. "That's sahar. Half the college is in love with her, and she's standing right in front of you."

Sahar leaned closer, clearly enjoying the attention.
"So... are you free after class? We could grab coffee," she offered.

Still nothing.

Ayaan slipped his phone into his pocket, stood up, and walked past her as if she were invisible.

The boys burst into laughter.

"Are you insane?" one of them shouted after him. "She wants to date you!"

sahar's smile faltered, humiliation flashing briefly across her face before she turned away.

Ayaan didn't care.

He walked quickly through the corridor, straight into an empty classroom, and closed the door behind him with a thud. The room was silent, dust floating in the sunlight through the windows. He leaned against the wall, running a hand through his hair.

Almost a month. Almost a month since he had last properly spoken to Dua. No calls. Barely any messages. Just silence. And that silence was killing him.

"Why does everything feel so... wrong without you?" he murmured to the empty room.

Girls, college, jokes—none of it mattered. None of it calmed the storm inside him. Only one name did.

Dua.

His phone vibrated in his hand as if it already knew his decision. Tomorrow her exams were starting. If he didn't talk to her now, he didn't know when he would get the chance again.

With a deep breath, he dialed her number.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then—

"Hello"

Her voice.

Soft, tired, but still warm.

"Dua..." Ayaan breathed out her name like it was a prayer. 

"Ayaan?" she sounded surprised but not upset. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah... I mean—no... I mean..." He gave a small nervous laugh. "I just wanted to hear your voice. Your exams start next week, right?"

"Yes," she replied quietly. "I'm really nervous. But also excited."

"You'll do great," he said instantly. "I've seen how hard you work. You're already a doctor in my eyes."

She smiled on the other side of the line, he could hear it in her voice.
"Thank you. That means a lot."

There was a small pause.

"Dua," Ayaan said softly, "it's been so long. I feel like... everything is moving so fast and I'm just stuck here waiting for you." you didn't even talk to me now, no message, no calls."

"I'm sorry," she said gently. "I've been buried in books. After these exams, things will get easier." I promise i will come to meet you as soon as possible."

"I know," he said. "I just wanted you to know... I'm here. No matter what."

Another pause. A deeper one.

"Wish me luck," she whispered.

"Always," he replied. "I'll pray for you."

When the call ended, Ayaan slowly lowered his phone, a small, bittersweet smile on his lips.

For a few moments, the restlessness inside him finally quieted.

But somewhere deep in his heart, a strange unease remained—as if fate was holding its breath, waiting to strike.

___

The night had quietly settled over Dua's hostel, wrapping the old building in a hush that only exam season could bring. The usually noisy corridors were subdued—doors closed, lights glowing softly through half-drawn curtains, the air thick with tension and whispered prayers.

Dua sat at her small wooden desk, surrounded by open books, highlighters, and scattered notes. Her medical finals were just hours away. The pages in front of her were filled with words she knew by heart, yet tonight they felt heavier, more meaningful—because this was the last stretch before her dream finally became real.

Her roommates—Hina, Aashia, and Mariam—were on their beds, equally buried in their own revision.

Hina rubbed her temples.
"I swear, if I see another anatomy diagram tonight, I will faint."

Aashia laughed softly.
"Bus thoda sa aur... phir hum free."
(Just a little more... then we'll be free.)

Dua smiled faintly but her mind wasn't fully on her books anymore.

Ayaan's voice was still echoing in her ears.

"You're already a doctor in my eyes."

She closed her book for a second and stared at the window. Outside, the moon was pale and lonely, just like the ache in her chest she didn't know how to name.

Mariam noticed. "Dua, are you okay? You look distracted."

Dua shook her head quickly. "Haan, bas thoda nervous hoon."
(Yes, I'm just a little nervous.)

Aashia leaned closer. "Finals hai yaar. Nervous hona allowed hai."
(It's finals, being nervous is allowed.)

They all smiled, but Dua's heart was restless in a way that had nothing to do with exams.

She picked up her phone again, opening the chat with Ayaan. The last message still glowed on the screen.

"All the best I'll pray for you."

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

For a moment, she almost typed something more. Something warmer. Something that might cross a line she didn't even know existed.

But she didn't.

Instead, she whispered to herself, "Abhi nahi."
(Not now.)

Right now, she had to become a doctor. Right now, her dream came first. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Outside that hostel room, destiny was already preparing a storm—but tonight, Dua was still wrapped in hope, unaware that soon, everything she was working for... her dreams, her freedom, her quiet happiness... would begin to tremble.

__

The days passed quietly— not with chaos, not with noise, but with a silence so deep it felt heavy, meaningful. The kind of silence that comes before something changes forever. A calm that makes you wonder whether, once it ends, everything will finally fall into place... or whether everything will shatter beyond recognition.

