Team Rocket all the way

RED STRING OF FATE

Book 2

BEAUTY WILL SAVE THE WORLD

JAHAN

Character introduction

Anon :

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER SEVEN:GHOSTS OF PAST

Consciousness did not return to Uzair all at once. It came in fragments. A sound. A shadow. The distant rhythm of a machine. The feeling of weight pressing down on him from every direction. Somewhere beyond the darkness, people were speaking, but their voices seemed to belong to another world. He did not try to open his eyes. He was too tired. Not physically. He had lived with physical pain before. This exhaustion was older than the injury. Older than the blood loss. Older, perhaps, than his marriage. Lying there in the strange half-state between sleep and waking, he found his mind drifting back to his parents. It was not a deliberate thought. Their faces simply appeared in his mind the way ghosts appear in old houses uninvited, familiar, impossible to ignore. He tried to remember his mother's voice and found that he could remember its warmth but not its exact sound. That realization hurt more than he expected. How many years had passed since she died? Enough for memories to lose their edges, enough to forget their faces and habits. He wondered what she would think if she could see him now. A grown man lying in an intensive care unit, his marriage in ruins, his life held together by reputation and fear rather than joy. Would she have understood him? Or would she have looked at him the way everyone else eventually did with the utter and humiliating disappointment hidden behind concern? The question lingered because there was nobody left to answer it.

His father was even harder to think about. Not because he missed him less, but because the memories were complicated. His father had been the sort of man who believed suffering should be endured quietly. Weakness was something private. Grief was something private. Fear was something private. Everything, be it important or unimportant it was private. Uzair had spent years trying to become that man and even more years realizing he never could. There were days he thought his father would have respected what he had built. The power. The influence. The loyalty people showed him. Then there were nights like this one when he suspected his father would have looked straight through all of that and seen what nobody else seemed to notice. The loneliness. The anger turned inward. The exhaustion. The constant feeling that life was happening around him rather than to him. Depression was a word nobody in his family would have used, but Uzair knew there was no other name for the thing that followed him. It was there in the mornings when getting out of bed felt like work. It was there in the evenings when success felt strangely empty. It was there in every victory that failed to make him happy. People assumed powerful men felt powerful all the time. They had no idea how much of his life was spent feeling nothing at all.

Then, as always happened when he thought about family, his mind drifted toward his brother. That wound had never healed correctly. Some losses became part of a person's structure, like bones that broke badly and never quite set right again. His brother would have understood him. Uzair believed that with a certainty he believed very little else. Not because his brother was wiser or kinder or stronger. Simply because he knew him before the world got involved. Before responsibility. Before reputation. Before people began expecting things from him. His brother had known the version of Uzair that existed before the masks. The boy who laughed too loudly. The boy who picked fights he couldn't win. The boy who dreamed about futures instead of surviving them. Sometimes Uzair imagined what life would have looked like if his brother had lived. Perhaps they would have fought constantly. Perhaps they would have disagreed about everything. But he would not have been alone. There would have been at least one person in the world capable of understanding him without explanation. One person who could look at him and immediately recognize the difference between anger and pain. The difference between silence and despair. The difference between strength and performance. Instead, there was only absence. Years of absence. So many years that sometimes he could no longer remember his brother's face without concentrating.

Rehman was the closest thing he had left to family, and even that felt dishonest. The truth was uncomfortable. They had not grown up side by side. They had not shared secrets or dreams or childhood fears. Rehman entered his life later, after death had already hollowed out the places where family should have been. People often spoke about Rehman as if he were a brother to Uzair, but Uzair had never experienced him that way. There was always a distance between them. A line neither man crossed. Sometimes Uzair suspected Rehman didn't actually see him as family either. He saw him as something else. A loyal man. An asset. A right hand man sees the king every day, knows all his habits, understands all his weaknesses, and still remains separate from him. That was what he was to Rehman. Useful. Trusted. Necessary. But not a brother. Brothers belonged to a different category altogether. Brothers knew things they were never told. Brothers stayed even when there was no advantage in staying. Rehman respected Uzair, perhaps even cared for him in his own way, but respect was not love and loyalty was not intimacy. The distinction mattered more tonight than it ever had before. He remembered when he first joined the gang with Rehman, he treated him as an older brother but soon realised that Rehman wanted to be treated as his superior, he wasn't his flesh and blood. He was just another asset on the payroll, easily replaced and expected to stay where Rehman felt he belonged. He didn't blame Rehman for it, as his childhood and parentage were so muddled, Rehman felt like he had to prove to the world that he alone was at the top.

The machines continued their steady rhythm around him while these thoughts moved through the darkness of his mind. For years he had convinced himself that he no longer needed anyone. It was easier that way. Needing people created vulnerabilities. Vulnerabilities became disappointments. Yet now, hovering in the fragile space between life and death, he realized how badly he had lied to himself. He missed his parents. He missed his brother. He missed the possibility of being understood. Beneath all the anger and pride and mistakes, there remained a simple human desire he had spent years denying: he wanted someone to know him completely and stay anyway. The realization felt almost humiliating. Men like him were supposed to crave power, not connection. Control, not comfort. Yet the faces appearing in his mind were not the faces of enemies or allies. They were the faces of people who were gone. People who could never answer the questions he still carried. And as darkness drifted over him again, Uzair found himself wondering whether the deepest loneliness came from being abandoned by the living—or from spending years talking to ghosts because the dead were the only ones who ever seemed capable of understanding you.

The darkness came and went in waves, and in the spaces between them, Uzair found himself thinking about Ayesha. Not the Ayesha from the last few months. Not the woman standing across from him during arguments, her eyes full of disappointment and exhaustion. Not the woman crying in hospital corridors. He thought about the girl he had married. The girl who used to laugh at embarrassing situations before she could stop herself. The girl who used to tell him stories halfway through dinner and forget what she was eating. The girl who once sat beside him in a jeep and threatened to jump from the vehicle if he didn't stop driving like an idiot. He remembered the way she used to reach for his hand without thinking. The way she used to look for him first whenever she entered a room. For years he had convinced himself that their marriage had been cold from the beginning, that something fundamental had always been missing between them. Lying there now, unable to escape his own thoughts, he realized that wasn't true. There had been happiness. Real happiness. Not perfect happiness, not the kind people wrote poems about, but ordinary happiness. Shared meals. Inside jokes. Long drives with nowhere to go. Nights when they stayed awake talking about nothing important. Somewhere along the way, grief entered the marriage and sat between them like an unwelcome guest. Then resentment joined it. Then silence. By the time Uzair noticed how far apart they had drifted, he had already forgotten what it felt like to reach for her instinctively. Forgotten that there had once been a time when being with Ayesha made the world feel lighter.

What frightened him was that he couldn't identify the exact moment everything changed. People always imagined marriages breaking dramatically, through betrayal or violence or one catastrophic mistake. The truth was uglier because it was smaller. Their marriage hadn't shattered. It had eroded. Day after day. Disappointment after disappointment. Unspoken hurt after unspoken hurt. Then came the loss of their child, and something inside both of them collapsed under the weight of it. Uzair had never known how to grieve properly. His entire life he had survived pain by burying it. By pretending it wasn't there until it hardened into something manageable. But that loss was different. He remembered watching Ayesha suffer and feeling helpless. He remembered wanting to comfort her and somehow making himself more distant instead. The more she needed him, the more he withdrew. Not because he didn't care, but because caring hurt. Looking back, he could see exactly how it must have looked to her. A husband disappearing at the moment she needed him most. A husband who came home late, spoke less, carried invisible walls around him. He had told himself he was protecting himself from grief. In reality, he had been abandoning his wife while standing right beside her.

