Dua stood in the middle of her room, a folded dupatta still in her hands, though she had forgotten when she had picked it up. The morning light entered through the window in soft, quiet lines, falling across her bed, her books, her neatly arranged notes—the life she had been building for years. Everything looked the same as yesterday, yet nothing felt the same anymore.

The conversation from the previous evening kept circling in her mind like a storm that refused to pass. Those people she had thought were just guests were not guests at all. They had come for her. For her marriage. For her future. A future she had not even been asked about.

Suddenly everything made sense in a painful, cruel way. Her stepmother's unusual sweetness. The new suit. The insistence on makeup. The way everyone had been watching her. It had not been kindness. It had been preparation. "So that I could look pretty... so that I could impress my future in-laws," she whispered to herself, her voice barely audible in the quiet room.

Her hands trembled slightly as she placed the dupatta on the bed. "They talked... they decided... and they didn't even ask me," she murmured, her chest tightening. "What I want... what I need... how is this possible? I just came back a week ago. I just completed my degree. I have to continue my internship... and here they are... planning my marriage."

Her mind replayed Haseena's gentle voice from last night. Don't worry, dear. You don't need to be concerned. You can continue your studies and your internship after marriage. You can work too. No one will stop you.

For a moment, Dua closed her eyes and leaned against the edge of the bed. "But can I really?" she whispered to the empty room. And then another memory surfaced—older, softer, but heavier than all the rest. Her mother's voice. Calm, tired, honest.

You know, Dua, I was in my third year of medical college when your father's proposal came for me. I didn't want to get married then. But my mother told me I could continue my studies after marriage. And I believed that. Dua could almost hear her mother's quiet laugh after that—sad, accepting.

It's not that my in-laws were bad people. They never stopped me from doing anything. But after marriage, so many responsibilities come that you simply cannot manage everything at once. In the end, you have to choose—your dreams or your family. I chose my family. But you... You must not do that. You must choose yourself first. Choose your dreams.

The memory broke something inside her. Her knees gave way, and she slowly sank to the floor beside her bed, her hands falling helplessly into her lap. The room blurred as tears filled her eyes, then spilled over, one after another, silent at first and then uncontrollable.

"What should I do, Ammi?" she whispered through trembling lips. "I don't understand anything. I don't know what to do." She pressed her hands against her face, her shoulders shaking as the weight of everything finally settled on her—the expectations, the silence, the decisions made without her, the dreams she had carried for years now standing at a fragile edge.

All her life, she had been obedient. Quiet. Understanding. The good daughter. The one who adjusted, who didn't argue, who didn't demand. But now, for the first time, life was asking something from her that obedience alone could not solve.

On the floor of her carefully arranged room, surrounded by books, notes, and dreams built page by page, Dua cried not like a child but like someone who had just realized that her life was no longer entirely her own.

___

The door to Dua's room was half open, and when Rabiya pushed it gently, it creaked in the quiet. For a moment, she did not step inside. She just stood there, watching. Dua was sitting beside her bed on the floor, her back resting against the wooden frame, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs she was trying very hard not to let anyone hear.

That was the moment Rabiya's heart broke. She walked in slowly and closed the door behind her without making a sound. Then she came and sat down beside Dua on the floor, the way she used to when Dua was a child afraid of thunderstorms.

She didn't speak immediately. She just placed her hand gently on Dua's head and started stroking her hair. That was all it took. Dua lowered her hands and looked at her grandmother, her eyes red, her face wet with tears, and suddenly she broke completely. She leaned forward and buried her face in Rabiya's lap, crying like she had not cried in years.

"Dadi..." her voice came out broken, almost like a child again. "W-why didn't anyone ask me? Why didn't Abbu ask me even once?" Rabiya's fingers trembled as she continued to stroke her hair. She looked straight ahead, blinking back her own tears.

"They think they are doing the right thing," she said softly. "Sometimes parents make decisions for their children thinking they are protecting them... but they forget that protection without permission becomes a cage."

"I just came back," Dua cried. "I just finished my degree. I haven't even started my internship yet. I had so many plans, Dadi. I wanted to work in the hospital, I wanted to stand on my own feet, I wanted..." Her voice broke again. "I wanted to become something before becoming someone's wife."

Rabiya closed her eyes for a moment, pain crossing her face. "They are saying I can study after marriage," Dua continued, her voice shaking. "But Ammi said the same thing once... and she never got to complete her studies. Responsibilities come, then expectations, and then you have to choose. And I don't want to choose, Dadi. Why do I have to choose?"

Her hands clutched Rabiya's clothes tightly like she was afraid everything would be taken away from her. "I am not saying I will never marry," she whispered through tears. "But not like this... not now... not without asking me... I am so scared, Dadi. I feel like my life is running somewhere and I am not even walking; I am just being dragged."

Rabiya's tears finally fell, dropping silently into Dua's hair. "You are not wrong," she said quietly. "You are not selfish. Wanting your dreams is not selfish. Wanting time is not selfish. Wanting to be asked is not selfish."

Dua looked up at her, her eyes full of fear and helplessness. "Will Abbu be angry if I say no?

