powered by chai and delusion

Uzair had agreed to the marriage the same way he agreed to most things in his life: quietly and without argument.

It had not been a sudden decision. Rehman bhai had spoken to her father first. They had known each other long enough for trust to exist without too many questions being asked out loud. And somewhere in that familiarity, Uzair had come up as a name that did not immediately get dismissed.

Her father had listened, as he always did, with that same calm expression that made it impossible to tell whether he was approving or simply storing information.

“He is Rehman’s boy,” he had said at one point, as though that explained more than it should have. And then, after a pause, “The rest I already know.”

No more words needed to be said.

The families were happy. Everybody involved appeared convinced it was a good idea. He had looked at her photograph once, listened to approximately forty-five minutes of discussion he had no intention of contributing to, and eventually said yes because saying no required considerably more effort.

At the time, it had seemed like a perfectly reasonable decision.

Months later, he would realise it had also been the beginning of the end. Not the end in any dramatic sense, but simply the end of a life that belonged entirely to him.

The problem with marriage, as it turned out, was that wives arrived with opinions. Many opinions. Far too many opinions.

The first thing she did after receiving his number was attempt conversation. Relentlessly.

Every time his phone rang, there was another question waiting for him. What was he doing? Where was he? When was he free? What kind of work did he do? Why did he answer every question with one word?

The answer to the last question seemed obvious. Because one word was enough. Unfortunately, she disagreed.

By the third week she had developed the tone people usually reserved for particularly stubborn children.

"Poora jumla bolna mana hai?"

"Nahi."

"Aap koshish bhi nahi karte."

"Karta hoon."

"Aapko lagta hai yeh koshish hai?"

"Haan."

The silence that followed had been deeply satisfying.

Until she called again the next day. And the day after that.

And somehow every conversation ended exactly the same way, with her asking questions and him wondering how one person could possibly possess so many of them.

By the time the wedding arrived, he knew very little about the woman he was marrying.

Unfortunately, she knew equally little about him.

Which was how he found himself trapped in the backseat of a car with a crying bride, an entertained Hamza, and absolutely no idea what people were supposed to do in situations like this.

The crying had begun during the bidaai and showed no signs of stopping. Hamza attempted jokes, which worked for approximately twelve seconds. Uzair attempted nothing because he had no useful experience comforting crying women and suspected anything he said would make the situation worse.

After nearly twenty minutes of increasingly miserable sniffling, he decided that doing something was probably better than doing nothing. The problem was that he had absolutely no idea what that something was.

So he pointed at a school.

His wife looked outside, then back at him.

"Mere bhatije wahan padhte hain."

"Oh."

The conversation died immediately.

A few minutes later he pointed at a road. Then a traffic signal. Then whatever else happened to exist outside the window. At the time, it had seemed perfectly reasonable. She stopped crying, which had been the objective. The fact that she stopped because she was confused rather than comforted felt largely irrelevant.

Apparently nobody else agreed.

Hamza laughed so hard he nearly crashed the car. His wife stared at him as though he had personally offended every crying bride in Pakistan. Uzair, meanwhile, remained firmly convinced that the outcome spoke for itself. She had stopped crying. Months later she still insisted it hadn't worked. Months later he still disagreed.

The strange thing was that he had expected marriage itself to be difficult.

Instead, the difficult part turned out to be watching her become part of everything.

The children adopted her almost immediately. Faizal followed her around like a particularly loud shadow. Naeem argued with her constantly and then followed her around anyway. Ulfat bhabhi claimed not to have favourites and proceeded to disprove herself within a matter of weeks. Even Rehman bhai began looking for her whenever she disappeared for too long.

At some point the house itself began sounding different, and most of it was her fault. Arguments drifted from one room to another, laughter appeared at unreasonable hours, and entire conversations somehow managed to begin and end without accomplishing anything useful. She always seemed to be in the middle of them.

The irritating thing was that she got along with everyone. The children adored her. The neighbours stopped to talk to her. The shopkeepers asked about her. Even Khala liked her, which felt deeply unfair because nobody got along with Khala. Yet somehow Khala had decided she was wonderful while Uzair remained a personal disappointment.

The real problem began when he stopped noticing her because she was new and started noticing her because she wasn't.

He would come home and automatically look for her. If she was helping Ulfat bhabhi in the kitchen, he noticed. If she was sitting with Faizal, he noticed. If she disappeared for several hours, he noticed that too. It wasn't intentional. Just habit.

Which was irritating, because noticing people inevitably led to caring about them, and caring about people complicated things.

Then she got shot.

For a long time afterwards, that was all he remembered. Not the market or the shouting or even the sound of gunfire. Just blood.

Far too much of it.

He remembered carrying her. Remembered the hospital. Remembered doctors speaking in words that refused to arrange themselves into anything meaningful. More than anything, though, he remembered fear.

Not the kind he understood. Not the kind that came with guns or violence or the life he had spent years building around himself. This was smaller than that and infinitely worse. It settled somewhere beneath his ribs and refused to leave, turning every passing minute into something unbearable.

And the worst part was that she remained entirely herself through all of it.

Even while bleeding. Even while barely conscious. Even while he was trying very hard not to imagine what would happen if she closed her eyes and never opened them again.

She had still found the energy to look at him and complain, "Aap chilla rahe ho."

The memory still made something tighten painfully inside his chest. She had been the one lying there. She had been the one who had been shot. Yet somehow she had still been worried about him.

He never found a way to explain what those four days had felt like. The waiting had been unbearable, but it was the helplessness he remembered most. The endless stretch of time between one heartbeat and the next, when every opening door made his chest seize before reason could catch up.

He only knew that when the doctor finally told him she was going to live, something inside him gave way so suddenly he nearly sat down.

After that, everything changed.

At first, he told himself it was temporary. Anyone would worry after something like that. Anyone would remind her to take her medicine, notice when she looked tired, or get irritated watching her ignore every instruction the doctors had given her.

The problem was that she recovered.

And none of it went away. If anything, it got worse.

One evening he walked into the storeroom and found her standing on a chair, stretched precariously towards a box on the top shelf.

"Kya kar rahi ho?"

She nearly dropped the box. "Aankhon se kam dikhne laga hai kya? Jo nazar aa raha hai wahi kar rahi hoon."

"Jo nazar aa raha hai woh bewaqoofi lag rahi hai."

"Box upar rakha hua hai."

"Ghar mein aur bhi log rehte hain."

"Toh?"

"Toh sab tumse lambe hain."

She narrowed her eyes immediately. "Allah ne aapko meri beizzati ke liye hi bheja hai."

"Haan."

"Aap maan bhi rahe ho?"

"Haan."

"Ajeeb aadmi ho."

He took the box from her hands before she could continue her mission, and she followed him out of the room still complaining under her breath. Somewhere in the middle of it, he realised he was smiling.

That probably should have concerned him.

Instead, it felt like recognising something that had been true for a long time.

The realisation arrived properly a few weeks later during an entirely ordinary dinner.

Faizal was complaining about school. Naeem was making the situation worse. Rehman bhai was encouraging both of them for reasons known only to him, while Ulfat bhabhi was threatening consequences that nobody took seriously anymore.

And in the middle of all of it, she was laughing.

Her head was tilted back, her eyes bright with amusement, completely unaware that he was watching her. For several seconds he forgot to look away.

Nobody else seemed surprised.

Which was unfortunate, because it suggested everybody else had noticed long before he had.

Later that night she found him sitting on the terrace.

Without asking, she dropped down beside him and leaned back against the wall. Below them, Lyari carried on in its usual way, voices drifting from neighbouring rooftops while distant televisions competed with each other across the lanes.

After a while she turned towards him. "Aap itna khamosh kyun rehte ho?"

He glanced at her.

The question wasn't new. She had been asking different versions of it since the day they met. The difference was that this time he actually had an answer.

"Pata nahi."

For once she didn't argue. She simply nodded, "Hm."

The sound pulled a smile out of him before he could stop it.

"Meri nakal utaar rahi ho?"

"Hm."

He laughed. He actually laughed.

The victorious look that appeared on her face immediately made him regret it. "Yes!"

"Nahi."

"Hanse."

"Nahi."

"Bilkul hanse."

She was still smiling when he reached for her, not because he had planned to, not because there was anything particularly deliberate about the moment, but because the distance between them suddenly felt unnecessary in a way neither of them had yet learned to articulate.

The hug was awkward in the way such first attempts usually are, unpractised and slightly unsure of itself, neither of them entirely certain where their hands were supposed to settle or how long they were meant to remain like that, but it still held in a way that made the awkwardness feel irrelevant rather than wrong.

After a moment she tilted her head back and looked up at him. "Itna mushkil tha?"

"Kya?"

"Yeh."

He looked at her for a second as if genuinely considering it, then answered simply, “Haan.”

Her laugh escaped immediately. "Aap waqai ajeeb ho."

"Pata hai."

"Bohat."

"Pata hai."

The smile on her face softened, and for a moment neither of them looked away.

Then he asked quietly, as though the question had slipped out before he could decide whether it should, "Phir bhi rehna hai mere saath?"

The answer arrived before she could stop it.

Always.

It rose to her throat with a certainty that startled her, complete and unguarded, but it did not leave her lips. It stayed there, heavy and unspoken, because saying it out loud felt larger than the moment could safely hold.

Instead, she looked at him for a long time, as if the answer could be placed in that silence between them without needing words, and finally said what he had, in one form or another, always understood from her anyway.

“Haan.”

And for once, that was enough.

The unfortunate thing about finally admitting you loved someone was that absolutely nobody allowed you to keep it private.

For three whole days, Uzair managed to convince himself that perhaps nobody had noticed anything.

On the fourth day, Faizal ruined that illusion.

Breakfast at the haveli was rarely peaceful. Too many people lived there for peace to survive for long. Somebody was always arguing, somebody was always late, and somebody was always complaining about food they intended to eat anyway.

That morning had begun no differently.

"School ka koi faida nahi hai," Naeem declared. "Insaan ko practical cheezein seekhni chahiye."