Then there was Meerab. Even thinking her name brought a strange heaviness to his chest. He hated how simple other people made it sound. They called it an affair, as though that single word explained everything. As though desire alone had been responsible. The truth was far more humiliating than that. When he met Meerab, he had not been looking for love. He had not even been looking for comfort. He had been drowning quietly for so long that he no longer recognized himself. Most people saw Uzair and assumed he was strong. They saw confidence, authority, certainty. Meerab had looked at him differently. Not with admiration or fear. She looked at him like she recognized something broken. That was what unsettled him. She carried the same exhaustion he carried. The same loneliness. The same feeling of existing slightly outside the rest of the world. There were moments when they sat together saying almost nothing, and somehow those moments felt more honest than entire conversations with other people. He never had to explain the darkness to her because she already seemed familiar with it. That frightened him too. Perhaps that was why he kept returning. Not because she completed him or healed him. Because she understood the shape of the wound.

The realization filled him with shame. Not because his feelings for Meerab had been entirely false, but because they had grown out of pain. He wondered whether he had ever truly seen her as a separate person or whether he had simply recognized his own sadness reflected back at him, that was what he had learned about love. There was something selfish about that thought. Something cruel. Meerab had become a refuge at a time when he felt disconnected from his own life, but she had been carrying her own burdens while he was busy projecting his onto her. He thought about the countless times she had looked at him with frustration and said things he didn't want to hear. She had seen through him more often than he liked. Seen the self-pity. Seen the avoidance. Seen the way he used depression as an explanation for choices that were ultimately still his responsibility. That was the irony of it all. The thing that drew him toward her wasn't comfort. It was recognition. She reminded him of himself, and perhaps that was always doomed to end badly. Two wounded people could understand each other perfectly and still destroy each other.

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER SIX:SHRADS OF HER

The doctor did not look hopeful.

That was what frightened Ayesha the most.

Not the words. Not the hospital. Not even the machines surrounding Uzair.

It was the doctor's face.

Years of experience had taught him how to hide panic from families, how to soften bad news, how to separate emotion from medicine. Yet when he stepped out of the ICU, there was a heaviness in his expression that immediately made Ayesha stand.

Her legs felt weak.

"Doctor..." she whispered.

The doctor looked at her for a long moment before speaking.

"The next few hours are going to be very critical for your husband ."

The sentence struck her like a physical blow.

"He has suffered significant blood loss and blunt head trauma. We have done what we can for now."

Ayesha's fingers tightened around the edge of the chair.

"For now?" she repeated quietly.

The doctor nodded.

"For now."

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Then came the sentence she had been dreading.

"The rest..."

He exhaled slowly.

"The rest is in God's hands."

Ayesha stared at him.

The world suddenly felt very distant.

Very small.

Very cold.

"Pray for him,If he makes it through the night,we might be able to stabilise him" the doctor said softly.

Then he walked away.

And Ayesha felt her knees give out beneath her.

She sat down hard.

Her hands immediately covered her face.

A sob escaped her throat.

Because doctors only said things like that when they were no longer certain.

Because doctors only told families to pray when medicine had reached its limits.

Nearly twenty minutes later, hurried footsteps echoed through the corridor.

Rehman arrived first. Coming through those corridors once again, he was reminded of Naeem's death. He had never imagined his older son dying before him. The image of him wrapped in a white cloth was still haunting him. He wondered what he would do if Uzair, his right hand man, his cousin would die.

Ulfat only a few steps behind him.

The moment Rehman saw the blood on Ayesha's clothes, something dark flashed across his face.

Something dangerous.

For one brief second he forgot he was standing inside a hospital.Forgot there were people watching.Forgot everything except the image of his younger cousin lying unconscious behind those doors.His jaw tightened so hard it hurt.

He looked at the bloodstains.

Then at Ayesha.

Then at the ICU.

And for a terrifying moment, anger surged through him so violently he thought he might lose control of it.

Because all he could think was,she did this. He's on a ventilator in an ICU because of her.

His brother was fighting for his life because of her.

His brother was lying behind glass and machines because someone had lost control for a single moment.Rehman felt his hands curl into fists.

Hard.

So hard his knuckles turned white.

Ulfat noticed immediately.

"Rehman."

The warning was quiet.

But clear.

Rehman didn't answer.

His eyes remained fixed on Ayesha.

Ayesha noticed too.

And for the first time since the accident, she looked away.

Because she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Because he wasn't wrong.

The silence stretched between them.

Then finally Rehman spoke.

"Tumne ye haalat ki hai uski?"

( You hit him?)

His voice was calm.

Far too calm.

That frightened Ayesha more than shouting would have.

Tears filled her eyes instantly.

She nodded.

The answer seemed to hit Rehman harder than he expected.

He closed his eyes briefly.

Just briefly.

As if trying to stop himself from saying something he couldn't take back.

When he opened them again, the anger was still there.

"Kis cheez ne itna ghussa dilaya tha?" he asked quietly.

(What made you so angry?)

Ayesha began crying again.

"I didn't mean—"

"Main ne yeh nahi poocha."

(I didn't ask that.)

The interruption came sharp enough to make her flinch.

Ulfat stepped between them slightly.

Not enough to be obvious.

Rehman saw it.

Saw his own loss of control reflected in the gesture.

And immediately hated himself for it.

He looked away.He ran a hand over his face and took a deep breath.

Then another.

Because screaming at her would not help Uzair.Because hurting her would not help Uzair.

Ayesha looked broken.

Ulfat slowly sat beside her.

For several moments she said nothing.

Just let her cry.

Let her breathe.Let her fall apart.

Then quietly she spoke.

"Ayesha."

She looked up.

Her expression softened.

"Listen to me carefully."

Her hands trembled.

"You made a mistake."

The words hurt.

Because they were true.

"But stop punishing yourself every second for it. You need to be strong for him. "

Across from her, Rehman watched.

And slowly his anger began changing shape.

It was still there.

Every time he imagined Uzair unconscious, hooked on a ventilator to help him breathe, rage flared up again.

But beneath that anger was something else.

Fear.

The same fear everyone else was feeling.

Because beneath the reputation, beneath the power, beneath all the complicated messes Uzair had created he was still family.

And family turned even strong men into frightened children.

Finally, sometime after midnight, Rehman stood.

Walked toward the hospital prayer room.

Then stopped beside Ayesha.

For several seconds he simply looked at her.

Then he spoke quietly.

"Tumse bohot naraaz hoon. Aur us ka faisla mei baad mei karunga"

("I am very angry with you.")

Fresh tears immediately appeared in her eyes.

"But..."

His voice faltered.

Just slightly.

"If he wakes up," Rehman continued, "toh woh sabse pehle tumhe maaf karega."

("Then the first person he will forgive is you.")

Ayesha broke down again.

And this time Rehman didn't look away.

Because despite all his anger he knew that was true.Perhaps that was the most tragic thing of all.

That the man fighting for his life behind those doors would probably spend his first waking moments comforting the woman who had accidentally put him there.

The hospital after midnight felt less like a building and more like a place suspended outside ordinary time. The fluorescent lights flattened everything they touched, draining color from faces until everyone looked like a ghost waiting for permission to leave. Ayesha sat in the same chair she had occupied for hours, yet she felt as though she had aged years since arriving. Every time the ICU doors opened, her body reacted before her mind did. Her heart would lurch violently against her ribs, hope surging upward with such force that it almost hurt, only to collapse again when a nurse emerged carrying paperwork for someone else. She had reached the stage of guilt where memory became unreliable. She kept replaying the argument, but each time it returned differently. Sometimes she remembered herself shouting. Sometimes she remembered Uzair's face. Sometimes she remembered the lamp already in her hand before she consciously decided to lift it. The uncertainty frightened her. Human beings liked to believe there was always a clear line between intention and disaster, but the truth was uglier. The truth was that a life could split apart in less than a second. One movement. One mistake. One moment when grief became anger and anger became action. Now she sat surrounded by silence and wondered whether she had merely hurt the man she loved or destroyed the last remaining piece of herself along with him.