Rabiya took a deep breath. That question carried more weight than any other. "Maybe," she said honestly. "Maybe he will be hurt. Maybe there will be arguments. Maybe the house will not be peaceful for some time." She cupped Dua's face gently. "But listen to me carefully—an unhappy life is much longer than a few unhappy days."

Dua started crying again, but this time quietly, exhausted more than broken. "I don't know how to say it," she whispered. "I have never said no to Abbu."

Rabiya pulled her into a tight embrace, holding her like she wanted to protect her from the entire world. "Then this will be the first time," she said softly. "And I will be standing next to you when you say it."

Dua held her grandmother tightly, like a drowning person holding the only piece of land she could find. In that small room, on the floor beside a bed full of neatly folded dreams, a girl cried for the life she was afraid she was about to lose, and an old woman held her, knowing that sometimes the hardest thing in the world is not fighting enemies—but standing up to your own family.

___

In the Kamil house, the morning was quiet but heavy with unspoken thoughts. The large living room, decorated with expensive furniture and soft yellow lights, felt unusually still. Haseena sat on the sofa, carefully folding the edge of her dupatta over her arm, while Farooq stood near the window, looking outside but not really seeing anything.

After a long silence, Farooq finally spoke. "Do you really think we did the right thing... choosing Dua for Haider?" he asked slowly, his voice thoughtful and slightly troubled. "Dua is a very good girl. Polite, educated, respectful. And our son... you know very well what he is like. I just hope we are not being unfair to that girl."

Haseena looked at her husband calmly, as if she had already asked herself this question many times and had already decided the answer. "You worry too much," she said gently. "We did absolutely the right thing. You will see—Dua will change Haider. Once he is married to her, he will forget that girl. Marriage brings responsibility. Stability. And Dua is exactly the kind of girl who can handle him."

Farooq sighed and sat down across from her. "I just don't want an innocent girl to suffer because of our son's past," he said quietly.

Haseena shook her head. "She will not suffer. Dua is not weak. She is beautiful, educated, well-mannered. She can stand beside him in every stage of life. She is the kind of girl who builds a home, not breaks it. Haider needs someone like her, not someone who only knows how to love but not how to build a family."

Farooq leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded slowly."Maybe you are right," he said. "Maybe this marriage will settle him."

Just then, footsteps echoed from the hallway. Haider walked out of his room, dressed for work, car keys in his hand, his expression cold and distant as usual. He was about to walk past the living room when Haseena called out to him.

"Haider, come here. We need to talk."

He stopped but didn't come closer immediately. "I don't have time, Mom. I'm getting late for the office," he said in a flat, emotionless voice.

Haseena's expression hardened slightly. "Haider Kamil," she said firmly, her voice sharp with authority. "I told you to come here and sit down. Do not make me repeat myself."

Haider exhaled in irritation but walked over and sat on the chair in front of them, leaning back slightly, clearly uninterested. "What is it?" he asked coldly.

Haseena looked directly at him and spoke without hesitation. "Yesterday we went to see a girl for you. We liked her. We have given our word there. Your marriage has been decided."

For a moment, Haider did not move. Then he froze completely. His eyes slowly lifted to his mother's face, disbelief turning into anger. "How could you do that, Mom?" he said, his voice rising. "I told you clearly I don't want to marry anyone."

"And I told you," Haseena replied just as sharply, "that I will get you married, and you will marry the girl I choose."

Haider's jaw tightened. His hands clenched around the car keys. "I am not marrying anyone," he said through his teeth.

"You are," Haseena said calmly but firmly. "This discussion is over."

For a few seconds, the room was filled only with silence and anger. Haider suddenly stood up, pushing the chair back. Without saying another word, he turned and walked away, his steps heavy with frustration. A moment later, the sound of a door slamming echoed through the house.

Farooq sighed deeply and rubbed his forehead. "This is not going to be easy," he said quietly.

Haseena looked toward the hallway where Haider had disappeared, her expression determined. "Easy or not," she said, "this marriage will happen."

____

Ayaan had not slept properly in a week. Every morning he woke up with the same thought—maybe she replied. And every morning, the screen showed the same silence. He sat on the edge of his bed, phone in his hand, scrolling through their chat again. His messages were still there, one after another.

How was your day?
Did your internship start?
You disappeared.
At least reply that you're alive.
Dua?

The last message was from two days ago. No reply. He locked the phone and threw it gently on the bed, running his hands through his hair in frustration. "This is not like her," he muttered to himself. "She never ignores me like this... never."

Restlessness had become a part of him now. He tried painting—he couldn't focus. He tried reading—he kept checking his phone. He tried sleeping—his mind kept replaying her smile, her voice, the day at the mall, the wooden badge he had given her.

Did something happen?
Is she okay?
Is she angry?
Did I do something wrong?

Questions kept piling up with no answers. On the football ground later that afternoon, the sun was harsh and the field smelled of grass and dust. His college team was practicing for the upcoming inter-college football competition. Everyone was shouting, running, passing the ball, laughing—but Ayaan was somewhere else entirely.

