Kalank - Part 3
A Rehman Dakait x Reader fic Masterlist a/n: Canon divergent. This is solely based on Akshaye Khanna’s portrayal of Rehman Dakait in the movie Dhurandhar and has nothing to do with the gangster Rehman Dakait in any way, shape or form. I sincerely hope he is being tortured in the worst way possible, wherever he is. This is the final part, the rest of the notes about it are at the end :) PART 1 | PART 2 click here for the song
Main tera, main tera Main tera, main tera
Rehman had tasted happiness before.
It felt like it belonged to another lifetime now; scattered, half-faded memories he could barely hold on to. The vague outline of his mother, softened by time and buried beneath years of resentment, long, dusty evenings spent outside with friends, an old football and nothing else to worry about. And sometimes, it was with Uzair — chasing him across uneven ground, the boy’s laughter ringing out freely, untouched by the weight of the world.
But it was different with you.
When he was with you, happiness didn’t come in fragments. It didn’t arrive quietly or leave without warning. It wrapped around him completely, settled into his chest, lingered in the smallest moments — in the way you breathed, in the way you leaned into him, in the way his lips found the curve of your jaw as he pressed kisses into it, unhurried.
Your eyes fluttered shut, your breath catching as you tried to steady it enough to speak.
“Aaj tum bade khush ho.”
He chuckled against your skin, his lips moving towards your neck. “Itni khoobsurat ho na, isliye.”
You rolled your eyes, but Rehman didn’t miss the way your hands came up to his shoulders again, fingers sliding over the firm lines of his chest. The heat outside clung to both of you, but your skin still carried a faint coolness from the supermarket, and when your fingers brushed his abs, he sucked in a sharp breath at the contrast. In retaliation, he leaned in and sank his teeth into your neck, the scent of your Nivea lotion flooding his senses, but you barely gave him a second before pushing him back.
“Thodi der ruko,” you laughed, adjusting your dupatta. “Kal Geeta ki sagaai bhi hai. Tumhe kya lagta hai, log mehendi dekhenge ya tumhari karigari?”
“Sab log tere jaise andhe nahi hote,” he shot back, slinging your bag over his shoulder. “Kam se kam woh itna toh samjhenge ki is art pe peeche kitni mehnat hai.”
You raised an eyebrow and fell into step with him as he walked toward the bike. “Achcha ji, aapke liye ye art hai?” you said, stopping abruptly before picking up a crumpled sheet lying by the roadside. You thrust it into his hand and stepped closer, crowding into his space as he instinctively lifted it, confused.
“Ispe likho—‘Rehman Baloch ki karigari,’” you continued, completely serious, adjusting the imaginary placement over your head, “aur seedha mere sar pe chipka do. Sagaai kya, puri Lyari bula do, sab aake dekh lenge tumhari yeh bemisaal mehnat.”
Rehman threw his head back in laughter, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes from how ridiculous you looked standing in the middle of the road, with your hands holding the sheet above your head like some sort of signboard while your brow was drenched in sweat, glaring at him like he was the dumbest person on the planet. Huffing, you dropped the sheet back onto the road, seeing that you had reached his bike, and crossed your arms in front of your chest.
“Tujhe ye sab mazak lagti hai, na?” you muttered, even though there was a hint of a smile behind your words. “Chhod, main khud hi chali jaaungi.”
You barely made it two steps.
“Are, meri noor—”
You didn’t even have the time to register what he said before his hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, tugging you towards the bike. He was already seated, looking far too pleased with himself as he took in the annoyed expression on your face.
“Kya bola—” you started, frantically looking around, but he picked you up like you weighed nothing and settled you on his lap, your chest flushed against his. Your cheeks turned a deep shade of crimson — he still had that effect even after two months of you dating him — as he pulled your dupatta over your heads, dimming the world into a warm, shared shadow.
“Rehman!” you hissed, half-laughing now, trying to push the fabric back, but he caught your wrist again.
“Chup,” he murmured, but there was no teasing in it this time.
Main tera, main tera Main tera, main tera
His lips pressed to your forehead, lingering, as if he was holding the moment in place. Then he moved slowly — your temple, your cheek — each kiss unhurried, deliberate, like he was tracing something only he could see, spending an extra minute on the birthmark near your lips. There was a quiet reverence in the way he touched you, as if he was memorising you, as if this was something to be worshipped, not rushed.