"Bilkul," Faizal agreed immediately. "Aur homework toh zulm hai."

"Homework baad mein discuss karna," Ulfat bhabhi said, placing another paratha on his plate. "Pehle yeh khatam karo."

"Mera pet bhar gaya."

"Main aur bhar deti hoon chappal se."

Across the table, Uzair watched all this unfold while his wife laughed openly and Rehman bhai hid a smile behind his tea.

The problem started a few minutes later when she reached for the tea. Without thinking, Uzair picked up the cup and slid it towards her before she could get up. Without thinking, she took it and continued talking to Ulfat bhabhi as though nothing unusual had happened.

Neither of them had noticed but everyone else had.

The conversation stumbled for all of two seconds before continuing, but unfortunately Faizal had noticed too.

"Chachu."

"Hm."

"Chachi ko chai de di."

"Haan."

Faizal studied him for a moment before narrowing his eyes thoughtfully. "Pyaar karte ho na isliye."

Hamza nearly inhaled his tea.

While he coughed his way back to life, Naeem lowered his spoon, Ulfat leaned back in her chair, and Rehman looked like a man who had just discovered free entertainment. Beside Uzair, his wife froze so abruptly that he briefly considered whether murdering children was still illegal if the child in question was Faizal.

"Khana khao."

Naeem quipped, "Jawab nahi diya."

Uzair warned, "Naeem."

"Ji?"

"Khamosh."

But he just grinned, "Jawab nahi diya."

Beside Uzair, his wife had turned suspiciously red, which somehow managed to make an already disastrous situation worse.

By the time Hamza recovered enough to speak, he looked deeply pleased with himself. "Main toh pehle din se keh raha tha."

"Kis cheez ka?" she asked.

Hamza looked at her, then at Uzair, then back at her.

"Bhabhi."

"Haan?"

"Allah aapko khush rakhe."

"Lekin—"

"Bas rakhe."

Naeem laughed first. Ulfat bhabhi followed a second later. Even Rehman bhai abandoned any attempt at dignity, while Faizal sat there looking deeply satisfied with the chaos he had personally created. Hamza, meanwhile, wore the expression of a man whose life's work had finally been recognised.

Only Uzair remained unimpressed, mostly because he knew this family far too well. "Has liya sab?"

"Abhi toh shuru kiya hai," Rehman bhai informed him cheerfully.

"Haan chachu," the kids agreed and Naeem continued, "Abhi toh bohot kuch baaki hai."

Uzair closed his eyes briefly while beside him his wife lowered her head, trying and failing to hide a smile.

Unfortunately for both of them, everyone noticed that too. And unfortunately for him, this family had never believed in mercy.

That afternoon the kids in that area decided that that day required a football match. By evening, half the neighbourhood had become involved. Children and adults appeared from nowhere, goalposts were assembled from loose bricks, and Uzair had to somehow refree arguments about teams even before the match itself started.

Somehow, his wife ended up in the middle of all of it. "Main bhi khelungi."

Everyone chorused, "Tum nahi khelogi."

She looked offended. "Kyun?"

Her husband answered, "Doctor ne mana kiya tha."

"Doctor ne chalne se mana nahi kiya."

"Football chalna nahi hota."

"Main bilkul theek hoon."

"Nahi ho."

"Aapko har waqt lagta hai main toot jaungi."

Before he could answer, Hamza appeared. "Main gawah hoon."

"Kis baat ka?" Uzair asked.

"Bhabhi bilkul theek hain."

His wife immediately pointed at Hamza. "Dekha?"

Uzair grumbled, "Dekh toh Raha hoon."

Then Hamza considered the matter with exaggerated seriousness and said, "Waise agar gir gayi toh main video bana lunga."

She gasped so loudly that half the lane probably heard it, and Hamza immediately turned and ran before she could find something to throw at him.

The match began ten minutes later and remained organised for roughly four of them before collapsing into complete chaos. Nobody stayed in position, nobody followed any rules, Faizal switched teams whenever it suited him, and Naeem spent most of his time arguing with refereeing decisions despite there being no referee. Rehman bhai repeatedly mentioned a football career nobody believed had ever existed, Hamza contributed absolutely nothing except commentary nobody had asked for, and Uzair spent most of the match being dragged into disputes he had no interest in settling. His wife, meanwhile, somehow remained the loudest person on the field. 

"Pass karo!"

Nobody passed.

"PASS KARO!"

Still nobody passed.

Eventually she stole the ball herself. Three seconds later, Naeem tackled it away.

She screamed, "Foul!"

Naeem shook his head, "Nahi tha."

"Bilkul tha."

"Ball ko touch kiya."

"Mujhe bhi touch kiya."

"Football mein hota hai."

"Main complaint karungi."

"Kis se?"

She pointed dramatically across the lane."Tumhare chachu se."

Naeem turned immediately. "Chachu."

"Hm."

"Foul nahi tha."

His chachi folded her arms. "Tha."

For a moment both of them waited. So did everyone else.

Uzair glanced between them and sighed, "Tha."

Naeem looked personally offended. "Chachu!"

She looked unbearably pleased. "Main keh rahi thi."

"Mujhe third umpire chahiye"

She just grinned, "Apni chachi ko dekho aur seekho Naeem miya."

"Chachi aapko rules bhi nahi aate."

"Aate hain."

"Offside samjhao."

"Samjha sakti hoon."

"Samjhao."

Her confidence disappeared so quickly that Faizal burst out laughing.

"Chachi ko offside nahi aata."

"Faizal."

"Nahi aata."

"Faizal."

"Bilkul nahi aata."

By the time the match ended, nobody remembered the score. There had been too many arguments, too many accusations of cheating, and far too many rule changes introduced by Faizal for anything as unimportant as winning to survive. Everyone eventually drifted home exhausted, dusty, and still arguing about decisions made by a referee who had never existed in the first place.

Later that night, long after dinner ended and the haveli had begun settling into sleep, Uzair found her on the terrace.

Someone had dragged the charpai close to the wall where the breeze came through. She sat cross-legged with a shawl loosely around her shoulders, looking out at the rooftops of Lyari. Below them, the neighbourhood was still awake in its usual way; voices drifted between houses, a TV played somewhere too loudly, and a motorcycle passed through the lane before fading into distance.

He sat beside her without saying anything.

“Aaj aap ne meri side li thi.”

Uzair glanced at her. "Hm."

"Match mein."

"Hm."

A smile tugged at her mouth. "Galti meri thi."

"Haan."

"Aap ko pata tha?"

"Haan."

"Aur phir bhi meri side li?"

"Haan."

Her eyes narrowed at once. “Yeh nayi aadat hai aap ki.”

“Nahi.”

“Pehli dafa dekha hai.”

“Tumhe yaad nahi rehta.”

She scoffed softly. “Acha.”

“Hm.”

He looked away, which unfortunately had stopped working months ago. She had known him long enough to recognise avoidance whenever she saw it, and there were very few things more suspicious than Uzair pretending the terrace wall had suddenly become fascinating.

She studied him for a moment longer, then leaned back against the wall. “Phir bhi kyu?”

Uzair looked ahead. “Tum bol rahi thi.”

“Bas?”

“Haan.”

"Aap pehle aise nahi thay."

The words were light, spoken with the same teasing ease she usually brought to their arguments, but the silence that followed them wasn't. She waited for the familiar hum, the absent-minded denial or some unrelated observation that would steer the conversation elsewhere, and when he said nothing at all, she sighed.

"Dekha? Phir khamosh ho gaye."

"Mujhe samajh nahi aata kya bolun."

That earned him an immediate look. "Kya?"

He shrugged once. "Mujhe waqai samajh nahi aata."

She blinked at him in surprise because Uzair admitting uncertainty was roughly as common as snowfall in Karachi. The man had opinions on everything from cricket to traffic to which shopkeeper sold the best rice, and yet apparently words had abandoned him now.

"Main itni mushkil hoon?"

"Nahi."

"Phir?"

He exhaled slowly. Words had never been his strength. He had spent most of his life believing that showing up was enough, that responsibilities mattered more than conversations and that people who cared about him already knew it without needing to hear it aloud.

Unfortunately for him, this woman had barged into his life with opinions and arguments and enough unnecessary commentary to fill several households, and somewhere along the way she had become important in ways he had never quite learned how to explain.

“Jab kisi ki baat dil mein rehne lagti hai na,” he said finally, more slowly than usual, “toh aadmi soch ke bolta hai.”

She frowned slightly. “Pehle?”

“Pehle bolne ki zarurat hi nahi hoti thi.”

“Matlab?”

“Matlab…” he paused, as if even he didn’t like the sound of what he was about to admit, “Pehle farq nahi padta tha ke kya bola.”

After a moment, she asked quietly, “Ab padta hai?”

This time he didn’t delay. “Haan.”

Something in her expression softened then, not surprise exactly, more like recognition — as if she had already known the answer and was only waiting for him to reach it on his own time.

“Mujhse darte thay?”

A faint, reluctant curve touched his mouth. “Haan.”

She stared at him. “Mujhse?”

“Haan.”

“Uzair.”

“Hm.”

“Main paanch foot teen inch ki hoon.”

“Tum phir bhi khatarnak ho.”

“Main khatarnak hoon?”

“Haan.”

“Ya Allah.”

“Tumhari baat hi kaafi hoti hai.”

Her expression changed instantly. “Meri baat ko kya problem hai?”

“Bohat kuch.”

“Acha?”

“Hm.”

“Ab meri baat se bhi masla?”

“Pehle nahi tha.”

“Phir ab kyun?”

He looked at her properly for the first time in a while. “Ab tum rukti nahi ho.”

That made her pause. Then, as if offended by the honesty, “Toh shadi kyun ki?”

This time he didn’t look away, “Pata nahi.”

She laughed immediately. “Jhoote.”

“Hm.”

“Bilkul jhoote.”

“Hm.”

“Aap ko lagta hai mujhe yaqeen aa jayega?”

“Nahi.”

“Phir?”