Across the corridor, Rehman appeared calm enough to deceive strangers, but anyone who truly knew him would have recognized the danger in his stillness. Rage had always been easier for him than fear. Rage was familiar. Rage gave shape to pain. Fear was something else entirely. Fear left a man helpless. Every few minutes his eyes drifted toward the ICU window, searching for movement beyond the glass. Each time he saw Uzair's motionless form attached to machines, a dark pressure built inside his chest. He kept remembering things he had not thought about in years. A skinny boy running after him through crowded streets. A teenager refusing to back down from fights he could not possibly win. A younger brother whose recklessness had always seemed almost charming because consequences never lasted long. But consequences had finally arrived. Rehman knew enough about violence to understand how close death often stood to ordinary life. He had seen men survive bullets and die from simple accidents. He had watched strong people disappear because fate had chosen the wrong second to look in their direction. That knowledge poisoned every hopeful thought. If Uzair died, Rehman knew he would spend the rest of his life carrying two unbearable truths simultaneously: that he had not been there when it happened and the wound wasn't given by an outsider,and that anger would be easier to live with than grief.

The darkest thoughts belonged to neither Ayesha nor Rehman. They belonged to the empty spaces between them. Hospitals collected human despair the way old houses collected dust. Every corridor contained invisible remains of prayers that had gone unanswered, bargains made with God in desperate whispers, promises spoken by people who would later break them. The waiting room seemed saturated with those ghosts. Ulfat felt them too. She sat quietly beside Ayesha, watching both of them unravel in different ways, and found herself thinking about how suffering distorted identity. Ayesha no longer looked like a wife. She looked like a defendant awaiting judgment. Rehman no longer looked like a brother. He looked like a man standing guard over a grave that had not yet been filled. Ulfat wondered whether tragedy revealed who people really were or whether it created entirely new versions of them. The question haunted her because she did not like the answer either possibility suggested. Perhaps there was no stable self beneath the surface at all. Perhaps everyone was merely one catastrophe away from becoming a stranger. Looking at Ayesha's bloodstained sleeves, she imagined the moment of impact. Looking at Rehman's clenched jaw, she imagined what would happen if the doctors eventually emerged with bad news. The future seemed less like a road and more like a cliff hidden in darkness.

Dhadkanon mein rawani abhi baaki hai

Pyar ka kissa khatam ho gaya to kya

Zindagi ki kahaani abhi baaki hai.

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER SIX:SHARDS OF HER(PART TWO)

The evening had left Ayesha restless in a way she hadn't felt for years. The family's visit kept replaying in her mind long after they had left. Usually their visit left her feeling smaller, carrying their criticisms like stones in her chest, but today had been different. Today, for the first time, she had answered back. She had finally said the things she had swallowed for years, and even now her heart was still racing from it. Her mother had looked shocked, her sisters offended, her bhabhis irritated, as if they had suddenly discovered that the woman they spent years lecturing was capable of having a voice of her own. The memory should have felt satisfying. Instead, it left her hollow. Because standing up to them had not fixed anything. The same problems were waiting for her in the dark.

When Uzair walked through the front door later that evening, he immediately sensed something was wrong. Ayesha was sitting on the sofa in complete silence, staring at nothing. The television was on but muted. The lights were dim. The entire house felt heavy. He loosened his collar and placed his keys on the table, hoping the silence would stay silence. It didn't.

"You know what the funny thing is?" Ayesha said without looking at him.

Uzair sighed. "Aaj kya hua hai?"

(What happened today?)

She laughed softly. It wasn't a happy laugh. It was the kind of laugh people gave when they were too exhausted to cry.

"Apparently everything is my fault."

"Ab kya baat ho gyi Phir se?"

(And what is it this time?)

"Hamari marriage. My unhappiness. Your affair. The fact that our lives are a mess. Somehow all of it comes back to me."

Uzair closed his eyes briefly. He already knew where this was heading.

"Ayesha, not tonight. My head is killing me today "

She looked at him then.

"No. Tonight."

There was something dangerous in her voice, not anger exactly, but years of anger finally deciding it was tired of waiting.

"I spent the whole afternoon listening to people tell me how a woman should behave, how a wife should keep her husband interested, how if a man looks elsewhere there must have been something missing at home."

Uzair looked away.

"Aur tumne kya kaha?"

(And what did you say?)

Ayesha stood up slowly.

"I told them maybe men should learn loyalty before women are taught sacrifice. Har Waqt aurto se hi sabr ki umeed kyu ki jati hai."

(Why are women always told to be patient.)

The room fell silent.

Uzair walked toward the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. His hands felt tired. Everything about him felt tired these days. His head was spinning and the pain behind his eyes was stabbing him.

"Unhon ne mujhe samjhaya ke main apne shohar ko sambhal nahi saki."

(They explained to me that I failed to control my husband.)

Uzair looked away.Ayesha laughed again.This time there was no humor in it."Control."She repeated the word like it tasted .

"Jaise tum koi jaanwar ho."

(As if you're some animal.)

"You shouldn't let them get to you."

She stared at him in disbelief.

Ayesha watched him standing there, lost inside himself as usual, and felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her.

"I know.

Uzair looked at her.Sad and defeated."It didn't change anything.

" Aaj se 10 saal pehle aur aaj se 10 saal baad bhi kuch ni badlega hamare zindagi mei. ."

(Nothing would ever change in our life. )

" Why don't you get it?"

"Get what?"

"The fact that I am tired of everyone treating me like I am the only person responsible for every broken thing around me."

Uzair drank the rest of the water.

"And I'm tired too."

The words escaped before he could stop them.

Ayesha laughed again.

"Tired?"

"Yes, tired."

His voice rose.

"Do you think you're the only unhappy person in this house? Is duniya mei aur bhi cheeze hai aur log hai "

There it was.The thing neither of them said often enough.The truth.Ayesha folded her arms.

"So say it."

"What?"

"Say it. Please tumhe upar wale ka vaasta, mujhse sach kaho."

(Tell me the truth)

His jaw tightened.

"Ayesha..."

"No, say it. Tell me how miserable your life is."

The bitterness in her voice made him flinch.For a moment he considered walking away. He always walked away. But tonight something inside him was too exhausted to run.

"You want the truth?" he asked.

"Yes."

"The truth is I haven't been happy in years. I feel nothing ."

The words hung between them.

Neither moved.

Neither looked away.

"The truth is I come home and everything feels dead."

Ayesha's face tightened.

"The truth is I don't even remember the last time we were genuinely happy."

"And whose fault is that?" she shot back immediately.

Uzair rubbed his forehead.

"I don't know anymore."

"Liar.Jhoothe."

The word came out instantly.

His eyes snapped toward her.

"You know exactly when things changed."

The silence that followed was brutal.

Because she was right.They both knew when things changed.They just disagreed about why.Ayesha felt tears gathering in her eyes but refused to let them fall.

"You had an affair. You brought another woman in our marriage"

The words sounded uglier every time they were spoken.

"You don't get to stand here and act like you're some tragic victim of fate. "

Uzair laughed bitterly.

"No?"

"No."

His eyes darkened.

"You think that's all there was to it?"