“Meri noor hai tu,” he whispered against your skin, not like a compliment, but like a truth.
Your breath hitched despite yourself. “Haan, kyunki main sirf dekhne ke liye—”
“Meri jaan hai tu,” he said, softer now, the words settling between you as his lips brushed yours, like you were his salvation and his kisses were prayers he couldn’t say out loud. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours for a second before pressing one last, familiar kiss there.
“Ho gaya satana?” you murmured, raising an eyebrow.
A quiet laugh slipped out of him as he nuzzled into your neck. “Abhi ke liye.”
Main gehra tamas, tu sunehra savera Main tera, ho, main tera
The October heat burned into Rehman’s skin as he pushed the sleeves of his kurta till his elbows, eyes scanning the crowded market for a glimpse of you. The air was filled with a cacophony of noises and smells — children playing in the merry-go-round, couples holding each other’s hands as they weaved through the crowd with little trinkets and teenagers looking bored out of their minds while their mothers negotiated prices with the vegetable vendors. There was a baaraat too, surprisingly, weaving its way through the crowded streets with dhol beats cutting through the evening noise, strings of lights flickering against the fading sun as strangers paused to watch, smile, and then move along again.
His attention was brought back to Uzair, who was tugging at his sleeve. “Bhai, Y/N bhabhi kab aayegi?”
Rehman’s face snapped towards him, cheeks burning. He hoped no one caught what Uzair had said. “Tum unko bhabhi kab bulaane lage?”
Uzair shrugged. “Aapne bola aap unse mohobbat karte hain. Uska matlab ye hai na ki—”
Rehman ran his hands over his face, wondering how he was supposed to tell a six year old that the word bhabhi had a completely different connotation, one that meant the promise of marriage, and that calling someone that just because your older brother was in love with them was the worst idea ever. He was the one who had initiated this meetup between you and Uzair — you were initially sceptical about it, but agreed just because Rehman had talked so cutely about Uzair that you couldn’t resist the urge to meet him. And now, Uzair’s mouth was probably going to scare you off for good.
“Main unse mohobbat karta hu, lekin hamare beech mein… maan lo dosti jaisa hai. Tum unko didi hi bulao,” he said quickly, hoping the matter would end there.
It did not.
Uzair’s brows furrowed in confusion, his face scrunching up into an expression that looked like a smaller, exaggerated version of Rehman’s own — equal parts confused and mildly disgusted.
“Aap apne doston se mohobbat karte hain?”
Rehman opened his mouth to respond, but a familiar voice from behind him cut in before he could.
“Haan, Rehman, tum apne doston se mohobbat karte ho?” you asked cheekily, stepping into his line of sight, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you tilted your head, watching him far too knowingly.
Rehman looked between both of you, a sigh of resignation slipping past his lips. “Uzair,” he crouched, twisting his frame so he looked at you directly. “Yeh hai Y/N. Tum unko—”
“Y/N BHABHI!” Uzair shrieked, already running toward you before the words had fully left his mouth.
You blinked, caught off guard for half a second — the words landing somewhere unexpected — but the surprise never quite made it to your face. Years of being the eldest kicked in before anything else could, and you bent instinctively, catching him as he launched himself at you. You lifted him with ease and spun him once in the air, his laughter ringing above the market noise.
“Are, itni tez?” you laughed, placing him on the ground gingerly. “Gir jaate toh?”
“Nahi girta,” he declared confidently, flexing his little arms. “Main strong hu.”
“Accha? Kitna strong?” you challenged, raising an eyebrow.
“Rehman bhai se bhi zyada.”
Behind you, Rehman let out a quiet groan, dragging a hand down his face in a slow, resigned facepalm as he watched the two of you, already ganging up against him without a second thought.
You shot him a quick smirk and nodded, your attention going back to Uzair. “Haan, aapka Rehman bhai toh taakat mein bhi or dimaag mein bhi aapse kam hai,” you said, ignoring the fact that, just last week, he had dug his fingers so deeply into your hips through your salwar that they had left small bruises in their wake. Your mind drifted towards that memory, how he had kissed you, how you had—
“Mujhe kulfi chahiye,” Uzair suddenly piped up, snapping you out of your trance.