His gaze stayed on her. “Tum phir bhi poochti ho.”

Somewhere along the way, this woman had become home without asking permission.

The realisation should probably have concerned him.

Instead, it felt inevitable.

For a while neither of them spoke. The breeze moved across the terrace and somewhere below a gate slammed shut, followed immediately by somebody being scolded loudly enough for half the neighbourhood to enjoy the argument. Life continued around them in the same ordinary way it always had, and for once neither of them felt any need to participate in it.

Then, without really thinking about it, Uzair reached for her wrist.

She blinked and looked down at his hand before looking back at him. "Kya kar rahe ho?"

"Pata nahi."

"Yeh koi jawab hua?"

"Haan."

"Nahi hua."

"Hm."

Before she could continue arguing, he gave her wrist a small tug.

She looked at him, then at the space beside him, and then back at him again with an expression that suggested she was trying to determine whether he had suffered some sort of head injury nobody had informed her about.

"Aap ne khud se mujhe paas bulaya hai?"

"Hm."

"Aap ne khud se?"

"Hm."

"Aur—"

"Tum bahut bolti ho."

Her grin widened immediately. "Main waqai pooch rahi hoon."

"Acha," he sighed, "Tumhari galti hai."

"Meri?"

"Zyada tar cheezein tumhari ghalti hoti hain."

"Allah re zulm."

Despite the complaint, she shifted closer, and a second later her head was tucked beneath his chin while one arm wrapped itself around his waist as naturally as if it had always belonged there. Unfortunately, the expression on her face suggested she had personally won a war.

He immediately regretted giving her evidence.

"Dekh liya!"

"Kya?"

"Uzair Baloch ke pass dil toh tha."

"Nahi tha."

"Tha."

"Nahi tha."

"Aur ab?"

Uzair looked out across the rooftops. "Ab bhi nahi hai."

She laughed so hard her shoulders shook. "Jhoote."

He didn't bother arguing because they both knew she would declare herself victorious regardless of facts.

For several minutes they simply sat there while the breeze drifted through the terrace and the sounds of Lyari rose and fell around them. Somewhere nearby a television was still playing, somebody's pressure cooker whistled in the distance and, from a neighbouring rooftop, came the unmistakable sound of two sisters arguing over whose turn it was to bring the clothes inside.

Life had a strange habit of continuing around people.

Perhaps that was why happiness never announced itself properly either.

It arrived quietly, hidden beneath ordinary moments and ridiculous conversations, and people only realised much later that these had been the memories worth keeping.

"Ab samajh aaya"

"Kya?"

“Kyun itna gussa karte thay jab main baat nahi sunti thi.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. "Tum waqai bohat tang karti ho."

"Mohabbat se boliye."

“Hm.”

“Boliye na.”

"Tum waqai bohat tang karti ho."

She smacked his arm immediately. "Yeh mohabbat hui?"

"Haan."

"Ya Allah."

"Tumne khud kaha tha."

"Maine kab kaha tha ke mohabbat ka matlab badtameezi hai?"

"Tumhari dictionary alag hai."

"Aur aap ki?"

He thought about it for a moment. "Tumhari wajah se kharab ho gayi."

That earned him a suspicious look. "Aap ne mazaak kiya?"

"Hm."

"Uzair."

"Hm."

"Aap ne waqai mazaak kiya?"

"Hm."

"Ya Allah."

He closed his eyes.

Unfortunately, giving this woman evidence had turned out to be a catastrophic mistake.

She was still looking far too pleased with herself when she shifted closer again, curling comfortably against his side with the complete confidence of someone who had already decided she belonged there. Strangely enough, he found that he had no objections to offer.

His arm remained around her shoulders as naturally as if it had always been there.

Perhaps that was what surprised him most. Not that she fit. But that it no longer felt strange when she did.

The conversation faded after that.

Not because either of them had run out of things to say, but because neither of them seemed particularly interested in speaking anymore. The teasing gave way to a comfortable silence and she remained curled against his side while his arm rested around her shoulders with an ease that would have been unimaginable a year ago. Somewhere below, a child shouted something from a neighbouring rooftop and was immediately told to stop behaving like an animal, and judging by the offended response that followed, the argument was far from over.

Neither of them paid much attention.

Eventually she lifted her head.

He looked down.

The distance between them had disappeared so gradually that neither of them seemed to notice it until it was already gone. For perhaps the first time since he'd known her, she had no joke ready and no unnecessary argument waiting to escape her mouth. She simply looked at him in silence, and perhaps that more than anything else made him understand how much had changed between them.

His gaze drifted briefly towards her mouth before returning to her eyes, and whatever she saw in his expression seemed to steal the last of her words because she didn't look away either.

"Ab kya?" she asked quietly.

"Pata nahi."

The answer made her smile. "Bahut mushkil aadmi ho."

"Pata hai."

"Bahut."

"Pata hai."

Her smile softened, "Aur ajeeb bhi."

"Hm."

"Aur ziddi."

"Hm."

"Aur kabhi kabhi bohat tang karte ho."

"Hm."

She laughed softly, "Har baat ka jawab hm hota hai?"

"Nahi."

"Achha?"

"Haan."

"Farq kya hai?"

"Pata nahi."

That earned another laugh, quieter this time, and he found himself watching her with the same strange sense of familiarity that had been growing inside him for months now. Somewhere between family dinners and pointless arguments, somewhere between crowded rooms and long nights spent outside hospital doors, she had become woven so deeply into his life that imagining its shape without her felt oddly incomplete.

Perhaps she had been right all along.

Perhaps there had always been a heart.

He had simply been the last person to realise it.

She had gone unusually quiet again by the time the thought crossed his mind, and when he looked down, he found her watching him with the same softness that still managed to unsettle him because no one had ever looked at him that way before. Not with expectation or dependence or even admiration, but with the quiet certainty of someone who had chosen him a long time ago and never once regretted the decision.

"Aise kya dekh rahi ho?" he asked.

She smiled. "Kuch nahi."

"Jhoot."

"Hm."

He narrowed his eyes slightly. "Meri baat chura rahi ho."

"Aap ki bohat si cheezein chura li hain."

"Hm."

"Shikayat hai?"

He considered the question seriously. "Nahi."

Something in her expression softened further at the answer, and neither of them seemed entirely sure who moved first. Perhaps it didn't matter. They met somewhere in the middle, and the kiss itself was gentle and unhurried, carrying none of the awkward uncertainty she had once imagined and none of the drama novels had promised.

It felt familiar.

Like shared meals and unfinished arguments.

Like crowded dining tables and football matches.

Like a hundred ordinary moments that had somehow become important without either of them noticing.

More than anything, it felt less like a beginning and more like finally arriving somewhere they had both been heading towards for a very long time.

When they finally pulled apart, neither of them spoke.

Neither seemed to need to.

She settled back against his shoulder with a smile he suspected would become unbearable by morning, and he rested his cheek lightly against the top of her head while the breeze drifted across the terrace and the sounds of Lyari continued below them.

It was strange, he thought, that happiness had turned out to be something so ordinary.

Stranger still that ordinary had never felt this precious before.

She was still tucked against him when the terrace door flew open with enough force to make both of them jump.

Faizal stopped in the doorway and froze. His gaze moved from one of them to the other, lingered for a second too long, and then narrowed with the concentration of a child trying to solve a puzzle.

"Oh."

Neither of them said anything.

"Main baad mein aa jaun?"

His wife immediately buried her face back into Uzair's shoulder while he briefly considered several crimes.

"Kya chahiye?"

Faizal remained completely unfazed."Teen chauthai aur aadha mila kar kitna hota hai?"

Nobody answered.

He frowned. "Aap dono ro rahe thay?"

"Nahi."

"Toh phir itne paas kyun baithe thay?"

"Faizal."

"Ji?"

"Khamosh."

"Theek hai."

He nodded obediently and made it almost to the door before stopping. "Waise Abbu jeet gaye."

Uzair closed his eyes. "Kis mein?"

"Unhone Hamza chachu se shart lagayi thi."

She immediately lifted her head. "Kis baat ki shart?"

Faizal brightened, "Ke Chachu kab mohabbat ka iqraar karenge."

His chachi stared at him. "Tumhari umar kitni hai?"

"Dus."

"Toh tum mohabbat ka iqraar kyun bol rahe ho?"

"Toh aur kya bolun?"

"Yeh kis ne sikhaya tumhein?"

"Hamza chachu."

"Mujhe laga hi tha ye us nikkamme ka kaam hoga," muttered Uzair darkly.

"Main ne kuch nahi kiya!" Hamza's voice carried up from somewhere downstairs.

She blinked. "Woh neeche se sun rahe hain?"

"Haan."

"Abhi bhi?"

"Haan."

"Kyun?"

Faizal shrugged, "Pata nahi."

Uzair was starting to understand why people occasionally left the city and never came back..

"Abbu ne bola tha Eid se pehle," Faizal continued helpfully.

"Aur Hamza chachu?"

"Unhone bola tha agle saal."

She stared at him. "Un logon ne is baat pe shart lagayi thi?"

"Haan."

"Kab?"

"Pata nahi."

"Aur kis kis ko pata tha?"

Faizal thought about it. "Sab ko."

"Sab ko matlab?"

"Sab ko matlab sab ko."

"Faizal."

"Ji?"

"Kaun sab?"

"Ammi ko."

"Theek hai."

"Naeem bhai ko."

"Theek hai."

"Khala ko."

Her head snapped up. "Khala? Wo pados wali?"

"Haan."

"Ya Allah."

"Aur Abbu aur Hamza chachu ko toh obviously."

"Woh toh shart laga rahe thay."

"Haan."

"Aur?"

Faizal counted on his fingers. "Hamza chachu. Ammi. Naeem bhai. Khala. Abbu." He paused.

"Shayad Hala phupho bhi."

"KYA?"

"Woh Khala ke saath baithi thi."

His wife dropped her forehead against Uzair's shoulder. "Main ghar chod ke ja rahi hoon."

"Nahi ja sakti," Faizal informed her. "Aap ki nikkah ho chuki hai."

