The living room felt warm and lived-in, wrapped in the soft glow of a single lamp and the low murmur of the television playing in the background. Dinner was over, the dishes cleared away, and now the family sat together on the carpet—close, comfortable, like pieces of a familiar picture that finally felt complete again. Dua sat between her dadi and Saad, her dupatta loosely draped, her face still carrying the quiet glow of relief that comes after surviving something big.

Sana was the first to break the calm, her eyes shining with excitement.
"Dua Appi, ab batao na," she said eagerly, leaning closer. "Internship mein aap kya-kya karogi?"
(Dua baji, tell us now—what all will you do during your internship?)

Saad joined in immediately, barely able to sit still. "Haan, aur white coat bhi milega na? Proper doctor wala?"
(Yes, and you'll get the white coat too, right? Like a real doctor?)

Dua laughed softly, the sound light and genuine. She nodded, her eyes bright. "Yes, white coat too. But internship is not just about wearing a coat," she said gently. "We'll be assigned to different departments—medicine, surgery, emergency. We'll observe senior doctors, assist them, learn how to deal with real patients. Ab kitab se zyada zindagi padhni hoti hai."
(Now, more than books, you have to study life.)

Her abbu, sitting a little away with his back against the sofa, looked at her with quiet pride. "Hospital ka time bahut tough hota hai," he said thoughtfully. "Subah se raat, kabhi-kabhi raat se subah."
(Hospital timings are very tough—from morning to night, sometimes night to morning.)

Dua nodded, her smile softening but not fading. "Pata hai, abbu. But this is what I wanted. Ab sapna itna paas aa gaya hai toh thakaan se dar nahi lagta."
(I know, Abbu. But now that the dream is so close, tiredness doesn't scare me.)

Her dadi reached out and rested a warm, wrinkled hand over Dua's head, her voice full of quiet blessings. "Allah tumhe himmat de, beta," she said. "Naam ke aage 'Doctor' lagana aasaan nahi hota."
(May Allah give you strength, child. Earning the title 'Doctor' before your name is not easy.)

Dua leaned slightly into her dadi's touch, her eyes soft with emotion. "Aapki duaon ki wajah se hi toh yahan tak pahunchi hoon, dadi," she replied.
(It's because of your prayers that I've come this far, Dadi.)

Sana clapped her hands excitedly. "Mujhe toh sabse zyada maza tab aayega jab main sabko bolungi—meri appi doctor hai!"
(I'll enjoy it the most when I tell everyone—my sister is a doctor!)

Everyone laughed, even Saad, who shook his head fondly. The TV continued to play in the background, forgotten. In that small room, surrounded by familiar faces and shared warmth, Dua felt something settle deep inside her chest—a quiet certainty. She wasn't just stepping into a profession. She was stepping into the life she had fought for, with her family watching, listening, and believing in her every step of the way.

The house was still filled with warmth—soft laughter echoing from distant rooms, footsteps fading one by one as everyone drifted away with satisfied hearts. Dua remained seated for a while, her hands folded in her lap, her smile slowly thinning as reality crept back in. Everyone had congratulated her. Everyone had smiled, hugged her, prayed for her.
Everyone—except one.

Her eyes searched the room instinctively, even though she already knew. Her stepmother hadn't come. Not once. No words. No pride. No acknowledgment. A quiet ache settled in Dua's chest, heavier than she expected. She had told herself she was strong enough now, that she didn't need validation. But some wounds don't heal just because time passes.

She wondered, fleetingly, what it must feel like—to do something this big and have your mother look at you with shining eyes, to feel that silent pride wrap around you like a blessing.
If my ammi were here today... she would have been so happy, Dua thought. She would have held my face and said, "I knew you could do it."

Since childhood, Dua had tried—truly tried—to give her stepmother the place of ammi in her heart. She had accepted her, respected her, loved her in the only way she knew how. No one could ever replace her real mother, but she had made space.
Then why couldn't she make space for me? the question rose again, unanswered, painful.