"AYAAAN! Focus!" his teammate shouted as the ball rolled past him.

He blinked and ran after it, kicking it harder than necessary. He ran faster than everyone, played harder than usual, as if he was trying to exhaust the restlessness inside him. Sweat ran down his face, his breathing heavy, but the uneasiness inside his chest refused to leave.

During the break, he sat on the ground, elbows on his knees, staring at his phone again. No new notifications. His friend yasir dropped beside him. "What happened to you?" yasir asked, opening his water bottle. "You're playing like you're angry at the ball."

Ayaan gave a dry smile. "Maybe I am."

Yasir looked at him carefully. "Or maybe this is about Dua."

Ayaan didn't answer. That was answer enough. Yasir smirked slightly. "She not replying?"

Ayaan sighed and leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky. "It's been a week," he said quietly. "She hasn't replied to a single message. She's not picking up calls either."

"Then go meet her," yasir said simply.

Ayaan turned his head slightly. "I can't just show up like that."

"Why not?" yasir shrugged. "If she matters that much, then go and see if she's okay."

Ayaan didn't respond, but the thought stayed. After practice ended and everyone left, Ayaan remained alone on the field for a while. The sky was turning orange, the evening wind cooler now. He picked up the football and kicked it once, watching it roll across the empty ground.

Then he spoke quietly to himself, almost like a promise."I was waiting for the right time to tell you everything," he said softly. "But maybe there is no right time. Maybe you just have to say things before it's too late."

He picked up his phone again and opened her chat. For a long time, he just stared at the screen. Then he typed one message.

Dua, I don't know why you are not replying. But I need to see you. Please meet me once.

He stared at the message for a few seconds... and then pressed send. Somewhere else in the city, Dua sat in her room, her phone lying on the table beside her, screen lighting up silently with Ayaan's message— —but she did not see it.

____

The room was quiet when Yusra entered, but Junaid was still awake, sitting at the desk with some papers in front of him. He wasn't really reading them; his mind had been elsewhere for days. Ever since the Kamil family had come, a silent tension had settled in the house, and he could feel it even when no one spoke about it.

Yusra closed the door behind her and walked in calmly, her expression thoughtful, almost concerned. "Junaid," she said softly, sitting down near him, "now that we have already talked to the Kamil family, I think we should give them our answer. It has been almost a week. What are you still thinking about?"

Junaid leaned back slightly and rubbed his forehead. "Yusra, we should not rush this much. First, let me find out properly about the Kamil family. About their business, their relatives, their environment... everything. After that, I will decide and tell them."

Yusra nodded slowly, as if she agreed completely. "Theek hai, you find out," she said gently. "I am only saying this because people have started talking about our Dua."

Junaid immediately looked up. "Talking? What kind of talking?"

Yusra looked away, pretending to hesitate. "Nothing... leave it. You just find out about the Kamil family."

"Yusra," Junaid said firmly, his voice lower now, serious. "Tell me. What are people saying about my Dua?"

Yusra sighed, as if she didn't want to say it but had no choice. "They are talking about Dua and Ayaan... that Shah Haveli prince," she said with a slight arrogance in her tone.

Junaid's eyes narrowed. "What about them?"

"You don't see?" Yusra continued, carefully choosing her words. "That Shah prince is always around her. Sometimes he picks her up from college, sometimes he comes here, and Dua also goes to Shah Haveli often with Amma. People have started making stories... saying that something is going on between Dua and Ayaan."

For a moment, the room went completely silent. Junaid's nostrils flared in anger. "Nonsense," he said sharply. "People talk about anything. My daughter is not like that."

"We know that," Yusra said quickly, in a soft, emotional tone. "We know our daughter is not like that. But we cannot explain this to the whole world, can we? People don't care about truth, they only care about gossip. That is why I am saying—the sooner Dua gets married, the better. Then all these wrong assumptions will stop before people start pointing fingers at her character."

Her words were calm, logical, almost protective—but every sentence was placed like a stone, building a wall around Junaid's thoughts. Junaid looked down at the table, silent for a long time. He loved his daughter more than anything, but he feared society even more. Respect, reputation, people's opinions—these things had ruled his entire life.

Finally, he spoke quietly, "You are right. Let me find out about the Kamil family properly. I will give them our answer in two or three days."

Yusra nodded slowly. "Theek hai."

Junaid stood up and left the room, his mind heavy, his steps slow. He believed he was protecting his daughter, but in reality, he was walking toward a decision that would change her life forever.

The moment he left, the softness disappeared from Yusra's face. Her lips slowly curled into a smirk. She leaned back in the chair and let out a quiet, cold laugh. "Just wait, Dua," she whispered to herself. "I will send you away from this house very soon. As long as you are here, Junaid only sees you—your studies, your fees, your needs... always Dua, Dua, Dua. What about my daughter Sana?"

Her eyes hardened. "When you leave this house after marriage, then only my daughter will remain here. Then everything will be hers. This house, this attention, this future... everything."

She laughed again, softly, cruelly, the sound disappearing into the empty room—
like a secret that would destroy someone else's life before anyone even realized what was happening.

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