Uzair almost laughed and hated himself for it.

"Aur Hamza chachu haar gaye," Faizal continued happily.

Uzair pointed out, "Haan, woh samajh aa gaya."

"Unko bahut yaqeen tha."

"Kis baat ka?"

"Pata nahi."

"Aur kuch?"

"Haan."

The enthusiasm in Faizal's voice was enough to make Uzair regret asking.

"Naeem bhai ne bola tha agar aaj bhi Chachu sirf baatein karte mile na toh woh paise nahi dega."

"KYA?"

"Pata nahi. Woh bol rahe thay ke 'main bewakoof nahi hoon, iss baar paise nahi harunga.'"

"Faizal."

"Ji?"

"Khamosh."

He nodded. “Theek hai.”

Only six seconds had passed when:

"Waise—"

"Faizal."

"Ji?"

"Khamosh."

"Theek hai."

Another three seconds.

"Waise Abbu ne bola tha agar Chachu ne iss saal bhi kuch nahi bola na toh woh khud baat karenge."

That was somehow worse.

His wife made a strangled sound before collapsing into laughter.

Uzair closed his eyes.

The entire family had apparently been one conversation away from staging an intervention.

"Main jaa raha hoon," Faizal announced, finally sensing danger.

"Faizal."

"Ji?"

"Bhaago."

He did not need to be told twice.

The terrace door slammed shut behind him.

For a moment neither of them said anything. Then she dissolved into helpless laughter against his shoulder, shaking so hard she could barely breathe.

“Mujhe yaqeen nahi aa raha.”

“Hm.”

“Poora khandaan baitha hua tha.”

“Hm.”

“Shart laga rahe thay.”

“Hm.”

She lifted her head just enough to look at him. “Hamza bhai ko bhi pata tha.”

“Hm.”

“Naeem ko bhi.”

“Hm.”

“Aur aap ko nahi?”

That finally made him look at her.

“Nahi, sach bataiye,” she said, laughing again. “Aap ko waqai aapke is 'mohabbat ke iqraar' ka nahi pata tha?”

Uzair thought about it for a moment, “Pata tha.”

Her smile faltered, “Kya?”

“Bas naam nahi diya tha.”

She stared at him. “Aur naam dene mein itna waqt laga?”

“Haan.”

“Kyun?”

He considered the question seriously.

There were probably a dozen answers. Admitting it would make it real. Real things could be lost. Real things could hurt. He had spent most of his life learning how not to need people.

None of those answers felt useful.

“Main bewaqoof hoon.”

The laugh escaped her immediately. “Aakhir maan hi liya.”

“Hm.”

“Naeem ko bataungi.”

“Nahi.”

“Hamza bhai ko bataungi.”

He groaned.

That only made her laugh harder.

For a while they sat in comfortable silence, listening to the familiar sounds drifting across Lyari. Someone was calling a child home from the lane below. An old ghazal played somewhere in the distance. A motorcycle passed and disappeared again.

Eventually she settled back against him.

“Pata hai, mujhe hamesha lagta tha aap ko sab pata hota hai.”

“Hm.”

“Phir pata chala ke aap ko apne baare mein hi kuch nahi pata.”

A laugh slipped out before he could stop it.

She immediately leaned back. “Dekh liya!”

“Nahi.”

“Hanse.”

“Nahi.”

“Bilkul hanse.”

He shook his head, but the smile stayed. She looked unbearably pleased with herself.

For a long moment he simply watched her, listening to the sound drift across the terrace and disappear into the warm Lyari night.

Nothing about the night felt remarkable.

Perhaps that was the point.

The things that changed your life rarely announced themselves when they arrived. They hid inside ordinary evenings and familiar conversations. They settled into routines so gradually that by the time you noticed them, they had already become part of you.

Months ago, he had sat beside a crying bride in the back of a car and pointed at random roads because he hadn't known what else to say.

Now she was laughing into his shoulder as though she had always belonged there.

He couldn't have said when the distance between those two moments disappeared.

Only that somewhere along the way, it had.

And somehow, without either of them really noticing, the life they had been trying to learn had become their life.

Recovery, she discovered, was a deeply irritating process.

Nobody ever prepared you for that part. People always spoke about injuries as though the hard part was getting hurt, as though pain was the peak and everything afterward was simply a slow return to normal. Once the surgery was over and the doctors declared nothing vital had been damaged, everyone seemed to assume life would politely resume where it had left off.

Life, unfortunately, had other plans.

The entire haveli had somehow reached the same conclusion without ever discussing it. She could no longer be trusted alone. Ulfat bhabhi refused to let her enter the kitchen, Rehman bhai appeared whenever she looked at anything remotely heavy, and the children had appointed themselves her personal security detail despite being entirely unqualified for the position. Even the servants had started watching her suspiciously, as though she might attempt something reckless the moment nobody was paying attention.

Her parents were worse.

The first week after she returned home, her mother practically moved into the haveli. Every morning she arrived carrying food. Every afternoon she arrived carrying more food. Every evening she called to ask whether the food had been eaten. By the fourth day even Rehman bhai looked exhausted.

"Suniye," he said carefully while staring at an alarming number of containers being unloaded into his kitchen, "Hum logon ko khana milta hai yahan. Qasam se."

Her mother remained completely unconvinced.

"Meri beti ko goli lagi thi."

Nobody had a response to that. Not even Rehman.

Especially not Rehman.

Her father handled things differently. He visited every day, sat beside her for an hour, asked how she felt and listened quietly to whatever answer she gave. Most of the time they spoke about ordinary things because ordinary things were easier. Neighbours. Relatives. News. The weather. Every now and then, however, she would catch his gaze drifting briefly toward the place where the wound still ached, and something uncomfortable would settle in her chest.

The first time she noticed it, she immediately changed the subject.

"Baba."

"Hm?"

"Aapki chai buri hai."

He looked down at the cup in his hand. "Subah achi thi."

"Ab buri hai."

"Hawa lag gayi hogi."

She snorted. "Chai ko hawa lagti hai?"

"Bilkul."

"Kya logic hai."

"Bilkul sahi logic."

Satisfied with his own wisdom, he took another sip as he asked ,"Dard ho raha hai?"

She blinked. "Nahi."

"Haan."

"Aapko kaise pata?"

He looked mildly offended. "Kyuki main tera baap hoon."

"Ye kaisa logic hai?"

"Bilkul sahi logic."

Despite herself, she smiled.

For a while they spoke about ordinary things. Faizal. Naeem. Neighbours. Hamza's latest argument with somebody who had apparently deserved it.

Then her father said casually, "Waise daanta maine usko bhi tha."

"Kisko?"

"Usiko."

She didn't need clarification. "Uzair ko?"

"Hm."

"Kyun?"

"Chaar din se ghar nahi gaya tha."

She lowered her gaze. "Phir?"

"Kaha do ghante ja ke so aa."

"Phir? Kya kaha unhone?"

"'Ji.'"

"Ji?"

"Haan. Phir wahi baitha raha."

A smile escaped her. "Phir?"

"Phir maine dobara daanta."

"Phir?"

"Phir kaha 'ji' aur bhi wahi baitha raha."

That drew a soft laugh from her. "Baba."

"Hm?"

"Aapki baat nahi maani?"

"Mana thodi kiya."

"Toh?"

"'Ji' bhi keh raha tha."

She laughed. "Phir?"

"Phir mujhe samajh aa gaya."

"Kya?"

He adjusted the cup in his hand. "Ke tum dono ek jaise ho."

She frowned immediately. "Main?"

"Haan."

"Dono ko aaram karne ko bolo, dono behes karte hain aur bolte hain theek hoon."

"Main behas nahi karti."

"Hm."

"Baba."

"Hm."

"Yeh unhi ne sikhaya hai."

"Nahi."

"Phir?"

"Usne mujhse seekha hai."

The smile lingered on his face for a moment before softening.

"Waise mujhe hairani kisi aur baat pe hui."

"Kis baat pe?"

"Tumhari."

"Ab maine kya kiya?"

"Tumhein hairani hui ke woh dara hua tha."

Her smile faded. "Waqai woh darey huye thay?"

Her father looked at her as though she'd asked whether rain was wet. "Arre."

"Baba."

"Maine hi teri us se nikkah karwayi thi."

"Pata hai."

"Toh phir?"

She frowned. "Phir kya?"

"Tumhein waqai hairani hui?"

"Baba, woh Uzair Baloch hai."

"Haan."

"Uzair Baloch kisi se darta nahi."

This time her father smiled. "Logon se nahi." He took another sip of tea. "Baaki sab se nahi."

His voice remained light as he continued, "Lekin tujhe goli lagi thi."

"Baba—"

He shrugged slightly. "Dar ki shakal sab mein ek jaisi hoti hai." He waved a hand dismissively. "Uski fikr alag thi."

"Alag?" She frowned. "Kya matlab?"

"Woh har thodi der baad pooch raha tha, 'sab theek ho jayega na?'"

"Aur?"

"Maine kaha, ho jayega."

"Bas?"

"Bas."

She looked at him suspiciously. "Aapko itna yaqeen kaise tha?"

He seemed genuinely surprised by the question. "Teri baat thi, meri jaan."

"Baba."

"Hm?"

"Aisi baatein yaqeen se thodi kehte hain."

"Main kehta hoon."

"Ye kaisa logic hai?"

"Bilkul sahi logic."

Despite herself, she smiled.

He took another sip of tea before adding casually, "Waise bhi, itni asaani se tu mujhe tang karna chhod ke nahi ja sakti."

A laugh escaped her. "Baba."

"Hm?"

"Ye bhi koi wajah hui?"

"Bilkul."

She laughed softly despite the sting in her eyes. "Baba yaar."

"Hm?"

"Aap ajeeb ho."

"Hm. Tum bhi mujh par hi gayi ho."

"Aur woh?"

Her father smiled into his tea. "Woh toh pehle se ajeeb tha."