When the house finally grew quiet, Dua stood up and walked toward the kitchen. The light there was harsh, unforgiving. Her stepmother stood near the counter, wiping her hands. Dua stopped at the doorway, hesitating, gathering courage that felt heavier than any exam she had ever faced.

"Ammi..." Her voice trembled despite her effort. "A–are you not happy?"

Her stepmother turned, studied her face for a moment, then smiled—a smile that made Dua's heart leap in fragile hope. "Happy?" she said lightly. "Of course I'm happy, Dua."

For a second, Dua felt like a child again—finally heard, finally accepted. Her face lit up.
"Really?" she asked softly. "Thank you, ammi."

But that happiness shattered in the very next breath.

"Do you know why I'm happy?" her stepmother continued calmly. "Not because you've become a doctor. No. I'm happy because your graduation is finally over. Now I can talk to your abbu about your marriage."

The world tilted.

Dua's breath hitched sharply, as if the air had been pulled from her lungs.
"A–ammi... what are you saying?" Her voice broke. "My graduation just ended. My internship is still left. You can't do this. Please."

Her stepmother's face hardened, her voice turning cold, final. "Oh, I can do this. You wanted to study, and we let you. Now do what you have to do—get married and go to your husband's house. Do your internship from there, or work from there. It doesn't matter to me."

And with that, she walked away.

Dua stood frozen in the kitchen, the echo of her footsteps ringing louder than any shout. All the excitement, the pride, the joy she had carried just moments ago crumbled—like a glass dropped from too great a height. Tears slipped down her cheeks silently, unchecked.

"Ammi..." she whispered into the empty space, her voice breaking as she turned toward the window. Outside, the night sky was clear, stars scattered like distant witnesses. "Why did you leave me so early?"

Her reflection stared back at her—older, tired, frightened. "If you were here, you would have been so happy today," she said through her tears. "You always told me to study, to become a successful woman. You said you didn't want my fate to be like yours—to leave studies halfway and get married."

Her hands clenched at her sides. "But look, ammi... it feels like my fate is becoming the same."

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. "I worked so hard to reach here. I'm just one step away from my dream. Will I stop here? Will I never complete it?"

Her voice cracked completely now. "You used to say girls should do everything they want before marriage... because after that, they're not allowed to do anything. Will that happen to me too, ammi?"

The sky, vast and silent, offered no answer.

Dua stood there alone, tears tracing the cost of her dreams—wondering if the freedom she had fought for all these years was already slipping out of her hands.

__

That night, Dua didn't return to her room.

The walls there still carried the quiet presence of her late mother, and tonight, her heart was already too heavy to face that silence alone. Instead, she moved softly through the corridor, barefoot, careful not to wake anyone. There was only one place where her heart felt lighter, one person whose presence could still calm the storm inside her.

Her dadi.

The door to her dadi's room was slightly open. A warm yellow lamp glowed near the bed, and her dadi sat there, pillows arranged behind her, glasses resting low on her nose as she prepared to sleep. Dua stood at the doorway for a moment, just watching her—this fragile, strong woman who had unknowingly held the family together for decades.

She stepped inside quietly and smiled.

"My favourite lady," Dua said softly, her voice gentle, almost playful. "Did you take your medicine?"

Her dadi looked up and smiled back. "Yes, Dr. Dua, I took it."

Dua froze.

Dr. Dua.

The words echoed in her mind like a prayer finally answered. They sounded beautiful. Whole. Real. This—this was what she wanted to hear. Not congratulations, not applause—but trust. She imagined people coming to her, saying, Dr. Dua, I have this pain... Dr. Dua, please help me. She wanted to be the one who eased suffering, who healed with care, patience, and medicine. A soft smile curved her lips as the thought settled warmly in her chest.

She walked closer and sat on the bed beside her dadi. Slowly, instinctively, she rested her head in her dadi's lap, curling into her like she had done countless times as a child. Her dadi's hand moved to her hair, stroking gently, rhythmically—each touch grounding her.