"Then explain it to me."

His chest tightened.For months he had wanted someone to understand him.Now that he had the opportunity, he realized he didn't even understand himself.

"I felt trapped.Mujhe lag raha hai ki mei samundar mei phasa hoon na doob ra hoon na hi mujhe saas lete ban ra hai"

(I feel like I am stuck in a sea, I can neither breathe nor drown. )

The confession came quietly.

Ayesha stared at him.

"So do I."

"I felt invisible."

"I felt alone."

A bitter smile appeared on her face.

"So did I, Uzair. I was right there with you. I was always standing beside you. I was also stuck in a limbo with you. "

Those words hit harder than the accusations.

Because for a moment he saw it.

Not his pain.

Hers.

The years she spent waiting for him to come back emotionally.The months she spent pretending everything was fine because admitting otherwise was too humiliating.The time she spent competing against things she couldn't even see.

Ayesha wiped at her eyes angrily.

"You know what hurts the most?"

Uzair didn't answer.

"I could have forgiven the affair if it had only been about sex."

His head lifted.

The statement surprised him.

Ayesha laughed bitterly.

"I could have forgiven one mistake for the love I had for you."

Her voice cracked.

"But that's not what destroyed me."

The room seemed to shrink around them.

"What destroyed me was realizing that while I was fighting for us, you had already given up."

Uzair looked away immediately.

Because he had no defense against that.

None.

Outside, the sky had turned completely dark. Inside, the house felt colder than before.

Lately Uzair found himself comparing everything. His marriage now against what it had once been. His younger self against the man he had become. His choices against the consequences they had created. Every comparison ended the same way with regret. He wasn't happy. He hadn't been happy for a long time. But unhappiness had become so familiar that he no longer knew what happiness was supposed to look like. Sometimes he wondered if he had ruined the only life he was ever going to have. Other times he wondered whether it had already been ruined long before he made any of his mistakes.

Neither of them were speaking. The silence settled heavily between them once again.Not the comfortable silence of people who understand each other.The silence of two wounded people trapped inside the same life, looking at each other and seeing years of disappointment reflected back.

And somewhere in that silence, both of them understood something they were too afraid to say aloud: they still loved each other enough to hurt, but not enough to heal.

A wife.

A marriage.

Ayesha watched him from across the room.

For years she had wanted him to talk.

Now that he finally seemed willing, she wasn't sure she wanted to hear it.

"Do you know why I'm tired?" Uzair asked suddenly.

His voice wasn't angry.

That somehow made it worse.

Ayesha folded her arms tighter across her chest.

"Tell me."

Uzair laughed softly.

A bitter sound.

"Because every morning I wake up and spend the entire day pretending to be someone I don't even recognize anymore."

He leaned back and rubbed his face.

"You really think that this started with her."

His eyes lifted to meet hers.

"It didn't."

Ayesha looked away.

Because some part of her already knew that.

"This started years ago."

Uzair's voice had become distant, almost reflective.

"One day I woke up and realized everything I touched felt heavy. Work. Home. People.Life.Conversations."

He swallowed.

"I would come home and sit next to you and feel guilty because I had nothing to give."

The words landed heavily between them.

"And then I felt guilty for feeling guilty."

Ayesha felt something tighten painfully in her chest.

"You never told me. You should have talked to me,I am your wife"

Uzair smiled without humor.

"What would I have said?"

He looked exhausted.

"'Hello, Ayesha. I think something inside me is disappearing and I don't know how to stop it?'"

His laugh died quickly.

"Even I didn't understand it."

The room felt smaller now.More dangerous.Because honesty always was.

"I kept thinking if I worked harder, if I ignored it long enough, it would go away."

His jaw tightened.

"It didn't."

Ayesha stared at him.

For a moment she saw not the man who had hurt her.

Not the man the city talked about.

Just a tired man sitting alone in a house full of consequences.

Then anger came back.

Because understanding wasn't the same thing as forgiveness.

"So instead," she said quietly, "you found someone else to understand you."

Uzair's expression changed immediately.

"Ayesha—"

"No."

She stood abruptly.

"No."

Years of hurt were rising now.

Years.

Not weeks.

Not months.

Years.

"You don't get to stand there and tell me you're suffering as if that excuses what you've done. Get over yourself,everybody is suffering in this world."

Uzair stood too.

"I didn't say it excuses anything."

"Then what does it do?"

Her voice shook.

"What exactly am I supposed to do with your pain, Uzair?"

The question hit him harder than shouting would have.

"What am I supposed to do?" she continued. "Comfort you? Feel sorry for you? Thank you for finally explaining why you broke everything?"

"Ayesha—"

"I spent months thinking there was something wrong with me."

Tears had started gathering now.

"I kept wondering what I did."

She laughed shakily.

"I wondered if it was the way I spoke. The way I dressed. The way I behaved."

Her eyes were shining.

"And all that time you were having some private crisis and I wasn't even allowed to know. Why don't you let me in."

Uzair looked devastated.

Because she wasn't wrong.

"I know."

The answer came quietly.

Too quietly.

Ayesha stared at him.

Then laughed again.

A wounded sound.

"Of course you know."

The lamp sat on the side table between them.

Ordinary.

Harmless.

The kind of object nobody notices until a moment changes it.

"You always know afterwards."

Something in Uzair snapped.

Not anger.

Frustration.

"Then what do you want from me? Do you want my life. " he asked.

His voice rose for the first time.

"What do you want me to say? Do you want me to get into my knees and beg you"

"I don't know!"

Ayesha shouted back.

"I don't know anymore!"

The room seemed to vibrate with it.

Everything they had swallowed for years was finally spilling out.

"I wanted you to choose me."

Her voice broke.

"Just once."

Uzair froze.

The sentence landed with terrible precision.

Because he knew exactly what she meant.

Ayesha wiped angrily at her face.

"But you never did."

The silence that followed felt unbearable.

And then Uzair made the mistake.

The fatal one.

He looked away.

Just for a second.

Just long enough for Ayesha to feel abandoned all over again.Something hot and reckless surged through her.Before she fully understood what she was doing, her hand closed around the lamp.The movement was sudden and was born of impulse. Ayesha glared at him, then furiously grabbed the lamp on the table and ruthlessly smashed it onto Uzair's head.

Uzair’s sight darkened. Even though his reactionary nerves were fast enough to see Ayesha's actions, he didn’t evade it. With a loud noise, Uzair fell to the ground , blood trickling down alongside his forehead.

Ayesha's hand that was gripping the lamp shook violently. She had really gone crazy. For a long time, she wasnt able to breathe. Seeing Uzair on the ground, she was shocked and in a daze, unable perceive the scene in front of him.

Uzair’s mind is hazy and his forehead hurt, but a certain part in his body is in even more pain. He wiped the blood from his eyes and looked at Ayesha silently, “Are you done unleashing your anger? If not…continue.”

Uzair..."

The word came out as a whisper.Uzair's hand reached up instinctively.When he pulled his hand away, it was red.

Ayesha took a step toward him.

Then another.

"Oh God.... What have I done" 

Her voice trembled. She froze in her place, she was reminded of all the other times she witnessed blood flowing, when she got a nosebleed from one of her brothers hitting her when her affair was discovered, when she lost her child and lastly when she left Meerab in pool of her own blood and didn't even look back. Everything was crashing down on her in this moment. 

"I..."

He looked at her. He wasn't shocked or pained, he just looked painfully tired. 

And somehow that expression made everything worse.Because suddenly the argument didn't matter.The accusations didn't matter.The explanations didn't matter.There was only the horrible realization that they had spent so long hurting each other that neither of them had noticed how close they were to breaking completely.