And because he was her father, he noticed the tears gathering in her eyes without looking directly at them. Which, perhaps, was why he took another sip of his tea and immediately changed the subject with the ease of a man who had spent an entire lifetime pretending not to understand emotions while understanding far too many of them.

And somewhere outside, as though summoned by the mention of his name alone, the sound of Uzair arguing with Hamza drifted down the corridor.

"Main ne kaha tha na bhabhi theek ho jayegi."

"Doctor ne kaha tha!"

"Doctor ne kaha tha, lekin main ne unse pehle kaha tha!"

Her father closed his eyes. "Lo."

"Kya?"

"Aa gaya."

"Baba."

"Hm?"

"Aapko kaise pata main aajaungi wapas?"

He looked genuinely offended. "Bilkul bekaar sawal."

"Kyun?"

"Kyuki main tera baap hoon."

And really, there was no arguing with logic like that.

The truly ridiculous part, however, was that no one in the family was as bad as Uzair.

The problem wasn't that he hovered. The problem was that he somehow managed to hover without appearing to do it. He simply knew things he had absolutely no business knowing. He knew when she skipped medication, knew when she'd pushed herself too much, knew when she was tired before she admitted it herself, and somehow always seemed aware of the exact moment her side started hurting more than usual despite the fact that she deliberately never mentioned it.

It was deeply suspicious.

The situation reached its peak one morning when she woke up, opened her eyes and found Uzair standing beside the bed watching her with the sort of concentration people usually reserved for bomb disposal. She nearly screamed herself into an early grave.

"Ya Allah!"

He didn't even flinch. "Kya hua?"

She stared at him. "Kya hua?" she repeated. "Aap mere sar ke upar khade hain."

"Haan."

"Kyun?"

"Dawa ka time tha."

She blinked. "Subah ke chhay baje?"

"Haan."

"Yeh normal nahi hai."

His expression remained completely serious. "Tumne kal wali bhi bhool gayi thi."

"...main bhooli nahi thi."

He raised an eyebrow. She looked away. Unfortunately, they both knew she was lying.

The strange thing was that after the hospital, silence no longer existed between them the way it used to.

Before, entire evenings could pass in ten words. She would read, he would work, and they would coexist in the same room with the detached efficiency of two people who happened to share a roof. Now conversations appeared out of nowhere. They started with medicine, drifted toward arguments, somehow became jokes, and then ended before either of them could

She never really noticed the exact moment it changed, though sometimes she suspected it had begun in the hospital, or perhaps even earlier, in those strange in-between moments when he had refused to leave her bedside and she had woken up to find him asleep in a chair with his head tilted uncomfortably against the wall, as if even rest had not been allowed to him in a normal way anymore.

Whatever the reason, the distance that had once existed between them no longer felt like something she could clearly point to, and most days it simply did not exist in the way it used to.

One afternoon she was sitting in the courtyard shelling peas while Ulfat bhabhi supervised from nearby. The supervision was entirely unnecessary. She was shelling peas, not defusing explosives, but ever since the shooting everybody had developed an alarming tendency to treat ordinary tasks as life-threatening activities.

Uzair walked through the courtyard carrying a stack of papers, glanced in her direction, and immediately frowned.

"Zameen par kyun baithi ho?"

She didn't look up, "Kyunke kursi ne mujhe nikaal diya."

He stopped. "Utho."

"Nahi."

"Side dukh rahi hai tumhari."

"Nahi dukh rahi."

"Tum jis tarah baithi ho us se dukh rahi hai."

Before she could continue the argument, Ulfat laughed. Both of them looked at her.

"Bas beta," she said to Uzair. "Ab maan bhi jao. Yeh tumse jeet rahi hai."

"Main haar nahi raha."

"Phir bhi tum jeet nahi rahe."

He stared at her for a moment before turning back to his wife. "Utho."

She finally looked up, "Agar main uth gayi toh kya aap meri jagah baith jaoge?"

"Main yahan baithne ke liye nahi aaya."

"Aap yahan khade rehne ke liye bhi nahi aaye thay."

Something flickered across his face before he caught it. "Tum bina wajah bahas karti ho."

"Aur aap bina wajah har baat ka batangar bana dete ho."

He looked between the two ladies, seemed to realise neither was interested in helping him, and continued toward the house with a quiet shake of his head.

Ulfat bhabhi waited until Uzair disappeared inside before speaking.

"Tum jaan boojh ke karti ho na yeh sab?"

She looked up immediately. "Kya?"

"Yeh," Ulfat bhabhi gestured vaguely toward the spot he had just vacated, "Jab woh fikr karta hai toh usse aur zyada pareshan karti ho."

A smile immediately threatened. She lowered her head under the pretence of concentrating on the peas in front of her and tried very hard to look innocent.

"Mujhe samajh nahi aa raha aap kya keh rahi hain."

"Jhoot."

"Ya allah."

"Ya allah jhoot."

That earned a laugh.

Ulfat bhabhi pointed a pea pod at her in warning. "Bas itna yaad rakhna. Aaj zameen pe baithi ho. Kal agar dard badh gaya na, sabse pehle daant bhi ussi ne lagani hai."

She lowered her gaze before the smile returned. "Hm."

Ulfat bhabhi narrowed her eyes immediately. "Hm ka matlab?"

"Kuch nahi."

"Haan." She sighed dramatically. "Mujhe bhi yahi darr hai."

That made her laugh again, though quieter this time. She reached for another handful of peas while the smile lingered stubbornly on her face. It really was becoming a problem. Six months ago, if anyone had told her that one day she would be sitting in a courtyard shelling peas while trying not to smile because her husband had fussed over where she sat, she would have assumed they had mistaken her for somebody else.

Unfortunately, nobody had warned her that being cared for by Uzair Baloch came with side effects.

The most serious of which appeared to be smiling at absolutely nothing and then having to explain herself whenever Ulfat bhabhi caught her doing it.

A few days later she was in the kitchen, standing in front of a pickle jar like it had declared personal war on her dignity. The first attempt made her shoulder complain, the second made her question her life choices, and by the third she was already negotiating with it under her breath as though it might respond to reason if treated respectfully enough. 

"Dekho, seedhi baat karte hain. Main zyada taqat nahi laga sakti aur tum zyada akad mat dikhao. Dono ka kaam ho jayega."

The jar did not respond.

She clicked her tongue. "Allah gawah hai, pyaar se samjha rahi hoon."

"Tum kis se baat kar rahi ho?"

She nearly dropped the jar. "Aap kab aaye?"

"Jab tum achar se muzakraat kar rahi thi."

"Muzakraat nahi kar rahi thi."

"Phir?"

"Samjha rahi thi."

"Achaar ko?"

She nodded unabashedly, "Achar ko."

He looked at the jar, then at her as he asked, "Aur wo maan gaya?"

"Nahi."

There was something in his voice as he said, "Hm."

She narrowed her eyes. "Aap hans rahe hain."

"Nahi."

"Aap hans rahe hain."

"Haan."

That made her pause. "Haan?"

He didn’t repeat it, just looked at her as if the argument was already settled.

She gasped. "Dekha? Aap ne khud maan liya."

Before she could continue, he took the jar from her hands and twisted the lid open in one smooth motion.

She stared. "Bas?"

"Bas."

"Maine pehle se dheela kiya hua tha."

"Haan. Wahi hua hoga."

"Aap mazaak uda rahe hain."

"Tumhara?"

"Haan."

"Haan."

She looked at him in disbelief.

He handed the jar back. "Ye lo achar."

"Main aap se baat nahi kar rahi."

"Hm."

"Bilkul nahi."

"Hm."

"Aap bohat irritating ho."

"Mujhe pata hai."

"Main roz batati hoon."

"Haan."

"Aur phir bhi sudharte nahi."

He reached for a glass from the shelf. "Tum bhi toh roz bolti ho."

This time he smiled properly, briefly, like it slipped out before he could stop it. This time she stared at him for a second longer than necessary, then immediately looked away as if offended by it.

After that, she started noticing things without him ever mentioning them. The blanket that somehow found its way over her when she fell asleep without planning to, the tea that quietly stopped being overly sweet without a single complaint being repeated, and the way anything slightly out of reach no longer stayed out of reach for long.

She never pointed it out, and he never explained it, and somehow the silence between them stopped feeling empty and started feeling like something that already knew how to stay without being asked.

The children, however, had no interest in anything that required emotional subtlety or restraint.

"Chachi."

"Haan, Faizal."

"Chachu ne poocha tha aapne dawa li ya nahi."

Across the courtyard, Uzair stopped mid-step. "Maine nahi poocha."

Faizal immediately pointed at him. "Aap dekh rahe thay jab Chachi dawa le rahi thi."

"Main dekh nahi raha tha."

"Aap dekh rahe thay."

"Main bas wahan tha."

"Wahi dekhna hota hai."

Before Uzair could respond, Naeem leaned against the wall with the ease of someone who already knew where this was going.

"Chachu fikr karte hain."

Faizal nodded quickly. "Haan."

Naeem corrected himself, "Nahi. Fikr nahi."

Faizal frowned. "Phir kya?"

Naeem glanced at Uzair once. "Mohabbat."

A pause followed.

Uzair’s eyes moved slowly between the two of them. "Yeh sab tumhe kis ne bataya?"

Faizal blinked. "Kisi ne nahi."

Naeem shrugged slightly. "Khud hi samajh aata hai."

From somewhere inside the house, Hamza’s voice drifted out, calling for one of them, followed by a short laugh that was quickly turned into a cough.

Naeem didn’t look back. Faizal, however, did.

Naeem’s mouth twitched like he knew exactly what that sound meant, but he said nothing.

Uzair noticed that too.

"Chachu," Naeem added after a moment, "Aap thode zyada hi notice karte hain."

Uzair looked at both of them as though reconsidering several life choices before finally turning his attention to Faizal.

"Teen-chauthai aur aadha mila do."

Faizal looked personally attacked. "Abhi?"

"Haan."

"Chachi ne abhi tak woh chapter khatam nahi karwaya."

"Hm."

"Main baad mein kar lunga."