"You've come home after so long," her grandmother said softly. "You usually spend your first night in your own room. That room belongs to your mother. So why are you here tonight?"

"Just felt like sleeping near you," Dua replied, her eyes already closing.

"Dua," her grandmother called again, sensing something beneath the calm.

"Hm?" Dua murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Are you all right, my child?"

Dua shut her eyes tightly.

She wasn't all right. Not even close. Not after what she had heard, not after the fear that had settled in her chest like a storm waiting to break. But she couldn't speak of it—not now. She knew if she did, her grandmother would rise immediately, confront her stepmother without hesitation. Dua didn't want to be the reason for another battle in the house.
I'll talk to Abbu quietly, she decided. I'll handle this without breaking anyone else.

"I'm fine, Dadi," she said softly at last. "I'm very happy today. Look—your prayers were answered in my favor."

Her grandmother smiled, her hand still moving gently through Dua's hair.
"They were bound to be. You worked so hard."

"Dadi," Dua said after a pause.

"Yes, my child?"

"Will you pray one more prayer for me?"

"All my prayers are already for you," her grandmother replied fondly.

"Then pray that whatever my future holds, whoever comes into my life, they are a good person," Dua said slowly. "Pray that no matter what happens, I am never forced to sacrifice my dreams."

Her grandmother's hand stilled for a moment. She looked down at Dua, studying her face with quiet understanding. Then she smiled, full of certainty and faith.

"Oh, my child," she said gently. "Why would you even think that? Nothing like that will happen to you. You will become a great doctor—this is my prayer. And whoever stands beside you in life will be the happiest person in the world. Even happier than you, because they will witness your dreams come true."

She paused, her voice softening further.
"If I am alive then, you will come back to me with that person and say, 'Dadi, you were right.'"

Dua smiled softly, her face peaceful for the first time that night.

She didn't know it yet—but her dadi's words weren't just comfort. They were prophecy. A quiet manifestation of a future waiting for her. Before that future, though, Dua would walk through storms so fierce that she would question her own existence, her worth, her strength.

But tonight, wrapped in her dadi's warmth, she slept—unaware that this moment of peace was the calm before everything changed.
__

Morning arrived quietly in Ayaan's room, filtered through pale sunlight that slipped in between half-drawn curtains. The city outside was already awake, but inside, time moved slower—measured in brushstrokes and unspoken thoughts. Ayaan sat by the window, sleeves rolled up, a canvas propped against the easel. He was working on a commissioned painting, his hand steady, practiced, as colors came alive under his brush. The client wanted something elegant, something that felt alive—and yet, no matter how hard he tried, his mind kept drifting back to the same name, the same face.

Dua.

His brush paused mid-air.

Should I go to her house today? he wondered.

The thought barely formed before another memory followed, sharp and unwelcome. The last time he had visited the Hashim house, Dua's stepmother had looked at him as if some gali ka luchcha had wandered in by mistake—uninvited, unwanted. That gaze alone had been enough to burn into his memory. He was almost certain that the moment he left, her anger had turned on Dua. Shaad had once mentioned it casually—how her stepmother didn't like Dua appi talking too much with boys, especially Shah. And Ayaan knew, without being told, that his presence would only add fuel to that fire.

He exhaled slowly, a tired sigh escaping him.

What should I do now?

Earlier, at least, he had the comfort of Saturdays—seeing Dua at the university, even from a distance. A passing smile, a brief conversation, sometimes just a glimpse of her walking with her books hugged to her chest. But now her university life was over. That chapter had closed. He couldn't even hold on to those stolen moments anymore.

Should I go to the hospital once her internship starts? he thought.

The idea lingered for half a second before he shook his head and almost scoffed at himself.
"No, Ayaan," he muttered under his breath. "Then her ammi will actually declare you a gali ka lafanga. These are the kind of things people do when they stalk girls."

He set his brush down, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and forefinger, frustration simmering quietly.

Then another thought settled in, softer this time.

No problem. Dua is home now. She'll come to the haveli with dadi. She always does.