Rehman tutted softly. “Uzair, maine bola na, hum pooch—”
“Aapko kulfi chahiye? Main khilati hu,” you cut him off, grinning as you took Uzair’s hand before Rehman could protest further.
Rehman watched the two of you walk ahead, Uzair already chattering excitedly, his small fingers wrapped comfortably around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. You had bent down a little, nodding solemnly as he spoke about school and football and how he thought his cousin needed more colour in his wardrobe. He shook his head under his breath, but the faint smile tugging at his lips refused to fade as he followed behind, watching the colours change in the sky as you took Uzair around the bazaar, showing him the rides and feeding him more kulfi than healthy.
He hadn’t expected it to go this well. Uzair wasn’t a very social child; it had taken him two weeks to speak his first word after his mother died, a month to warm up to Rehman, and he was still struggling to make friends at school. He still glared at strangers when he passed by them on the road. And here he was, playing with you like he had known you forever.
Suddenly, an image flashed in his mind — somewhere in the future, both of you sitting on a quiet verandah, cups of chai in your hands as two children ran through the soil in front of you, their laughter drifting into the evening air. The warmth settled in his chest for a fleeting second before he pushed it away, jaw tightening; dreams like that didn’t belong to someone whose life was tied to cunning, dirty politics and luck — not when he hadn’t even told you the truth yet.
He blinked, snapping back to the present just as Uzair beamed up at the two of you. “Yeh sabse accha din tha,” he declared proudly, kulfi smeared around his lips despite your best efforts to clean it up.
You blinked, surprised. “Sach?”
“Haan,” he nodded seriously, before looking up at Rehman. “Main bhabhi se phir mil sakta hu na?”
Rehman stilled for a moment, his eyes flickering between Uzair’s hopeful face and yours, something unreadable settling in his expression as Uzair waited for his answer.
“Haan,” he nodded, his voice cracking just slightly. “Zaroor mil sakte ho.”
That was enough for Uzair. He stepped closer without thinking, standing between the two of you as the three of you fell into a quiet stillness, the fading sun casting long shadows across the market while he watched the sky like he didn’t want the day to end.
Musafir main bhatka, tu mera basera Main tera, ho, main tera
You stared at the slip of paper again, wrapping the blanket around you more firmly as another cold draft entered your room. Your teeth were chattering, but the window was broken, and your father was too busy saving for your younger brother’s college fund to fix it. You had covered the window with a cloth for now — a temporary measure that provided no respite — and your sisters and brother were frantically packing for a wedding, leaving you to ponder over the note in the privacy of your room, considering half of your things had already been stolen by your sisters.
Rehman’s handwriting was unmistakeable; the letters were written carefully, like he had spent extra time relearning the script just to be able to write a note to you. The content was simple: he had asked you to meet him at the bus stop a week after the new year. This was a break from your usual routine, but he knew your parents weren’t going to be at home, and that your neighbours were too busy drinking to drown away their problems to notice you staying out a bit later than usual. Oh, and he had asked you to wear white.
Which was why you stood at the bus stand, shivering slightly in the biting wind, dressed in the simple white kurti set you had received for your seventeenth birthday, barely two days into the new year. Your fingers curled into your sleeves in a futile attempt to keep warm, even though the Lyari winter was nothing compared to the rest of Pakistan.
Rehman pulled up a few minutes later, the low rumble of his bike cutting through the quiet. His gaze flickered over you once — taking in the goosebumps dotting your arms, the way you shifted your weight — before he wordlessly shrugged off the extra jacket slung over his shoulder and held it out to you, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Jaldi nahi aa sakte the kya?” you snapped, grabbing the helmet. “Lag raha tha aur ek ghanta intezaar karna padega.”
He kissed your palm. “Maaf kardo, meri jaan. Traffic bahut thi.”
“Traffic bahut thi,” you mimicked, but you rested your head on his back either way as he sped off, turning sharply onto the highway.