"Tere 'baad mein' ke baare mein main ache se jaanta hoon."

The boy turned toward his chachi in desperation. "Chachi."

"Jawab do."

The betrayal on his face was so profound that even Naeem laughed. Unfortunately, that reminded Uzair he was still standing there.

His gaze shifted as called out lowly, "Naeem."

The laughter disappeared instantly. "Haan?"

"Main Rehman bhai ko bata doon?"

The child froze completely.

Faizal looked between them. "Kya bata denge?"

"Kuch nahi," Naeem said quickly.

Uzair nodded. "Haan. Kuch nahi."

"Chachu."

"Hm."

"Please."

"Hm."

"Pakka dobara nahi karunga."

Uzair considered that. "Dekhenge."

"CHACHU."

By now even she was curious. "Kya kiya hai isne?"

"Kuch nahi."

"Hm."

Naeem looked genuinely distressed. "Chachi, kuch nahi kiya maine."

Uzair's expression didn't change. "Apne abbu ko bhi yahi bol dena."

"Chachu!"

Faizal forgot all about fractions immediately. "Naeem bhai ne kya kiya?"

"Kuch nahi."

"Jhoot."

"Tum apne fractions karo."

"Main kar lunga. Pehle yeh batao."

"Nahi."

"Haan."

"Nahi."

"Haan."

Naeem looked one accusation away from fleeing Lyari entirely.

That was enough for Faizal to laugh first, sharp and unplanned, and she followed a moment later without meaning to, the sound escaping before she could stop it. It didn’t feel careful or controlled the way everything had felt for so long. It felt ordinary, which somehow made it more dangerous than anything else. 

Both the brothers looked toward her.

Uzair looked at her then, just briefly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for her to feel it settle in a place that had started recognising him without permission.

Uzair didn't say anything. He simply continued toward the house, but not before she caught the brief change in his expression.

And in that small, unremarkable moment, the courtyard stopped feeling like a place they were recovering in and started feeling like a place they were quietly, awkwardly, learning how to live inside again.

Author's Note:

This was well deserved fluff after all I put you through in part4 right? I loveee writing Faizal x fractions.... It's hilarious and no I won't tell you what blackmail Uzair has on Naeem. Maybe I'll write an epilogue? Maybe I won't? Lmk your thoughts on this chapter<33333

Nobody spoke for several seconds after the doctor left.

The corridor stayed exactly the same, with its white walls, plastic chairs and harsh fluorescent lights, but the feeling inside it had shifted so completely that it no longer matched the place they were sitting in.

A few moments ago, they had been relieved. Now there was no clear shape to what they were supposed to feel, only the absence of relief sitting where certainty had been.

Ulfat bhabhi was the first to sit down, not in any controlled or composed way but as though her body had simply decided it could no longer hold itself upright.

Hamza moved toward her immediately. “Bhabhi…”

Before he could finish, she spoke. “Complication? Hamari bachchi ko hi kyu?!”

Her voice was smaller than it should have been, as though even asking the question was taking effort from somewhere she did not have to give.

Hamza stopped because there was nothing he could offer her in return. The doctor had spoken at length, carefully explaining procedures and outcomes and possibilities, but everything had reduced itself into a single idea the moment he stopped talking. Critical. The next twelve hours are critical. Everything else had fallen away after that, leaving only uncertainty behind.

Across the corridor, Faizal finally looked up. “Iska kya matlab hai?”

His gaze moved from face to face, searching for something that would make the situation understandable again, something an adult could say that would return the world to normal. No one answered him.

“Critical ka kya matlab hota hai?” he asked again, more quietly this time.

Naeem caught his arm before he could repeat it a third time. “Bas.”

“Lekin…”

“Bas.”

There was something in Naeem’s voice now that had not been there before, not directed at Faizal but at everything around them, at the hospital, at the silence, at the absence of answers that should have existed somewhere.

Faizal fell quiet, but a moment later he still began to cry, trying to hold it in as though that would make it less visible. It did not.

Rehman closed his eyes briefly, just long enough to collect himself, and then stood up because there was no one else left who was going to do it.

“Ulfat.”

She looked at him without really lifting her head, as though even that small movement required more effort than she had left.

“Khane ka intezaam karna padega.”

For a moment, nobody reacted, because the words did not belong in the space they were occupying. Food felt like something from another life entirely, something that made sense only in houses where nothing had gone wrong and time still behaved normally.

But Rehman did not sit back down. He stayed standing, because he understood what the rest of them were still trying not to accept, and that understanding sat quietly in the way he remained standing while everyone else slowly began to fall apart around him.

The night was not ending, it had only just begun.

“Hum sab ke liye chai le aata hoon.”

Nobody replied to Rehman at first, because the idea itself felt disconnected from everything else in the corridor, as though ordinary needs no longer applied to them.

“Uske baba ko call karna padega.”

Still nothing.

“Bachon ne abhi tak kuch nahi khaya.”

Ulfat stared at him for a moment, as if trying to understand how the world could possibly continue functioning in that direction, and then something inside her broke again. The tears returned, harder this time, the kind that came when someone else forced reality to stay in place instead of letting it blur.

Faizal buried his face against her shoulder without fully understanding why everything felt heavier than it should have, while Naeem sat rigid beside them, his stillness looking less like control and more like something he was holding together by force. 

Hamza looked away because there was nothing useful he could offer at that moment.

For a while, the corridor felt too full of grief for any of it to be contained properly.

Then someone noticed Uzair.

It did not happen all at once but moved through them gradually, as if each person was only now remembering he was there. Because throughout everything that had happened, he had not moved. Not when the doctor spoke. Not when Ulfat broke down. Not when Faizal asked questions that no one could answer. Not when the silence itself became unbearable.

He was still sitting exactly where he had been, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together, head slightly lowered, as though the world around him had not yet given him permission to exist in any other state.

“Uzair.”

Hamza spoke his name carefully, as though testing whether it could be spoken at all. There was no response. So he called the name again.

“Uzair.”

Only after a pause did he finally look up, and in that moment Hamza immediately wished he had not called him at all .

Because the exhaustion in his eyes was not the kind that came from lack of sleep or physical strain. It was deeper than that, as though something essential had been worn down inside him over the last few hours and left him hollow in places that should not have been empty.

“Haath dho lo.”

Silence followed the suggestion as though even the air was waiting to see what he would do,as though even the idea of movement required more permission than anyone had the right to give him.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried no anger or resistance, only a flat certainty that ended the conversation before it could develop further.

“Nahi.”

The word did not carry anger or refusal in the usual sense. It simply ended the conversation before it could begin.

Hamza frowned slightly, trying to hold on to some kind of logic. “Tumhare haath khoon se bhare hue hain.”

The silence that followed stretched long enough to become uncomfortable for everyone listening, and when Uzair finally answered, there was nothing in his voice except a calm acknowledgment of something that could not be denied.

“Mujhe pata hai.”

No one corrected him because no one needed to.

Everyone in that corridor already understood that it was not about the blood, because blood could be washed away and hands could be cleaned and evidence could disappear in a matter of minutes.

That was never the real issue.

The problem was that cleaning his hands would force everything that had happened into a shape that could no longer be ignored, something complete and final that could not be undone by waiting or denial or silence, and that was something he was not ready to face in any form that would make it real.

So the blood remained where it was, drying slowly across his skin and carrying everything he had been unable to prevent.

Hours passed slowly and painfully, the way time tends to behave in places where nothing else is allowed to move at a normal pace. The hospital gradually grew quieter as visiting hours ended, lights were dimmed in long corridors, and nurses changed shifts without acknowledging how different the night had become from every other night that had come before it. People left, conversations faded, and even the sound of footsteps became less frequent until only the corridor outside the ICU remained occupied.

Around midnight, Faizal finally fell asleep against Ulfat’s shoulder, his exhaustion arriving at last as something stronger than fear, and some time after that Naeem followed in the same way, his body giving in to sleep without asking permission from whatever had been keeping him awake until then. Hamza returned at intervals with tea that nobody really finished, though Rehman forced himself to drink his share and then insisted the others do the same, as if routine could still be maintained through sheer will, while Uzair’s cup remained untouched beside him.

At two in the morning, a nurse finally emerged from the ICU and every person in the corridor stood at once, the sudden movement startling her for a moment before she managed to steady herself.

“Patient—”

“Woh kaisi hain?” Ulfat asked immediately.

The nurse blinked once, then offered a small reassuring smile as she answered.

“Woh stable hain.”

The relief that followed was immediate and visible, spreading through the group in a collective exhale that carried more exhaustion than comfort, but it lasted only a few seconds before the nurse continued speaking.

“Lekin doctors unko closely monitor kar rahe hain.”

The relief faded almost as quickly as it had arrived because ‘monitoring closely’ was not the same thing as stable, and everyone in the corridor understood that even if nobody said it aloud. The nurse left and the waiting resumed.

Three o'clock passed, then four, then five. Somewhere outside the hospital, dawn had begun creeping across the city, but inside the corridor nothing seemed to move with it. The fluorescent lights remained harsh, the silence remained heavy, and the ICU doors stayed closed as though the world beyond them had narrowed to a single room.

By six in the morning, Rehman bhai finally pushed himself to his feet and crossed the corridor. He lowered himself into the chair beside Uzair without a word, and for several minutes they sat shoulder to shoulder watching the ICU doors the same way they had watched them all night.

Eventually Rehman exhaled.

"Jaante ho kitni ziddi hai woh. hamesha se aisi hi hai. Doctor log bhi tang aa gaye honge us se."

When Uzair didn't respond, Rehman bhai rubbed a hand over his face as he spoke again.

"Yaad hai shaadi ke baad pehli dafa mujhe chai banana sikhane lagi thi? Main adhtees saal ka aadmi tha, roz chai peeta tha, aur madam mujhe samjha rahi thi ke doodh pehle daalna hai ya baad mein."

For the first time all night, Uzair's eyes shifted. It wasn't much, but Rehman saw it and continued.

"Maine kaha tha, 'beta, mujhe chai banana aata hai.' Aur kehti hai, 'aata hai, bas theek se nahi aata.'"