The tension in his shoulders eased a little. That place—his haveli—was neutral ground. Safe. No accusing eyes, no harsh words. Just stolen glances and silent understanding.

He picked up his brush again, a faint smile touching his lips.

"And when her internship starts," he said to himself quietly, "I'll find the right time. A good time. And then... I'll propose."

The brush moved again, confident now, as if his decision had steadied his hand. On the canvas, colors blended seamlessly—but in his heart, Ayaan was already painting a future, hoping that the world would be kind enough to let it come true.

___

Morning unfolded differently in Dua's world.

Sunlight crept into her dadi's  room in thin, hesitant lines, brushing against the edges of her desk,  She lay awake long before the house stirred, staring at the ceiling, her grandmother's words from the night before still echoing in her chest like a fragile promise.

Nothing like that will happen to you.

Dua turned onto her side and let out a slow breath. She wanted to believe it. She needed to believe it. But hope, she had learned, was a delicate thing—beautiful, yet easily bruised.

From the kitchen came the faint clatter of utensils. The day was beginning whether she felt ready or not.

She rose quietly, washing her face, tying her hair back with careful fingers. When she stepped out, her grandmother was already there, seated near the window, prayer beads resting in her palm, sunlight catching the silver in her hair.

"You're up early," her grandmother said, smiling.

"So are you," Dua replied softly.

Her grandmother studied her for a moment, then nodded toward the cupboard. "Get ready. We'll go to the haveli today." noor invites us."

The words settled gently into Dua's chest. The haveli.

A place that felt strangely suspended between comfort and longing. A place where she could breathe a little easier. Where she wasn't constantly reminded of what was expected of her next.

And—though she never allowed herself to say it aloud—a place where Ayaan existed.

Her heart reacted before her mind could stop it. A small, involuntary flutter.

"Yes, Dadi," she said, keeping her voice steady.

As Dua dressed, she caught her reflection in the mirror. The same face, the same eyes—but something had shifted beneath the surface. She was no longer just a student chasing a degree. She stood at the edge of a life she had worked relentlessly for... and one that now felt frighteningly fragile.

Downstairs, her stepmother moved about the house, brisk and purposeful, offering no glance, no word. Dua didn't stop. She didn't wait. Silence had become its own language between them.

The drive to the haveli was quiet, the city passing by in blurred motion. Dua rested her head lightly against the window, watching familiar streets slide past, 

The haveli gates came into view, tall and timeless, as if guarding stories older than memory. The moment they stepped inside, the air felt different—cooler, calmer. Laughter echoed faintly from somewhere within, and Dua felt her shoulders loosen without realizing they had been tense.

Her grandmother walked ahead, exchanging greetings, her presence instantly welcomed.

Dua lingered for a moment in the courtyard, her steps slowing as she lifted her face toward the sky. Above her stretched a vast, open blue—clear, quiet, untouched—so peaceful that it felt almost unreal. She breathed it in, letting that calm seep into her chest. And then, as if guided by instinct rather than intention, her gaze drifted toward the upper floor.

Toward his window.

Ayaan's room stood just as she remembered it. Through the open window, she could see him—partially hidden behind a large canvas, sleeves rolled up, completely absorbed in his work. He moved with quiet focus, stepping aside to pick a different brush, dabbing paint with careful precision, then disappearing again behind the canvas. He never once looked down.

A soft smile bloomed on Dua's lips.

There was something deeply comforting about watching him like this—untouched by the world, safe inside his art. Without another glance, she followed her grandmother inside the haveli, greeted the elders politely, and settled among familiar faces. Conversations overlapped, laughter rose and fell, tea was poured—but Dua's mind was elsewhere.

When the elders grew busy in discussion, she slipped away quietly, her footsteps light as she climbed the staircase. No one noticed her absence—except one pair of eyes.