The scent of clean wind hit your face as the bike picked up speed, the air growing cooler and quieter the farther you moved away from the crowded streets. The sharpness of the morning softened— the faint smell of damp earth, of open fields waking under pale sunlight — while the breeze tugged at your dupatta and slipped through the sleeves of Rehman’s jacket wrapped around you, carrying with it a quiet calm that made you close your eyes and wrap your arms around his torso.
“Kahan ja rahe hain?” you asked, voice muffled against his back.
His chuckle sent vibrations along his back. “Thoda intezaar karo, Y/N. So ja.”
You nodded and pressed your cheek into his back, closing your eyes. You didn’t realise when the road beneath you changed — when the roughness of the city gave way to smoother, quieter stretches, when the honking faded into distant silence. Rehman slowed the bike after a while, turning onto a narrow path lined with low fences and open land that stretched endlessly into the pale winter morning.
“Rehman?” you murmured, straightening slightly.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stopped the bike completely.
You frowned, pulling the helmet off — and then froze.
Rows upon rows of roses stretched before you, blooming in soft shades of red, pink, and white, their petals trembling gently in the cold morning breeze. The early sunlight had just begun to settle over the fields, turning the dew on the petals into scattered flecks of gold. The air was thick with their scent — overwhelming in the quiet.
Your breath caught.
Rehman watched you instead of the field, his expression softening as you stepped off the bike slowly, like you were afraid the scene might disappear if you moved too fast.
“Tum…” you began, shaking your head slightly, a disbelieving laugh escaping you as you walked forward, fingers brushing lightly against the nearest rose.
“Pasand aaya?” he asked quietly.
You turned toward him, eyes brighter than the morning light. “Pagal ho kya?” you whispered, like the field demanded softness.
Not waiting for his reply, you slipped past him and ran into the rows of roses, your fingers grazing every bloom you passed, not caring about your white salwar brushing against damp soil and petals. The morning sun settled gently over your face, your skin turning into warm gold, while your anklets chimed softly with every step. Your hair had come loose somewhere along the way, smaller strands falling around your face like a soft halo, the rest swaying behind you as you moved without restraint. Your laughter rang freely across the quiet field — unfiltered, unguarded — and your dupatta trailed behind you, lifting lightly in the breeze as you spun once, just to take it all in.
The sound of a click broke through your laughter.
You turned, breath still uneven, to find Rehman standing a few feet away, an old camera in his hands as he clicked another photo, then another, not stopping even when you instinctively raised your hands to cover your face.
“Photo lene de, Y/N!” he laughed, walking closer, adjusting the lens. “Unlimited film nahi hai isme, aur ab tum chehra chupa rahi ho?”
“Pagal ho tum!” you called out, trying to turn away.
“Tere liye pagal hu!”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile refused to leave your face as he finally reached you, slipping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer. You didn’t resist, settling into his warmth as his other arm wrapped around you, his chest against your back, chin coming to rest gently at the top of your head while the roses swayed quietly around you.
“Main ye pal bhoolna nahi chahti,” you muttered, turning a petal over in your fingers. “Aisa lagta hai ki puri duniya mere ungliyon par hai.”
Rehman nodded above you, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Haina?”
You turned around and rose on your toes, kissing him softly. He cradled your head and almost dropped the camera, but you raised your arm with his, pointing the lens at your bodies.
“Kya kar rahi ho?” he asked between kisses, chasing your lips as his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you closer. You wordlessly kissed him again and clicked the shutter just as your lips met, freezing the moment in film.
The soft click echoed faintly between the rows of roses, swallowed quickly by the quiet of the morning. You lingered there for a second, both of you smiling against each other like neither of you wanted to be the first to pull away.
Rehman finally leaned back, his thumb brushing absently against your cheek as if memorising the warmth of your skin. The camera dangled loosely from his wrist, forgotten for a moment as he looked at you like the world had narrowed down to just this — the roses, the sunlight, and you in his arms.
“Ye photo,” he murmured quietly, “kabhi purani nahi hogi.”
You smiled faintly, turning around as the breeze shifted around you again, carrying the scent of roses between you. Raising his palm to your lips, you placed small kisses on his knuckles as you watched the roses come alive in the morning sun.