A faint smile touched his face.

"Do din baad phir samjhaya. Phir teesre din bhi. Maine Ulfat se kaha tha, is aurat ko lagta hai poori duniya ko seedha karna iska farz hai."

That almost worked. Almost. Then Uzair spoke, his voice so quiet Rehman bhai nearly missed it.

"Chart paper yaad reh gaya tha usko."

The smile disappeared.

Neither of them looked at each other.

"Subah bhool gayi thi," Uzair continued quietly. "Phir achanak yaad aa gaya. Ghar pohanchne wale the. Bas das minute aur."

He swallowed. “Faizal ko chahiye tha. Gaadi ghumai."

Rehman lowered his gaze. "Uzair—"

"Mujhe yaad hona chahiye tha."

There it was. The thing he'd been carrying all night. The thing everyone had seen coming.

"Subah bola tha. Hamare nikalne se pehle bola tha." A broken laugh escaped him. "Main bhi wahi tha."

Rehman remained silent because this had never really been about the chart paper.

"Agar mujhe yaad rehta..." Uzair swallowed hard. "Hum wapas nahi jaate. Wahan rukte hi nahi. Us market mein khade bhi nahi hote. Ghar pe hote."

"Uzair."

"Aur woh—"

His voice gave out before the sentence could.

For several moments neither of them spoke. Then Rehman turned towards him.

"Ek baat poochun?"

Uzair frowned slightly. "Hm?"

"Agar usko chart paper yaad na aata toh?"

A tired smile appeared. "Ghar pohanch ke yaad aata."

"Haan."

"Phir mujhe wapas bhejti."

"Khud bhi saath aati."

"Poore raste sunaati."

A broken huff of laughter escaped Uzair. "Haan."

"Phir ghar aa ke Faizal pe nikalti."

"Haan."

"Aur aadhe ghante baad khud poochti, 'waise main market gayi thi phir yeh kyun nahi laayi?'"

That one actually managed to draw a laugh out of Uzair, small and broken, and somehow that only made his eyes burn harder.

"Main wahin tha, bhai." The smile disappeared. "Mere bilkul paas thi wo."

His voice cracked, and he pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes.

"Main..." He swallowed hard. "Main usko ghar le ja raha tha."

Rehman Baloch had seen that look before. Not last night or last week, but years ago, on a nine-year-old boy who had somehow convinced himself that every bad thing in the world was his responsibility to fix.

But fear? Fear was new.

He had seen Uzair stitched up and bleeding and impatient to leave the clinic before the doctor had even finished. He had seen him come home bruised, with his shoulder half out of place and blood drying on his shirt, complaining more about the lecture he was going to get from Ulfat than the injury itself.

He had even seen him shot.

And through all of it, the boy had remained infuriatingly calm.

Until her.

Until yesterday.

Until he'd heard his younger brother apologising to an unconscious woman as though saying sorry enough times could somehow change what had happened.

Without a word, he shifted closer and wrapped an arm around Uzair's shoulders.

That was all it took.

Uzair folded immediately, his forehead falling against his brother's shoulder as though he had been holding himself together with nothing but stubbornness and had finally run out. His fingers twisted helplessly in the fabric of Rehman bhai's kurta, and for a moment it looked as though he might actually win the fight he had been having with his own tears all night.

He didn't.

His shoulders trembled once, then again, and suddenly he was crying with the quiet helplessness of a man too exhausted to hold himself together any longer.

"Main wahin tha," he whispered brokenly. "Main uske paas tha."

Rehman tightened his arm around him and rested his cheek briefly against his hair, exactly the way he had done when Uzair was nine and nightmares still sent him climbing into bed at two in the morning.

"Bas."

"Bhai—"

"Bas."

"Meri wajah se—"

"Bilkul nahi."

His own voice wavered slightly. "Khuda ka naam le."

Uzair's grip tightened helplessly. "Main usko ghar le ja raha tha."

"Mujhe pata hai."

"Main wahin tha."

"Mujhe pata hai, beta."

The word slipped out naturally, the way it always had, and Rehman felt his own voice break on the last syllable.

"Mujhe pata hai."

And for a long while neither of them spoke. They simply sat beneath the fluorescent hospital lights, one brother holding the other while the city outside slowly woke up, both of them waiting for the stubborn woman who remembered she'd forgotten something but somehow forgot what she was supposed to remember to find her way back to them.

Then, somewhere behind those closed doors, alarms suddenly began to ring.

The sound tore through the corridor so sharply that every person froze at the same time, as though the entire night had been waiting for that exact moment to break. A nurse ran past them, then another, and within seconds the ICU doors swung open.

And for the second time in less than twelve hours, the world stopped again.

The first person to move was Hamza.

The first person to stop him was Rehman, whose hand caught his arm before he could reach the ICU doors and held him there long enough for the instinct to break.

“Ruko.”

“Rehman bhai—”

“Ruko.”

Nobody liked the word, and nobody obeyed it willingly, but they still did because there was nothing else left to do in a moment like that except wait and listen.

The alarms continued, sharp and relentless, each sound landing so heavily it felt as though it was striking directly against bone rather than air. A nurse moved quickly through the doors, followed by another, then a doctor, then another, and the corridor around them seemed to shrink under the pressure of all that movement until it felt too bright, too tight, and somehow still unbearably empty.

Beside Ulfat bhabhi, Faizal woke suddenly, confused for a second before his awareness caught up with the room. He looked around once and immediately understood something was wrong in the way children often do without explanation. His voice came out small.

“Ammi?”

Ulfat held his hand without speaking, because there were no words she could offer that would make anything in that moment less frightening.

Across the corridor, Uzair stood up without anyone noticing the exact moment he had done it. One moment he had been sitting, and the next he was simply standing, his gaze fixed on the ICU doors in a way that did not move or shift even as everything else around him changed.

The alarms continued for five minutes, then ten, then fifteen, stretching time into something unbearable and unfamiliar, until finally: 

Silence.

It did not bring relief.

Nobody moved, because silence in a hospital never meant only one thing, and everyone there had learned over the past days that it could just as easily mean the worst had already happened.

The ICU doors opened and a doctor finally stepped out.

The corridor moved at once, everyone stepping forward in the same instant, questions overlapping before the man could even fully remove his mask.

“Kya hua?”

“Doctor, sab theek hai?”

“Woh theek hain?”

The doctor raised a hand, not in dismissal but in an attempt to slow the panic that was already rising around him.

“Suniye shaant ho jaayiye sab.”

Nobody calmed down, and he seemed to understand immediately that the instruction had arrived too late to be useful.

“Complication ki wajah se thodi instability hui thi, lekin humne control kar liya hai.”

The corridor froze again, as though every person had been forced to hold their breath at the same time.

“Ab unki condition firse stable hain.”

This time the relief did not arrive as a wave. It arrived as exhaustion, too heavy to express properly, too drained to turn into anything visible.

Hamza sat down where he stood, as if his body had finally stopped cooperating with him. Ulfat began to cry again, quietly at first and then without control. Faizal followed her without understanding why. Naeem stared at the floor as though it might offer something to focus on that did not hurt. Rehman closed his eyes briefly and stayed standing only because sitting felt like surrender.

Uzair lowered himself back into his chair as if gravity had finally remembered him again.

Two days passed.

She did not wake up.

The doctors were not worried, which was the kind of reassurance that did not reassure anyone in that corridor. Words like rest, monitoring, and observation circulated constantly, but none of them felt like answers.

Hamza had stopped trusting those words by the first day. “Observation ka matlab kya hota hai?”

A nurse looked at him briefly. “Hum observe kar rahe hain.”

“Main bhi yahi kar raha hoon.”

The nurse walked away, likely because she had learned by now that engaging with Hamza did not improve anyone’s day.

The hospital settled into a rhythm that no one wanted but everyone fell into anyway. Morning updates, short visits, tea that went cold before anyone finished it, prayers spoken more out of habit than hope, and then hours of waiting that blended into each other until time stopped feeling structured at all.

The boys returned home at night. Ulfat only left when Rehman insisted. Hamza came and went with food, updates, and unnecessary arguments with hospital staff that no one had the energy to stop him from starting. Only Uzair stayed without interruption.

He was noticed first by the nurses, then the doctors, and eventually by everyone else. He slept in the chair beside her bed in short, uneven stretches, ate only when food was placed directly in front of him, and spent most of his time exactly as he was now, sitting beside her without speaking, as though presence alone was the only thing he was still capable of offering.

On the third morning, a nurse entered to check vitals. Halfway through writing something down, she paused and looked at the monitor, then at the patient, then back again, her expression shifting slightly as she frowned.

“Sir?”

Uzair looked up immediately.

She stepped closer, studying the readings more carefully now, and then looked at the patient’s face with a kind of attention that changed the atmosphere in the room without a single word being spoken.

“Doctor.”

The call changed everything at once.

Within seconds the room filled with movement. Doctors entered, followed by nurses, followed by equipment, followed by questions that no one had time to fully ask. For the first time in three days, the tension in the room shifted from fear to alertness, as though everyone had been waiting for a change they did not dare expect.

The senior doctor arrived last. He examined the readings, asked a few questions, and then nodded once.

“Good.”

The word carried more weight than anything else that had been said in days.

“Kya ho raha hai?” Uzair asked.

The doctor glanced briefly toward the bed and then spoke in a calmer voice than before. “Woh jaagne ki koshish kar rahi hain.”

The sentence landed with a force that made everything that had built up over the last three days loosen at once, not disappearing, but easing just enough to allow breathing again. The room gradually emptied once the doctors were satisfied, leaving only machines and quiet behind.

Eventually, it was just him and her.

The silence this time did not feel like waiting. It felt lighter, as though something inside it had changed shape without anyone noticing, no longer stretched tight with uncertainty but softened into something unfamiliar.

He did not realize how long he had been sitting there until her fingers moved slightly against the bedsheet, a small shift that should have meant nothing in any other moment but here felt like the first real confirmation that time had started moving forward again.