Ayaan's mother watched her retreating figure, something subtle tightening in her chest. It wasn't unusual for Dua to go to Ayaan's room; she had always done so freely, like family. And Ayaan had never objected—if anything, her presence brightened him. But today felt different. A faint unease brushed past her thoughts, brief and unformed. She remembered how sharply Ayaan reacted whenever Sahar tried to enter his space, how fiercely he guarded his boundaries then. With Dua, it was different. Always had been.

She shook the thought away and turned back to the conversation.

Upstairs, Dua paused outside Ayaan's room, then pushed the door open softly. The room smelled faintly of paint and turpentine, familiar and oddly comforting. Ayaan stood with his back to her, entirely engrossed, unaware of the world behind him.

"Boo."

The word rang out just loud enough.

Ayaan flinched. The paintbrush slipped from his hand, clattering onto the floor. Dua burst into laughter, the sound light and unrestrained. Ayaan froze, heart racing, then turned slowly.

For a second, he simply stared at her—eyes wide, disbelief written across his face.

Am I dreaming in broad daylight? he thought.

He blinked. Shook his head. Pinched his arm.

"No," he murmured. "Definitely not a dream."

Dua was still laughing, holding her sides. "Oh, Mr. Artist," she teased, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, "if you keep dropping your brushes like this, your paintings are going to suffer."

Ayaan watched her, something soft and reckless rising in his chest.
"If it makes you laugh like that," he said quietly, "I'm ready to destroy a hundred paintings."

Her laughter stilled. She looked at him, searching his face.

"Here we go again," she said lightly, masking the sudden flutter in her heart. "Since when did you start talking so big, Ayaan?"

"Since you stopped noticing me," he replied without thinking.

The words hung between them.

Dua frowned slightly, then shook her head. "Sometimes, the things you say go completely over my head."

She stepped closer, studying the half-finished work. "So... what are you making?"

Ayaan smiled faintly and gestured toward the canvas.  "A sculpture," he said, his voice lower now, "someone who hides their sadness behind a happy smile."

Dua's lips curved at first—then slowly fell still.

For a fleeting moment, she felt as though he were talking about her. The thought startled her. She looked again, really looked at the painting, and felt a strange pull in her chest. Why does this feel so familiar? she wondered.

She moved to sit on a chair beside the canvas, her fingers brushing over jars of paint.
"How did you come to the haveli so early?" Ayaan asked, returning to his work. "You didn't tell me. I didn't even expect to see you today. I thought you'd disappear for a few days at least."

"I didn't know either," she replied. "Dadi decided in the morning. Noor Dadi invited us."

"That's good," he said softly. "I needed someone to give me an honest review. And there's no one better than you."

"That's good to hear," she smiled.

"Give me fifteen minutes," he said, already focused again.

Dua stayed. She watched him work, occasionally teasing him, complimenting how he looked when he painted, suggesting a color here, a shade there. Time slipped by unnoticed.

Exactly fifteen minutes later, Ayaan stepped back.

"It's done."

Dua rose and stood before the finished painting.

The sculpture on the canvas wore a radiant smile—soft, warm, almost convincing. But beneath it lay something heavier. The eyes carried a quiet exhaustion, a sadness carefully folded away, as if the person had learned long ago that the world preferred smiles over truths.

Dua swallowed.

"It's... painfully honest," she said at last. "This smile—it's beautiful, but it feels practiced. Like something worn every day so no one asks questions. The kind of smile people use to survive."

She stepped closer, her voice growing softer. "This person looks strong. Everyone would think they're fine. Happy. Successful. But if you look long enough, you can see the weight they carry alone. The kind of pain that doesn't scream—it just settles inside you and becomes part of who you are."

Her eyes glistened, though she didn't look at him. "I think this sculpture learned early that sadness makes people uncomfortable. So they hid it. Behind kindness. Behind laughter. Behind doing everything right."

She took a breath. "It feels like someone who keeps going not because life is easy... but because stopping would hurt more."

Ayaan watched her in silence, his heart pounding. In that moment, he knew. She hadn't just reviewed his painting. She had seen herself in it.

One day i will take your all pain and suffring from you dua i promise. 
.

Thank you 😊