His arm tightened around your waist, and his kissed the top of your head in response, holding it for a second longer, like he wanted to freeze the time the way the photo had.
Tu jugnu chamakta, main jungle ghanera Main tera
The March sun beat down on you as you checked your watch absent-mindedly, foot tapping against the dust as you waited for Rehman to meet you.
There wasn’t a single day he had been late. Sure, he sometimes didn’t pick you up from your grocery runs, but he would either be at the market or at the big tree on Bazaar road. He had never left you waiting for more than five minutes, and even if he did, he would make it up to you later. He valued punctuality a lot more than the average human — he would get pretty furious if someone turned up more than ten minutes late — so him not turning up even at 4 pm concerned you.
You had pulled your dupatta away from your head, lost in your thoughts. Was he alright? Did something urgent turn up? It couldn’t have been a normal plan — he would’ve sent a letter then — so it had to be something he didn’t expect. You knew the street where he lived, but not which house, and Rehman had constantly warned you about how dangerous it was, so you checking his house was out of the question.
“Bhabhi!”
The unmistakable voice of Uzair brought you back to reality, and you stood up with your bag, meeting him in the middle of the street. He was panting, his small hand wiping the sweat from his brow, but his eyes were far from those of the little boy you had met just a few months ago, they carried horror, almost like he had seen a ghost and had run to you for safety.
“Rehman bhai…” he muttered between pants, “khoon…”
Your voice cut through his rambling. “Kahan hai?”
Uzair wordlessly took your hand and took off towards the end of the street, and you ran with him, carrying the bag of groceries on one shoulder while your arm rummaged for your emergency first aid kit in the handbag you now always carried. You didn’t reduce your pace even a little, heart hammering as Uzair’s hand clutched your fingers, leading you through narrow lanes till you reached a small door.
Uzair pushed it open.
And when you stepped inside, your heart stopped.
Rehman’s face was covered in blood — dark and drying at his temples, fresh where it trickled down from his jaw down to the collar of his shirt, staining his neck an angry red. A slash ran from the side of his eyebrow, narrowly missing his eye as it continued till halfway down the cheek. One sleeve was torn, knuckles bruised and bleeding, and his chest rose and fell with uneven breaths as he lay slumped against the wall.
Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag, the groceries slipping slightly down your shoulder as your eyes scanned the blood, the bruises, the way his hand pressed weakly against his side. You pushed Uzair into his room, not wanting him to see his brother so broken.
“Rehman…” you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips as you rushed forward, dropping to your knees in front of him, already pulling out cotton with trembling fingers.
He opened your eyes at the sound of your voice, meeting yours with a strange sadness in them, like he felt he had betrayed you by letting you see him like this. He flinched when you brought the ointment near the wound on his forehead, but you didn’t move back.
“Yeh sab kya hai?” you asked, voice shaking as you slowly pressed the cotton to his temple, fingers trembling. Up close, his wounds looked worse — there was a bit of swelling, and the dried blood was clinging stubbornly to his skin.
Rehman hissed softly at the contact, averting his gaze. “Kuch nahi,” he gritted out. “Bas chhota sa jhagda hua tha. Tu fikr mat kar, main theek hu, tum—”
“Jhoot mat bol,” you whispered, your voice softer, heavier. “Yeh ‘kuch nahi’ nahi hota.”
The room fell quiet, the only sound the faint rustle of gauze as you pressed it carefully against his skin. He watched you for a moment — the worry etched across your face, the way your fingers shook despite how carefully you moved — and something in his expression shifted, like the weight he had been carrying had finally become too heavy to ignore.
“Y/N…” he exhaled and took a deep breath.
“Main seedha kaam nahi karta,” he started.
Your fingers slowed, but you didn’t interrupt.
“Jhagde hote hai. Paisa milta hai. Jitna khatarnak kaam, utna zyada paisa. Kabhi-kabhi daraana hai, kabhi-kabhi giraana hai, kabhi-kabhi…”
His words hung in the air, their meaning settling like a weight on your chest. You moved away from his body, needing to breathe some air in a room that felt like it was closing in on you. He noticed, and his arm instinctively reached out to you, but he didn’t touch you, not when he didn’t even have the courage to even look you in the eye.