Blood continued to drip onto the floor between them.

Rehman Dakait:

He is a family man and that's the only positive attribute of his character in the movie.

His charity was just a front, he threw just some scrapes for the people of his city, which he was planning on using for his political gains. It was a calculated investment aimed at building political influence .

He betrayed BUF for his benefit. He killed Bade Sahab's nephew for a land deal. Major Iqbal would have found someone else to do his bidding. He did that because he wanted more political power. At the end of the day Major Iqbal wouldn't have spend all of his energy on revenge on a gangster, just because he refused.

He was always power hungry and had some level of political aspirations, Naeem's death just accelerated and intensified ambitions that already existed within him.

His reaction after finding out Yalina is at Hamza's home isn't protectiveness, at no point did he seem genuinely worried for Yalina's reputation.

His reaction at 26/11 scene, he was ecstatic seeing the victims, there was no sympathy or concern for the tortures some victims were put through. He had no personal enimity towards the country but he was celebrating watching it bleed.

Alas, my friend, the boast is poor, He who has mingled in the fray Of duty, that the brave endure, Must have made foes.

If you have none,

Small is the work that you have done.

You've hit no traitor on the hip, You've dashed no cup from perjured lip, You've never set the wrong to right.

You've been a coward in the fight.

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER SIX: SHARDS OF HER

(PART 1)

Ayesha smoothed her dupatta, checking her reflection one last time. She was supposed to leave the house in ten minutes to attend another charity event alongside Ulfat, a public appearance meant to bolster Rehman’s image as he officially entered the political arena.Her phone screen lit up, a text notification from her mother destroying those plans. Her family had decided to drop by for a surprise visit. Ayesha groaned, burying her face in her hands.

The news of Meerab had faded from conversations, replaced by newer scandals and fresher gossip, but the stain left behind on Ayesha's life refused to disappear, because unlike the city, families never moved on from old wounds, they preserved them, polished them, and brought them out whenever they needed to remind someone of their place.There was a particular feeling that arrived before them, a heaviness in the chest, an old exhaustion that had nothing to do with the present and everything to do with years of being judged, corrected, compared and reminded of her mistakes until those mistakes became larger than the person herself.

She was sitting near the window when she heard familiar voices entering through the front hall, layered over each other with artificial warmth and the sharpness people hide beneath concern, and for one brief moment she closed her eyes, because she already knew what this visit was going to be.

Never comfort.

Her older sister, Rabia entered first, wrapped in expensive fabric and the same superiority she had carried since childhood, the kind of woman who smiled with her mouth but never her eyes, who had spent years making Ayesha feel too emotional, too dramatic, too loved by everyone around her. Even as children, she had hated how easily attention settled on Ayesha, how relatives softened around her, how their mother forgave her quicker.

Behind her came the younger one,Hina quieter but worse in different ways, carrying that old jealousy that had never really disappeared, only matured into politeness sharp enough to cut without leaving visible wounds. Ayesha could still remember the night her secret had stopped being a secret, the trembling fear in her chest when their father had found out she had been seeing someone a young Iranian Baloch man she had once believed she might actually build a life with. She had never discovered exactly how the family found out, not officially.

But she knew.

She had always known.

Her younger sister had watched her too carefully back then, had asked too many innocent questions, had lingered outside doors just long enough to hear fragments, and within days the entire house had turned into a courtroom. Her mother crying. Her father raging. Phones being taken away. Doors monitored.

And then—

Uzair.

A rushed marriage arranged so quickly it barely felt real, as if the family had wanted to bury the scandal before it could breathe properly.

At the time they had practically handed her over.

Because back then Uzair was just another dangerous man with money and influence and rumors around his name, someone useful enough to marry her off to but not respectable enough to envy.

Funny how quickly people change once power arrives.

Now the same family that had once whispered “gangster hi hai” behind closed doors spoke his name carefully in public.

Now they watched his cars.

His business.

His reach.

And hated that Ayesha had ended up with the man who rose higher than any of their polished husbands ever did.

Her two sisters-in-law entered last, both carrying expressions of rehearsed sympathy, though one of them barely bothered hiding her satisfaction. They had never forgiven fate for giving Ayesha the life they believed should have belonged to one of them.

Ayesha stood politely when they entered.

Everyone kissed her cheeks.

Everyone held her hand too long.

Everyone looked at her like they had already heard the story and simply came to watch the aftermath with their own eyes.

“Tum kitni kamzor lag rahi ho,” her older sister said first, sitting down dramatically. “Khud ka khayal hi nahi rakha tumne.”

(You look so weak. You haven’t taken care of yourself at all.)

Ayesha smiled faintly.

That practiced smile women learn early.

The one that hides exhaustion.

“I’m fine.”

No one believed her.

Or maybe they simply didn’t care enough to.

Tea arrived. Cups clinked softly. Fake concern floated through the room like perfume too strong to breathe around.

Then it started.

Slowly.

Naturally.

Cruelly.

“We heard…” one of the sisters-in-law began carefully, pretending hesitation she clearly didn’t feel, “about that girl.”

Silence tightened instantly.

Ayesha kept her eyes on her cup.

“What girl?” she asked quietly.

Her older sister gave a soft sigh, leaning back as if burdened by the ugliness of the topic.

“Ayesha, please. Poora shehar baat kar raha hai. Family isi samay hi kaam aati hai”

(The whole city is talking. This is exactly what family is for)

The younger sister spoke next, too casually.

“They say Uzair bhai was seen with her everywhere.”

Ayesha’s fingers tightened slightly around the cup.

“They also say she ran away with someone,” another added quickly. “Who knows what truth is anymore.”

The room filled with that particular kind of silence women create when they want pain to linger properly before cutting deeper.

Then came the real blow.

Her older sister tilted her head slightly and said in a softer voice, “Tumne notice nahi kiya tha pehle?”

(Didn’t you notice earlier?)

There it was.

Not sympathy for her, but

Humiliation.

Ayesha finally looked up.

“What exactly are you trying to say?”

The older sister shrugged lightly. “Bas yahi ke mard jab badalte hain na… aurat ko sabse pehle pata chal jata hai.”

(Just that when men change, women always know first.)

One of the sisters-in-law gave a small laugh into her tea.

“Waise bhi…” she muttered, “aise mardon pe bharosa bhi kitna kar sakte hain.”

(Anyway… how much can you trust men like him.)

Men like him.

As if they had not all benefited from Uzair in one way or another.

As if they had not proudly used his name when convenient.

Ayesha felt something cold move through her chest.

Shagufta, her elder brother's wife, began again.

The same Shagufta whose husband had spent nearly six years unemployed before Uzair had pulled strings and secured him a well-paying position in Dubai.

Gratitude, however, had never been one of Shagufta's strengths.

She stirred her tea lazily and said with false sympathy, "Allah sabr de tumhein, Ayesha. Waise sach kahun toh jab maine suna ke Uzair ka naam kisi aur aurat ke saath aa raha hai, mujhe bilkul hairani nahi hui, kyunke mard jab ghar mein sukoon na mile toh bahar dhoondhne lagte hain, aur tum dono ko dekh kar toh kaafi saalon se lag raha tha ke ghar sirf naam ka chal raha hai."

(May God give you patience, Ayesha. To be honest, when I heard Uzair's name being linked to another woman, I wasn't surprised at all, because when men don't find peace at home, they start looking elsewhere, and seeing the two of you these past years, it seemed your marriage was functioning only in name.)

Her younger sister immediately frowned.

"Bhabhi, yeh kis tarah ki baat hai?"

(What kind of thing is that to say?)

Shagufta shrugged.