For Dua, that silence carried the weight of years.

Her exam days had finally arrived.

It was the last weekend before her finals—before the written papers began the very next morning. Dua felt ready. Nervous, yes—but prepared in the way only long nights of sacrifice could prepare a person. Still, there was one thing her heart needed before she stepped into this defining phase of her life.

Home.

She hadn't seen her family in almost a month. And she knew that if she didn't go now, she wouldn't be able to meet them for at least two more months—first the written exams, then the practicals, preparation, pressure, endless hospital postings. Once this started, there would be no pauses.

So on Saturday morning, Dua found herself standing at the doorstep of her home.

The moment she stepped inside, something in her chest loosened.

Her dadi hugged her tightly, her hands warm and familiar, as if trying to pour all her love into that single embrace. By afternoon, the house smelled of Dua's favorite dishes—food her dadi had cooked with her own hands, just the way Dua liked it. Every bite felt like comfort, like reassurance that no matter how hard the world became, this place would always remain her anchor.

Shaad was there too—but buried in his semester books, grumbling softly about exams, just like her. Between conversations and shared smiles, Dua learned something that made her pause.

Ayaan's exams were starting too—just two days later.

She didn't say anything out loud, but a quiet thought formed in her heart.

Sunday.

Saturday, she decided, belonged entirely to family. To dadi's food, to shared laughter, to brief moments of peace before the storm of exams.

But Sunday...

Sunday, she would surprise Ayaan.

Unaware that this small decision—this gentle intention—was already setting the stage for something far bigger than she could imagine. for now she has to do a home chorus."

__

The moment Dua stepped into the kitchen, the air felt heavier.

Her stepmother stood near the counter, arms crossed, eyes sharp with the kind of judgment Dua had grown up under. There was no warmth in her gaze—only calculation.

"So," she said flatly, breaking the silence, "your finals have come?"

"Yes, Ammi," Dua replied softly, forcing a polite smile.

Her stepmother let out a short, humorless laugh. Finally, these dramas of yours will end. Five years—you've dragged this nonsense on for five long years."

The smile slipped from Dua's face.

She lowered her eyes, pressing her lips together, steadying her breath. She had learned this long ago—don't react, don't answer back, don't cry in front of her. Her stepmother had never approved of her education. According to her, studying beyond high school was pointless.

What's the need to study so much? she used to say. At the end of the day, she'll get married and go to another man's house.

But Dua had insisted. She had begged. She had proven herself—with top grades in her 12th board exams, with discipline, with silence. She had convinced her Abbu and her Dadi. And unknowingly, quietly, someone else had stood behind her too.

Ayaan's father, Yusuf Shah.

When Dua had topped her 12th exams, the Hashim family had decided that enough was enough—that her education should stop there. That day, Dua had broken inside. She stopped visiting Shah Haveli. Even Ayaan, barely fourteen at the time, sensed something was wrong.

He had cornered her one day, stubborn and concerned, refusing to let it go until she broke down and told him everything—how her family wanted to end her studies, how her dreams were slipping away.

Ayaan hadn't understood everything. He was just a child. But he understood her tears. He went straight to his father. And Yusuf Shah listened.

He spoke to Dua's Abbu—not as a businessman, but as someone who had watched Dua grow up, someone who knew her potential. He told him she was sharp, disciplined, and capable of going far if supported. He suggested good colleges—safe, all-girls institutions. Dua's Dadi supported him.

That decision had changed Dua's life. But it had also sealed her fate with her stepmother. From that day on, the bitterness only grew. Her stepmother's voice snapped Dua back to the present.

"It's good," she said coldly. "Finish your exams quickly and come home. I'll start looking for a good rishta for you. We'll get you married."

Dua's breath caught. Ma—marriage?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Yes, marriage," her stepmother mocked. "What did you think? That you'd sit on our heads forever like a queen?" She scoffed. You're already of marriageable age. If you get older, you won't even find good proposals."

"But Ammi," Dua said quietly, fear creeping into her tone, "I want to join a hospital. I don't want to marry right now."

Her stepmother's eyes hardened. "You've studied for five years. Isn't that enough? How much more do you want?" she snapped. "Once you're married, do whatever you want in your husband's house."

Dua said nothing. She stared at the floor, her hands clenched at her sides.

It wasn't that she was against marriage. She wasn't. Deep down, she wanted love, companionship, a partner who would stand beside her—not above her. But first, she wanted stability. Independence. To become someone on her own.

Abbu won't let this happen, she told herself desperately.
I'll talk to him after my exams. He'll give me at least two years. He has to.

"Enough," her stepmother said sharply. "Finish the work. Your Abbu will be home any minute. It's already eight."