“Main Haji Laloo ke liye kaam karta hu,” he continued, head hung. “Kuch saal se. Aaj mujhe Jabir Hassan ko khatam karna tha, lekin…”
Your fingers stilled completely.
He let out a shaky breath, like he had been holding it in for too long.
“Mujhe pata hai ye sab ganda hai. Aur main nahi chahta tha ki tum yeh sab dekho.” His hand dropped against his thigh, limp, like he was already preparing for you to pull away. “Lekin yeh meri zindagi hai, Y/N. Isi se main apni zindagi badal sakta hu. Isi se main woh sab hasil kar sakta hu jo mujhse pehle cheen liya gaya.”
His eyes flickered up to your face, eyes more uncertain than they were when you first kissed him. Something in him had finally let go, he didn’t need to hide the darker parts of his life from you anymore, but he was scared too, scared that you would see him the way almost everyone else did. He knew his life wasn’t safe — hell, he spent half his time ensuring Uzair did not know about his reality just so he wouldn’t fear for his life every time he walked out — and even if would break him, he wouldn’t force you to stay in a situation that could put you in danger.
“Aur… agar tum jaana chahti ho,” he said quietly, forcing the words out, “toh theek hai. Main rokungaa nahi.”
Your eyes met his, searching his face — for even a sign of hesitation, regret, just anything that suggested he didn’t believe in what he had just said. But you didn’t find anything, and the realization sank into you: you were now seeing him the way everyone else did, the killer, the fighter, someone who looked like he had more blood on his hands than in his heart.
But, that wasn’t all he was.
He was also the boy whose laughter brightened everything around him. Who bought you flowers because you mentioned liking them once. Who took care of Uzair like a parent, ensuring he got the childhood he never had. Who held you when you cried, unsure and uncertain about your life, and kissed the top of your forehead like he worshipped you. Who would always slip a coin or a packet of food to a child begging on the street, even if that meant he would go without lunch that day. Whom you couldn’t imagine life without. Whom you loved.
Your fingers started moving again, slowly at first, then a bit faster, and you moved closer to him.
“Jo bhi ho,” you said, cupping his face with your other hand, tilting his face so he looked at you, “tum mere ho, Rehman.”
You moved closer, pressing your lips to his forehead.
“Mere sher-e-baloch.”
O piya, main tera, main tera, main tera Main tera, main tera, ho, main tera
The months flew by in a blur, and suddenly, it was May again — Geeta’s wedding.
You hadn’t expected to feel this emotional about it, but the weight of it settled quietly in your chest as you stepped into the reception hall. The space buzzed with warmth and noise — relatives greeting each other, children weaving between tables, waiters moving carefully through the crowd with trays balanced in their hands. Strings of lights flickered above, casting a soft glow over the gathering, while the faint beat of music blended into the low hum of conversations.
You spotted Geeta on the stage almost immediately.
Dressed in bridal red, jewellery catching the light, she looked both radiant and overwhelmed, smiling at every relative who stepped forward to bless her. Your chest tightened with bittersweet joy at the sight, having watched her grow from a girl who scribbled mehendi designs in notebooks to someone sitting under wedding lights, fulfilling a dream she had spoken about for years.
“Y/N! Idhar aa, beta!”
Your father’s voice called from the other side of the hall, his arm beckoning to you. You handed the wrapped gift in your arms to your sister, and immediately walked towards him, holding the end of the pallu of your saree in your right hand.
Your father immediately pulled you to the side. “Ye hai Khanna sa’ab. Bank mein mere senior the. Khanna ji, ye hai Y/N, meri beti.”
“Namaste,” you folded your hands and greeted the man and his wife, offering them a polite smile as they looked you over with quiet interest.
“Namaste, beta,” Mrs. Khanna replied warmly, her eyes soft but observant in a way that made you instinctively straighten your posture. “Bohot pyaari hai aapki beti, Mohan ji,” she looked at your father for a second, before turning her attention towards you again. “Kitni saal ki ho?”
You opened your mouth to answer, but your mother’s voice cut in from behind you. “Ji Y/N satrah saal ki hai, aur hamari dusri beti Rashmi pandrah saal ki hai.”