"What? Main jhoot bol rahi hoon?"

(Am I lying?)

Before anyone could answer, Nida, the second sister-in-law, joined in.

Nida had always been worse.

Shagufta at least pretended to be concerned.

Nida enjoyed cruelty openly.

She leaned back against the sofa and laughed softly.

"Aur waise bhi..." she said, looking directly at Ayesha. "Aurat ko apne mard ko sambhalna aana chahiye. Shaadi ka matlab sirf gehne pehen lena aur badi gaadi mein ghoomna nahi hota. Kuch zimmedariyan bhi hoti hain."

(And anyway... a woman should know how to keep her husband. Marriage isn't just about wearing jewelry and driving around in expensive cars. There are responsibilities too.)

Ayesha's jaw tightened.

Her sisters exchanged looks.

But Nida was just getting started.

"Agar bachcha hota to alag baat hoti."

(It would have been different if you had a child)

Her mother looked up sharply.

"Nida."

A warning.

Nida ignored it.

"Main bas sach bol rahi hoon Ammi.Aaj mujhe bolne dijiye"

(I'm only speaking the truth. Dont stop me rom speakingtoday.)

Then she turned back to Ayesha.

"Tumhari shaadi ko kitne saal ho gaye? Aur aaj tak koi aulaad nahi. Mard chahe jitna bhi mohabbat kar le, ek waqt ke baad usse apna ghar, apna waaris chahiye hota hai. Tumne kabhi socha ke shayad Uzair thak gaya ho?"

(How many years has it been since your marriage? And still no child. No matter how much a man loves a woman, eventually he wants a family, an heir. Did you ever think maybe Uzair got tired?)

Ayesha felt something twist painfully inside her chest.

Not because the words were true.

But because they had been aimed exactly where they would hurt most.

Nida continued mercilessly.

"Bura mat manna, lekin jis aurat se apna mard na sambhale aur jo usse bachcha bhi na de sake, usse phir doosri auraton se shikayat karne ka bhi koi haq nahi banta."

(Don't take it badly, but a woman who can't keep her husband and can't give him a child doesn't really have the right to complain about other women.)

The sentence hit the room like a slap.

Even Shagufta looked slightly uncomfortable.

Her mother stood up immediately.

For the first time since they arrived, genuine anger appeared on her face.

"Nida, bas."

Enough.

But years of bitterness had finally found an audience.

"No, Ammi, kyun bas? Har waqt Ayesha hi bechari kyun hai? Humne bhi zindagi dekhi hai. Farq bas itna hai ke humne apne ghar bachaye."

(No, why enough? Why is Ayesha always the victim? We've lived life too. The difference is we protected our homes.)

The room became still.

Ayesha lowered her eyes.

Not because she agreed.

Because she was tired.

Not heartbreak.

Not even anger.

Just humiliation so old it almost felt familiar.

Because suddenly she was young again, standing in front of her family while they discussed her future like punishment, while everyone decided what kind of girl she was, what kind of life she deserved.

How quickly women become failures in other people’s stories.

Then another voice joined in.

"People are talking everywhere. Imagine how embarrassing this is for our family."

"Our family?" Ayesha repeated quietly.

"Yes, our family," her mother snapped. "Whether you like it or not, your actions affect us too."

Ayesha felt something tighten inside her chest.

Not sadness.

Not shame.

Anger.

Old anger.

The kind she had swallowed for years.

Her eldest sister leaned forward.

"You know what your problem is?" she asked. "You always wanted to be different. Even when you were young you thought rules applied to everyone except you. You had that affair, everyone knows it, proposals stopped coming, people talked behind our backs for years, and still we stood by you. You always acted like some tragic love story heroine."

The room laughed softly.

Something snapped.

Ayesha stood up so suddenly that even her mother looked startled.

For the first time in years she wasn't crying.

She wasn't defending herself quietlyShe was angry.

"Stood by me?" she repeated.

The room became still.

"You stood by me?"

Her voice grew sharper.

"When exactly did that happen? Was it when every proposal meeting ended with one of you reminding people about my past before I even got the chance to explain myself? Was it when every family gathering became a courtroom where I had to apologize for mistakes I'd already paid for ten times over? Or was it when all of you decided that one bad decision should define the rest of my life forever?"

Nobody spoke.

Ayesha laughedbitter sound.

"No. Don't look shocked now."

Her eyes moved from one face to another.

"You want the truth? Fine."

Her voice trembled slightly.

Not with fear.

With years of resentment finally finding words.

Ayesha continued."Yes. I had a past. Everybody knows that. I made mistakes. Everybody knows that too. But what none of you ever understood is that after years of being judged, years of being looked at like some warning sign for other girls, years of hearing whispers every time I entered a room, Uzair was the first person who simply accepted me."

Her younger sister scoffed.

"Accepted you? He's a low life gangster."

That made Ayesha laugh again.

A harsher laugh this time.

"Now he's a gangster?"

The silence that followed was almost amusing.Because everybody understood exactly what she meant.

Ayesha stepped closer.

"Where was this disgust when your husband needed a government contract and suddenly Uzair's contacts became useful? Where was this moral outrage when your son's admission got approved after one phone call? Where was this concern for my reputation when all of you were happily attending functions in cars arranged by him and introducing yourselves using his name because it opened doors that were previously closed?"

Nobody answered.

Nobody could.

Her sister-in-law finally spoke.Her sister-in-law finally spoke.

"That's different."

Ayesha turned sharply.

"No," she said.

"It's exactly the same."

Her voice was growing louder now.

Years of humiliation pouring out.

"For years all I heard was gangster this, criminal that, bad influence this, dangerous man that. But the second he started sitting with politicians, the second important people started shaking his hand, the second photographs with ministers appeared in newspapers, suddenly everyone forgot how much they hated him."Her mother stood up.

"Ayesha, enough."

"Nahi, Ammi."

Her eyes filled with tears.

But she kept talking.

"You don't get to do this anymore. You don't get to come into my house and act like victims while pretending you've always wanted what's best for me."The room had become painfully quiet.

Ayesha's breathing had become uneven.

Years of pain rising all at once.

"You know what's funny?" she asked softly.

Nobody replied.

"Everybody believes that Uzair hurt me the most."

A pause.

A painful one.

"But every time something went wrong in my life, every time I was drowning, every time I felt like I wasn't enough, it wasn't strangers I heard in my head."She looked directly at her mother.

"It was all of you."

The words landed harder than shouting ever could.

Her mother's face changed.

A flicker of guilt.

Gone almost immediately.

Ayesha wiped her eyes angrily.

"At least Uzair never pretended to be something he wasn't."

The room remained silent.

"He never claimed to be perfect."Her voice cracked.

"But all of you spent years pretending you loved me while making sure I never forgot my worst mistake."

Nobody had an answer.

Not one.

For the first time in a very long time, Ayesha wasn't the girl defending herself.

She wasn't apologizing.

She wasn't asking to be understood.

And as her family sat there in uncomfortable silence, unable to deny a single thing she had said, she realized something that hurt almost as much as it freed her:The people who had spent years teaching her shame had never actually forgiven her.

They had only learned how to use her guilt whenever it suited them.

All the anon hate I have ever received always felt like a teenager was writing it,It wasn't something I let in mind because I felt that the person was just sad that sending hate messages every week was how they wanted to spend their time.

But the hate towards @twinblueflamee is truly mind-boggling. No one is entitled to a response from someone. If your self worth is based on how many likes you get or who reblogs your post that is just sad but nothing excuses your relentless hate messages towards her which led her to stop writing.

Fortune is what misfortune hides within.

Who knows how it will end?