Dua nodded silently and went back to kneading the dough, her hands moving mechanically while her mind spiraled. Dreams. Exams. Marriage. Freedom. All colliding—quietly, cruelly—inside her chest.

__

The house felt fuller that night.

After a long time, everyone was together—sitting on the carpeted floor, a white dastarkhaan spread neatly between them. Steel plates gleamed under the warm yellow light, surrounded by small bowls of curries, freshly made rotis wrapped in a cloth, rice, Chicken curry, salad, chutney, and a simple dessert placed at the corner. The air carried the comforting aroma of home-cooked food—the kind that made even heavy hearts feel lighter, if only for a while.

Dua sat quietly near her Dadi, her dupatta drawn modestly over her shoulders. Every dish on the dastarkhaan had her touch—she had cooked since evening, pouring herself into the work as if the food itself could speak for her. This was her way of belonging. Of proving she was still a part of this family.

Junaid Hashim arrived last, washing his hands and settling down with a tired sigh. The day had been long, the shop exhausting, but the sight of his family waiting softened his expression. His eyes moved to the food, then to Dua.

"You made all this?" he asked, surprised.

Dua nodded, a small smile forming on her lips. "Yes, Abbu."

"Smells very good," he said sincerely, tearing a piece of roti. "May Allah give barkat to your hands."

Something in Dua's chest loosened at those words.

They began eating. The clinking of spoons, the quiet passing of bowls, the murmured Bismillah—it all felt almost peaceful. Shaad ate quickly, already half-lost in thoughts of his exams. Sana chatted excitedly, praising the food without hesitation. Dadi smiled quietly, watching Dua with proud, affectionate eyes.

After a few moments, Junaid looked at Dua again.

"So," he asked gently, "your finals are starting now?"

"Yes, Abbu," Dua replied. Her voice was calm, steady. "From monday"

"And after that?" he continued. "What's the plan?"

Dua paused for just a second—not out of fear, but respect. Then she lifted her gaze, her eyes clear.

"After my written and practical exams," she said softly, "I want to start my internship. I'm thinking of applying to a government hospital first. The exposure will be better, and I'll learn more."

There was no arrogance in her tone. Only quiet confidence. Pride without defiance.

Junaid studied her face—the maturity, the certainty, the way she spoke not like a girl chasing a dream, but like a woman who had already carried its weight for years.

"And after internship?" he asked.

Dua smiled then. Not wide. Not loud. Just enough.

"Then," she said, "I'll finally be a doctor, Abbu."

For a brief moment, the room went still.

Dadi's eyes shone. Sana looked impressed. Even Shaad paused mid-bite.

Junaid nodded slowly, absorbing her words.
"You've worked very hard," he said at last. "May Allah make it easy for you."

"Thank you, Abbu," Dua replied.

As the family continued eating, the conversation shifted to lighter things—Shaad's exams, Sana's school stories, the rising prices at the shop. But Dua remained quiet, her heart full yet cautious. but somewhere behind her mind , her mother voice rung. married. but she egnored it for now.'

She didn't know it then, but this peaceful moment—this simple family meal—was standing on the edge of a storm. For now, she ate in silence, holding onto the warmth, unaware of how fragile it truly was.

__

The room was quiet—too quiet for a house that usually carried laughter, arguments, and the constant echo of life. Ayaan sat by his study table, a sketchbook open in front of him, pencils scattered carelessly beside his elbow. The soft yellow lamp cast gentle shadows across the walls, illuminating half-finished drawings—faces, abstract lines, a rose sketched again and again, each one unconsciously resembling the same softness, the same calm. Dua.

He was an art student—by choice, by passion. His father had always imagined him in the family business, managing accounts, signing deals, becoming a Shah in the truest traditional sense. But Ayaan had dreams that didn't fit inside balance sheets. He wanted colors, space, silence. One day, his own art gallery—white walls, framed emotions, stories hanging instead of numbers. He was good at studies, sharp and disciplined, but art was where his heart breathed.

His pencil paused mid-air.

How will I tell her? he wondered.
What will she say? Will she smile... or step back?

Two days ago, he had turned eighteen.

No loud music. No crowd. No celebration that matched the milestone everyone claimed it was. On the outside, he had brushed it off easily—Everyone has exams, it's not the right time for a party. But deep down, the truth was simpler and heavier.

He didn't want to celebrate without Dua.

What was a birthday anyway? Just a reminder of being born. It came every year. But this year was different—this year meant adulthood, meant courage, meant that finally, no one could call him a baccha when it came to his feelings. Still, celebrating without her felt empty.

Yet his family didn't let the day pass like any other. He hadn't even realized when the room slowly filled with noise.

"Ayaan!" his younger sister's voice rang out as she burst into the room.
"Why are you hiding here like a monk?"

Before he could respond, Hamza followed, balancing a small cake in his hands, cream slightly smudged on one side.