His entire body went still as he watched it, as if any movement from his side might disturb whatever fragile line she was crossing back into awareness.

Then it happened again.

Slowly, as though even opening her eyes required effort her body had not yet fully recovered from, she stirred beneath the weight of everything she had been pulled through, and after a moment that felt longer than it should have, her eyes finally opened.

Not fully at first, only enough to let the light in, and she frowned immediately at the brightness, the reaction simple and ordinary in a way that made it almost unreal after everything that had come before it.

She blinked once, then again, and slowly turned her head until she found him sitting there.

For a few seconds neither of them spoke, neither of them fully certain that what they were seeing was real or simply the kind of moment exhaustion created to confuse the mind into believing relief had arrived too soon.

She shifted slightly on the bed, wincing at the movement, then pointed weakly at him in the same familiar way she always did when she wanted to move attention away from herself.

His gaze stayed fixed on her without shifting, but something in the way he held himself changed slightly, tightening in a way that suggested he was forcing control over something that was no longer as stable as he wanted it to be.

"Aapka chehra itna serious kyun hai?" Her voice was rough with sleep. "Hospital hai ya duty post?"

Something shifted in his expression before disappearing again. "Tum uth gayi."

"Hm."

"Tum teen din se behosh thi."

"Hm."

"Goli lagi thi."

"Hm."

"Tumhari surgery hui."

"Hm."

His brows drew together. "Tum meri baat sun bhi rahi ho?"

"Hm."

"Tum phir se so rahi ho."

"Hm."

"Tum jaan ke kar rahi ho."

A weak smile appeared immediately. "Hm."

His eyes narrowed. "Meri nakal kar rahi ho kya tum?"

Her smile widened slightly. “Hm.”

"Hm kya hota hai?"

"Hm."

"Khuda ki qasam, teen din baad hosh mein aayi ho aur bachon wali harkatein shuru."

"Hm."

"Tum meri baat ka mazak uda rahi ho?"

"Hm."

"Tumhari aadhi jaan nikal gayi hai aur zidd phir bhi kam nahi hui."

"Hm."

A faint breath escaped him, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.

Satisfied, she settled deeper into the pillow.

Only then did she properly look at him. The dark circles beneath his eyes looked worse than she remembered. His stubble had grown unevenly and the kurta he was wearing seemed suspiciously familiar.

"Aap ne kapde badle bhi hain?"

"Haan."

"Jhoot."

"Badle hain."

"Kab?"

He frowned slightly, "Yaad nahi."

"Aap soye bhi nahi."

"Soya hoon."

"Jhoot."

"Soya hoon."

"Hm."

"Tum hm mat karo."

"Hm."

"Tum mujhe pareshan karne ka plan bana ke uthi ho kya?"

She smiled again. "Hm."

He shook his head, "Bhabhi ne do dafa daanta."

"Hm."

"Keh rahi thi do ghante ghar ja ke so aao."

"Hm."

"Jaise main pagal hoon."

"Hm."

"Rehman bhai bhi unke saath mil gaye."

"Hm."

"Hamze ne kursi tak cheenne ki koshish ki."

"Hm."

"Kisi ko meri koi fikr nahi."

"Hm."

"Tum bhi unke saath ho."

"Hm."

His shoulders finally dropped. "Yeh koi jawab nahi hota."

"Hm."

Sleep was already beginning to pull at her again, and her thoughts felt strangely scattered.

"Uzair."

"Hm."

"Woh chart paper mila tha?"

He blinked. "Kya?"

"Chart paper."

For a second he simply stared. "Tumhe chart paper yaad hai?"

"Hm."

"Teen din behosh rehne ke baad?"

"Hm."

"Allah ki qasam."

"Woh mila tha?"

"Nahi."

Her eyebrows furrowed immediately. "Nahi?"

"Nahi."

"Toh project?"

"Rehman bhai ne school phone kar diya."

"Hm."

"Teacher ko samjha diya."

"Hm."

"Faizal ko bhi."

"Hm."

She studied his face. "Faizal roya?" "Hm." "Nahi roya hoga." "Hm." "Uzair." "Hm." "Roya tha?" Even Uzair couldn't stop himself from smiling at her amusement. "Haan." She smiled to herself. "Pata tha." "Andar nahi aane de rahe thay usko." "Hm." "Do dafa bhaag ke aa gaya." Her smile softened. "Pata tha." "Naeem ne pehle usko samjhaya." "Hm." "Phir khud ro diya." That finally drew a faint laugh out of her. "Naeem roya?" "Hm." "Kyu?" "Keh raha tha, 'agar sab ro rahe hain toh main akela kyu na roun?'" Another laugh escaped before she could stop it. "Dheere." The word left his mouth so quickly that it almost sounded frightened. He then continued, "Aadha biscuit bhi laaya wo mere liye." She blinked. "Aadha?" "Hm." "Poora kyu nahi?" "Kha gaya tha." Despite himself, a small smile appeared. "Jo aadha bacha tha, woh meri jeb mein daal diya." Her shoulders shook with laughter before pain immediately reminded her why that was a terrible idea.

“Aaraam se.”

Uzair instinctively reached toward her before stopping himself halfway and curling his fingers into the fabric of his kurta instead. The movement was so quick she might have missed it entirely if she hadn't spent enough time with him to recognise hesitation when she saw it.

"Hm."

"Tum hasna bhi aahista nahi kar sakti?"

"Hm."

"Tum waqai tang karti ho."

"Hm."

A ghost of a smile adorned his face despite himself. For a few moments neither of them said anything.

The teasing that had carried the conversation since she'd opened her eyes slowly faded, and she found herself studying him again.

"Aap ghar gaye thay?"

"Nahi."

"Bilkul nahi?"

"Nahi."

"Chaar din?"

"Hm."

The answer came quietly this time.

She frowned slightly. "Aur..."

He looked up. "Kya?"

"Aap yahin thay?"

"Haan."

"Har waqt?"

"Haan."

"Surgery ke baad bhi?"

"Haan."

"Jab main behosh thi?"

Something flickered briefly across his face. "Haan."

"Aur abhi bhi?"

His brows drew together. "Haan toh."

A sleepy smile appeared on her face. "Hm."

His eyes narrowed immediately. "Firse mat shuru ho jana."

"Kya?"

"Mera hm."

"Aapka hm?"

"Hm."

A laugh escaped before immediately turning into another wince, and his entire posture changed so quickly that she almost laughed again.

"Kya hua?"

"Kuch nahi."

"Dard hua?"

"Hm."

"Nurse bulaun?"

"Hm."

"Tum mazak mat karo."

"Hm."

He stared at her. "Tumhare hm ka koi matlab bhi hai?"

"Hm."

She smiled weakly. "Ab samajh aaya?"

For a moment he simply looked at her."Bilkul nahi."

That made her smile widen. "Bas isi pe guzara karti hoon."

He closed his eyes briefly. "Khuda ki qasam."

"Aap ko tang karna bohot asaan hai."

"Tang?"

"Hm."

"Tumhari goli lagi hai aur tang main ho raha hoon."

"Hm."

"Chaar din se pareshan hoon."

"Hm."

"Ek lafz se poora hisaab barabar kar diya tumne."

"Hm."

A faint smile appeared briefly on his face before disappearing again.

She immediately pointed at him."Woh dekha maine."

"Kya?"

"Wahi."

"Kya wahi?"

"Smile."

"Woh smile nahi tha."

"Hm."

This time the reluctant laugh escaped him properly. "Ziddi aurat."

The answer made her smile widen.

And just like that she understood.

Four days ago she had closed her eyes in the middle of chaos and pain and fear. When she'd opened them again, he was still sitting exactly where she'd left him.

Satisfied with herself, she lifted a hand and pointed vaguely towards the empty space beside her.

"Yahan aayiye."

He frowned, "Kya?"

"Chair se talaq le lo aap."

"Main theek hoon."

"Hm."

"Sach mein."

"Hm."

"Tum phir."

"Hm."

His resistance lasted less than a minute.

Eventually he stood and moved toward the bed before lowering himself onto the edge with enough distance between them to satisfy an entire mohalla.

She opened one eye. "Aur door chale jao. Agle ward mein hi baith jao."

"Paas hi hoon."

"Hm."

"Tum phir."

"Hm."

He muttered something under his breath and shifted slightly closer.

The silence that followed lasted only a few minutes before exhaustion finally caught up with him. She noticed it before he did—the longer pauses between blinks, the way his eyes kept drifting shut before opening again, the slow surrender of someone who had been awake for far too long.

Eventually his head tipped sideways and settled against her shoulder.

She went completely still.

Because in six months of marriage, this had never happened. Not with Uzair, who still knocked before entering their room, apologised if their hands brushed, and behaved as though affection required written permission.

And yet here he was.

She watched him for a while before adjusting the blanket carefully over him so he wouldn’t end up freezing like he usually did when he refused to care about himself.

Hours passed without change until the door finally opened quietly and Ulfat bhabhi stepped in first, followed by Hamza and Rehman, and all three of them stopped immediately at the sight in front of them.

Uzair was asleep sitting half on the bed, leaning slightly toward her in a way that showed he had fallen asleep without fully planning it, his body angled carefully so he wasn’t pressing her injured side, but close enough that distance had clearly not been something he was willing to maintain even in sleep.

She was awake and smiling, with one hand resting loosely near his sleeve without fully holding it, as if she had forgotten to move it away.

Hamza watched them for another moment before lowering his voice. "Doctoron se pooch lena chahiye, kamra kiraye pe milta hai ya nahi."

"Chup kar," Ulfat bhabhi muttered automatically, smacking his arm.

"Main toh bas pooch raha hoon."

"Tu na poocha kar."

Rehman didn’t comment at first and only stood there watching them both for a long moment before speaking in a quieter tone that carried more understanding than humour.

“Sone do inko.”

Nobody disagreed after that, and the room returned to silence with the door closing softly behind them, leaving the two of them exactly as they were, unplanned but settled into a kind of rest neither of them had managed in days.