The right may revert to the wrong,

The good may revert to evil.

Thus the people have been confused for a long time.

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER FIVE:DIFFERENT LIVES

Ayesha had started leaving the house earlier than usual, because being out being busy felt easier than sitting with thoughts that had begun to turn on her without warning, circling back to things she couldn’t undo and questions she couldn’t answer, so when Ulfat mentioned the charity visits, the camps, the outreach work in the outskirts, she said yes without thinking too much, almost like she needed somewhere to put all that restlessness.

The drive out of the city always felt longer than it was, the roads thinning out, the buildings giving way to uneven land and scattered homes that looked like they had been standing there for years without ever really changing, and by the time they reached the first cluster of people waiting near the makeshift camp, Ayesha felt that strange shift again the one where her own problems didn’t disappear, but seemed… quieter in the presence of something more immediate.

Children.

Too many.

Running barefoot, laughing in ways that didn’t match the conditions around them, their energy untouched by the things that should have limited it, and yet, as the team began setting up, as the boxes were opened and lists were checked, that energy started to look different, because one child stumbled oddly, another dragged a leg behind him like it didn’t fully belong to him, and suddenly what had looked like play began to feel like something else entirely.

“Polio cases,” Ulfat said beside her, almost casually, like this was something she had learned to say without letting it affect her tone too much. “Abhi bhi aate hain yahan.”

(You still find cases here.)

Ayesha didn’t respond immediately.

She was watching a boy trying to keep up with the others, his movements uneven, determined but strained, and there was something about the effort in his body that made her chest tighten unexpectedly, because he wasn’t complaining, he wasn’t even slowing down properly, he was just… adjusting, like this was normal for him.

“Iski vaccines to aajkal har jagah ho gyi hai na?” Ayesha asked quietly.

"Haan,lekin vo vaccines in baccho tak nahi pahuchne dete. Sirf, Afghanistan aur Pakistan mein hi polio aaj bhi bacha hai. The people who control that area, even shoot down the volunteers who try to help them"

(Yes, but those vaccines don't reach the children. Afghanistan and Pakistan are the only Asian countries which still have polio. )

Ulfat said, already moving toward the volunteers.

Ayesha followed slowly, her steps less certain now, her eyes moving from one child to another, noticing things she hadn’t been trained to notice before the slight stiffness, the imbalance, the way some mothers held their children a little tighter, a little more carefully, like they were used to protecting something fragile that shouldn’t have been fragile in the first place.

There was a woman sitting on the ground, a child in her lap, trying to soothe him while he cried, not loudly, just persistently, and when one of the workers approached her, she gave him some money and begged him to give the vaccine to her kid, but the worker kindly told her that it had been too late and her child already has polio, the vaccine won't work on him. The child would need specialized care for the rest of his life.

Ayesha stood there, watching the exchange, something unsettled moving through her chest, because the something

Distance from information, from access, from systems that were supposed to reach here but didn’t fully, not consistently, not enough.

She looked around again.

At the children.

At the parents.

At the uneven ground beneath them.

Back in the city, loss had felt personal, contained within walls and memories and relationships, but here, it was differentit was spread out, visible, almost normalized in a way that made it harder to process, because no one here was asking why me, they were just… continuing.

“Kitne cases hote hain?” Ayesha asked after a while, her voice lower now.

(How many cases are there?)

Ulfat glanced at her briefly.

“Exact number koi nahi bata sakta” she said. “Par enough hain ke ignore nahi kar sakte.”

(No one gives an exact number. But there are enough that you can’t ignore them.)

That word stayed with her.

Enough.

Enough to exist.

Enough to matter.

Enough to be preventable and still happening.

Ayesha moved closer to the camp, her hands unconsciously clasping together as she watched another child receive the drops, a small, simple act that carried more weight than it should have, because it wasn’t just medicine it was a chance, something that should have been guaranteed, something that shouldn’t depend on whether a team managed to reach here on time.

Her mind flickered, uninvited, to something else.

To something she had lost.

And for a brief, disorienting moment, the two things overlapped not in a logical way, not in a way she could explain, but in a feeling, a quiet, uncomfortable awareness that some losses come from absence, from things not being there when they should have been, from moments that slip past without intervention.

She inhaled slowly, steadying herself.

“Hum aur camps kar sakte hain?” she asked suddenly.

(Can we do more camps?)

Ulfat looked at her, slightly surprised.

“Kar sakte hain,” she said.

Ayesha nodded, her gaze still fixed ahead.

“Theek hai,” she said quietly.

(Okay.)

There was something different in her tone now.

Because for the first time in days, maybe weeks, her thoughts had moved outward instead of inward, not erasing what she carried, but giving it somewhere else to go, somewhere it could exist without consuming her entirely.

Still—

nothing felt lighter.

And as the camp continued around her, as children cried and then quieted, as names were noted down and boxes slowly emptied, Ayesha stood there in the middle of it all, carrying her own silent grief alongside a hundred visible ones, realizing in a way she hadn’t before that pain didn’t cancel pain it just coexisted, in different forms, in different places, waiting for someone to notice it.

And now she had.

Malaysia had stopped feeling new, but it hadn’t started feeling like home either, and that in-between space was the hardest to sit in, because nothing here hurt sharply enough to break her, but nothing comforted her enough to heal her either, so most days Meerab moved through it quietly, doing what needed to be done, speaking when required, and saving the rest of herself for the hours when she was alone.

The apartment was small, neat in a way that didn’t come from habit but from control, because when everything inside felt uncertain, order became something she could hold onto, even if it was just in how things were placed, how the lights were switched off, how silence was allowed to settle without interruption.

She had learned the routes now, the office, the sites, the short walk back, the corner shop where the man didn’t ask questions, just nodded, and it should have felt like progress, like something building slowly, but instead it often felt like she was just… continuing, like her life hadn’t restarted, it had just shifted location.

That morning, the hospital smelled the same as every hospital did, clean in a way that never quite hid the tension underneath, and as she sat there, her fingers loosely wrapped around the edge of her dupatta, she found herself counting things again—the seconds between footsteps, the flicker of the light, the soft murmur of voices behind closed doors anything to keep her mind from running ahead of her.

When her name was called, she stood up immediately, almost too quickly, like she had been waiting for it without realizing.

The doctor greeted her with a practiced calm, the kind that doesn’t promise anything but doesn’t alarm you immediately either, and for a few minutes, everything was routine questions, small observations, the steady rhythm of medical conversation that feels normal until it doesn’t.

Then the doctor’s tone shifted.

“Meerab,” she said, her voice slower now, more deliberate, “We have some concerns”

Her stomach dropped.

“…What?” she asked, her voice quieter than she intended.

The doctor glanced briefly at the reports, then back at her, choosing her words carefully, not to soften them, but to make sure they landed clearly.

“The baby’s heart is showing multiple defects. Four structural issues” she said. “Four structural issues.Tetralogy of heart.”

Meerab blinked slowly.

“…four?” she repeated, as if the number might change if she said it differently.

The doctor nodded.

“Haan,” she said gentlly," Yes. It’s serious, but it can be treatable."

Treatable.

The word that usually brings relief.

It didn’t .

Because it came with something else.

“Surgery will be required after the delivery” the doctor continued. “Possibly more than one.”

The room started closing in on her.

Meerab’s hand moved, almost automatically, to her stomach, pressing lightly, as if she could reach something through skin and silence.

“…woh bach jayega?” she asked.

(Will it survive?)

The question came out fragile.

Not dramatic.

Just… real.

The doctor didn’t answer immediately.

"We will provide the best care possible,” she said finally. “But the risk is high.”

Risk.