"Surprise!" Hamza grinned. "Don't pretend you forgot your own birthday."

From behind them, his mother came in, mock-scolding, "Let him breathe, both of you. He's been studying all day."

"And sketching," his sister added, peeking at the notebook. "Again."

Ayaan smiled despite himself.

They sat together on the bed, no grand setup—just warmth. The cake was cut, his favorite homemade dishes placed in front of him, gifts handed over with teasing comments. His father patted his shoulder, pride hidden beneath calm words.

"You're eighteen now," Yusuf said. "Life gets heavier from here."

Ayaan nodded. He knew. He was grateful. Truly. But somewhere between laughter and candle smoke, his eyes kept drifting to his phone.

She probably forgot, he thought, not bitter—just quietly accepting.

Then, just as the family began arguing over who give what gifts, his phone buzzed.

His breath caught.

Dua:
Happy Birthday, Ayaan. I'm really sorry I couldn't wish you earlier. Exams have me completely trapped. Please forgive me.

For a second, the world faded.

He stared at the screen, heart pounding, a slow smile spreading across his face—the kind that reached his eyes without permission.

She remembered. She hadn't forgotten him. His sister noticed first. "Why are you smiling like that?" she squinted. "Who messaged you?"

"No one," Ayaan said quickly, locking the phone and standing up. "I mean—just... a friend."

Hamza smirked. "That 'friend' must be very special."

Ayaan didn't reply. He couldn't. His chest felt too full.

Later, when the house finally settled into silence again, he returned to his desk. He opened his sketchbook—but instead of drawing, he just sat there, phone in hand, re-reading her message.

I'm eighteen now, he thought. Not a minor. Not just a boy with feelings people laugh at.

in presnet time. He leaned back, eyes closing for a moment.

"I'll tell you soon, Dua," he whispered into the quiet room.
"Not today. Not during your exams. But soon."

Outside, the night stretched endlessly—calm on the surface, uncertain underneath. And somewhere between dreams and reality, Ayaan stood at the edge of a confession that could change everything.

__

The drawing room was heavy with silence—one of those silences that didn't calm the mind but pressed down on it. The ceiling fan rotated slowly, its dull hum mixing with the distant sounds of traffic outside. Haider wasn't there, yet his presence filled every corner of the room.

His parents sat across from each other, untouched cups of tea resting on the table between them.

"He's changing for the worse," his father said at last, rubbing his temples. His voice carried exhaustion more than anger. "Late nights, no focus, that constant irritation on his face... this isn't the Haider we raised."

Hasina adjusted the edge of her dupatta, her expression tight with worry. "I know," she replied softly. "I see it too. He barely eats properly now. When I ask him something, he snaps or just walks away."

Her husband sighed deeply. "We've tried everything—talking to him, warning him, giving him space. Nothing works. He's stuck in that past... that girl."

The word past lingered in the air like a wound that refused to heal.

Hasina's eyes lowered for a moment before she spoke again, carefully this time. "That's exactly the problem. He hasn't moved on. He's still holding on to his ex, whether he admits it or not."

Her husband looked up, eyebrows drawn together. "So what do you suggest? Lock him inside the house? Cut him off from the world?"

"No," Hasina said quietly, then lifted her gaze with sudden firmness. "We should get him married."

The words landed heavily.

"Married?" he repeated, incredulous. "Hasina, are you listening to yourself? He's not in the right state of mind."

"That's why," she replied, leaning forward. "Marriage will give him responsibility. Stability. A new person in his life. If he has a wife, someone who depends on him, he won't have time to drown in old memories."

Her husband frowned, unconvinced. "And you think a marriage can erase his past?"

"Not erase," she corrected. "Replace. Slowly. He needs a new beginning. A respectable girl, from a good family—someone who can ground him. Once he's married, his focus will shift. He'll forget that girl, move on with life... and yes," her voice softened, "he will improve. He will become disciplined again."

He leaned back against the sofa, staring at the ceiling. "What if it makes things worse? What if he resents us for forcing him?"

Hasina's lips pressed together. "If we wait any longer, he'll destroy himself. At least this way, we're giving him a chance. Sometimes children don't know what's good for them. Parents have to decide."

A long silence followed.

Finally, he spoke, his tone heavy with reluctant acceptance. "We'll think about it. Carefully. I won't rush into anything."

Hasina nodded, though her eyes revealed a quiet determination. In her mind, the decision was already taking shape. To her, marriage wasn't just a bond—it was a solution, a cure, a way to fix what had gone wrong.

What she didn't realize was that wounds stitched too tightly often fester underneath.

And somewhere else in the house, unaware of the conversation shaping his future, Haider stood at a window, staring into the dark—still trapped between a past he couldn't forget and a future being decided without him.

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