Another word that stayed.

Meerab nodded slowly, even though her mind hadn’t fully caught up yet, because sometimes the body responds before understanding, sometimes it agrees before it has processed what it is agreeing to.

The rest of the conversation blurred slightly after that terms, procedures, timelines, names of specialists important things, necessary things, but they felt distant, like they were being said for someone else, someone who was more prepared, more stable, more capable of holding all of it together at once.

By the time she stepped out of the room, the corridor felt longer than before.

Or maybe it was just her.

She walked ,her steps steady in a way that didn’t reflect what was happening inside her, because inside, everything had shifted again, the fragile balance she had been holding tilting slightly, not enough to collapse, but enough to make her aware of how little it would take.

Outside, the air felt heavier. It was pressing against her skin.

She stood there for a moment, not moving, just breathing, trying to anchor herself to something physical, something real, because her thoughts had already begun slipping toward places she didn’t want them to go.

Four defects.

Surgery.

Risk.

The words circled, repeating, refusing to settle into something she could manage.

Her hand tightened slightly against her stomach.

Because this wasn’t something she could fix.

This wasn’t something she could control.

This was waiting.

Enduring.

She started walking again, slower this time, her steps losing some of that earlier steadiness, because now the loneliness felt different, not just emotional, not just the absence of familiar faces or voices, but something deeper, something tied to the realization that whatever came next she would have to face it without anyone who knew her before she broke.

The fight had ended almost an hour ago but the adrenaline still sat under the skin like heat that refused to leave.

One of the smaller gangs from the old side of the city had tried getting smart over territory, money, loyalty same old story, different faces and by the time it was over, two men were unconscious, one had disappeared completely, and the warehouse floor smelled like blood, sweat, and burnt gunpowder.

Uzair washed his hands at the rusted sink near the back room, water running pink for a few seconds before clearing. His knuckles were split again. He barely noticed anymore.

Behind him, Hamza kicked a broken chair aside and let out a tired breath. “Saalo ka dramabaazi bahut badh gya hai aaj kal.”

(These idiots have become too dramatic these days.)

Uzair gave a faint hum in response.

That was all.

A few months ago he would’ve said something sharper, something colder, but now most conversations died halfway around him. Hamza had started noticing that more and more.

Not sadness exactly.

Just absence.

Like Uzair was present physically but some part of him stayed elsewhere all the time.

Hamza reached into his jacket and pulled out a small packet. “Chal,” he said casually, “aaj thoda dimaag band karte hai.”

(Come on. Let’s shut the mind off for a while today.)

Uzair glanced at him once. Then at the packet.

Normally he would’ve refused.

Tonight he didn’t.

They climbed up to the roof of the warehouse because the rooms downstairs still carried too much noise inside them. Up here the air was colder. The city stretched far away in flickering yellow lights and distant sirens.

Hamza sat first, back against the low wall, lighting the rolled cigarette slowly before passing it over.

Uzair took it without a word.

The smoke hit harsh at first, burning the throat before settling warm somewhere behind the eyes. He leaned his head back slightly, staring upward at the black sky.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

The silence wasn’t awkward anymore.

It had become familiar.

Hamza watched him from the side quietly. “Tu pehle itna chup nahi rehta tha.”

(You didn’t use to stay this quiet.)

Uzair exhaled slowly, smoke disappearing into the dark air. “Waqt badal gaya to halaat bhi badal gaye, Yeh sab dekh ke jazbaat bhi badal gaye, Yeh kuch aur nahi bas waqt ka taqaza hai yaara,Kabhi woh badal gaye aur kabhi ham badal gaye.”

(As time changed, circumstances changed too,Seeing all this, emotions changed too,This is nothing else but the demand of time, my friend,Sometimes they changed, and sometimes we changed. )

The cigarette slipped from Hamza's fingers as he fell into a coughing fit, his breath coming in sharp, desperate wheezes.

Uzair smirked at his reaction.

Somewhere below them a dog barked. A bike sped past on the road outside.

Hamza rubbed his jaw, still sore from the earlier fight. “Waise ek baat bolun?”

(Can I say something?)

Uzair didn’t answer but Hamza continued anyway.

“Tu shayari ke liye nahi bana hai.”

(You weren't born to become a poet)

Uzair’s eyes stayed fixed ahead, as he spoke.

"What was I made for? Who knows, who can tell...".

That landed somewhere deeper than he expected.

Uzair took another drag before speaking. “Kabhi kabhi lagta hai…” he stopped halfway.

Hamza looked at him.

“Bol.”

Uzair lowered his gaze toward the city lights below. “Kabhi kabhi lagta hai mei kisiko bhi jaanta hi nahi .”

(Sometimes I feel like I don't know anyone.)

The words came out rougher than he intended.

Hamza stayed quiet.

Uzair laughed faintly after that but there was nothing happy in it. “Ajeeb hai na?” he murmured. “Insaan saamne hota hai itne time… aur phir ek din pata chalta hai ke kuch bhi pata nahi uske baare mein.”

(Funny, isn’t it? Someone stays in front of you for so long… then one day you realize you knew nothing about them.)

Hamza looked away for a second.

Because he knew things Uzair didn’t.

And suddenly sitting here beside him felt heavier than before.

“Sab cheezein jaan lena zaroori nahi hota,” he said finally.

(Not everything needs to be known.)

Uzair’s jaw tightened slightly.

“Hoti hain.”

(They do.)

The wind picked up colder around them.

Uzair closed his eyes briefly, leaning his head back against the wall. The smoke had softened the edges of things but not enough. Her face still slipped into his mind too easily. The hospital corridor he never saw. The questions he never asked. The conversations that never happened.

It sat inside him like unfinished business.

Like a door left open somewhere.

Hamza noticed the way his breathing changed whenever silence got too deep. He nudged the cigarette back toward him. “Aur maar.”

(Take another hit.)

Uzair did.

Longer this time.

For a few minutes neither man said anything.

Just sat there shoulder to shoulder under the weak city lights, smoke curling between them, exhaustion hanging heavy in the air.

Not friends exactly.

But no longer just allies either.

There was something else now.

The kind of closeness men like them only formed after violence, silence, and shared ruin.

And somewhere in the middle of that quiet night, while the city kept moving without caring what either of them had lost, Uzair finally admitted something to himself he hadn’t allowed before.

He missed something.

Not angrily or romantically even.

Just deeply.

Like missing a part of your life that ended before you realized it mattered.

Taglist:

@harrystyleskiwi9

@forbiddenfanaa

@obsessedwidskincare

@pleasetagmejaaneman

I won't disable anon asks because I have got wonderful asks from my silent readers.

I sincerely love and appreciate all the likes, comments, followers and the silent readers.

If my story is not to your liking you can just block me @giantfirefly , if the storyline, characters, character ethics and decisions offend you just block me.

Stop sending me hate anon asks every week, since you are so knowledgeable about the workings of Tumblr and how one should operate their tumblr blog, you can surely block me @giantfirefly . Tumblr ki id hai ye github ki ni jo ek ek cheez optimized rahe.

I’m using it the way I want to. If that bothers you, you don’t have to engage with it at all.

Yha pe koi infidelity to promote karne ka irada ni hai, I explored it because

I wanted to.

And I have said this again and again that characters who do wrong will get their karma for it in this story.

Love all of my readers❤.

This is based on a movie by Aditya Dhar, which is inspired by true events,but it is a fictional story, and at the end of the day it is about murderers, drug dealers and illegal arms manufacturers, in front all of that I can't fathom why you find the cheating in my fictional take of the fictional story so appalling.

In real life Rehman Dakait had three wives and 17 children.