Mr. and Mrs. Khanna politely greeted Rashmi, who shyly returned the greeting before your father ushered all of you toward a row of chairs slightly away from the crowd. The music hummed faintly in the background as guests moved around you, laughter and chatter blending into a steady buzz.
Your father gestured for everyone to sit before glancing toward the side. “Bhai,” he called, motioning to a waiter standing nearby with a tray of drinks and starters. You couldn’t tell whom he had called, but your mouth was watering at the prospect of eating — plates of tikkas, samosas and cutlets with juice sounded very appetising since you hadn’t eaten lunch.
However, all thoughts of food left your mind the second his scent hit you.
Rehman had a very distinct scent, you had realised three months into your friendship. A hint of cigarettes, cologne, wood and sometimes petrichor, and you had memorised it every time you hugged. Sometimes, he would smell like flowers, if he was greeting you with them that day, but that evening, his scent was unmistakable.
You stole a discreet look when he handed cups of orange juice to everyone, biting the inside of your cheek when you saw how the crisp black shirt hugged his biceps as he handed your parents plates of samosas and cups of orange juice. He had put on some muscle ever since he had started earning more, and the effects of it were visible when he wore anything that clung to his body.
Rehman, on the other hand, was fighting very hard to stop himself from kissing you in front of everyone.
His jaw had almost dropped in when you first walked in, eyes traversing across your face, which you had left bare except a small bindi, a touch of lipstick and blush, your neck, which you had adorned with a necklace bedecked with green stones and pearls, covering a small patch where he had sunk his teeth into just the week prior. His focus naturally shifted to your saree — “Sage green light green nahi hai, kamine!” you had said, slapping his arm a week ago — that made you look ethereal, like you were a tree nymph who had come to life. The saree was bedecked in sparkles that looked like you had draped a green galaxy on your body, leaving more than enough of your waist uncovered, enough for him to ogle the curve of it.
His fingers brushing yours just intensified his desire, but he didn’t show any sign of recognition. Instead, he handed you another glass of juice — mausambi, not orange — and simply stepped back.
“Handwash vahan hai,” he said to the general crowd, pointing at a door that led to the back of the hall.
It was a veiled invitation.
You caught it immediately.
Five minutes later, while everyone else was asking for seconds, you excused yourself and walked towards the handwash. Rehman was nowhere to be seen in the hall, and you prayed to all the gods above that no one in your family finished eating early.
You had barely wiped your hands when you heard the creak of a door.
“Badan pe sitaare lapete hue—”
An arm encircled your waist.
“O jaan-e-tamanna kidhar ja rahi ho?”
Before you could admonish him, he pulled you into a dark room and shut the door. Your hands were on his chest now, but you could tell he was rummaging for the light.
A click, and the room was bathed in the white light coming from a bulb that was holding on for dear life.
“Besharam!” you smacked his head as he relaxed his grip on your waist, pushing you a little away so he could take in your form properly. “Maine tujhe dekha, aate samay. Ghoor kyun rahe the?”
“Meri jaan, tum aise saree pehen ke aati ho, phir mujhse ye ummid hai ki mai tujhe na ghooron? Aise ho hi nahi sakta.” He pulled you close again, peppering small kisses onto your jawline, ghosting your ear before he moved to your neck. “Main bas yahi soch raha tha ki agar main thodi der aur ruk gaya toh shayad khud ko qaboo mein nahi reh paunga.”
You gasped, tilting your head to give him more access. “Phir Geeta chhodo, mandap mein hamaari shaadi karvayenge.”
He laughed and pulled away. “Kam se kam ham dono ki umr lagbhag ek jaisi hai,” he chuckled, a glint of amusement in his eye. “Dulha ko dekha? Kaale se zyaada safed baal hai uske sar pe. Maine socha tha voh Geeta ka baap—”
“Shh!” you placed a finger on his lips, glad you were alone in the cramped room. “Koi sun liya toh? Dulhe ke khaandan siyaasti logon ko jaanti hai. Agar ek bhi lafz—”
A shadow of gloom passed over his face. “Isliye toh aaya hu.”
Your finger dropped from his lips, your hands finding purchase in the collar of his shirt. The shift in his tone didn’t go unnoticed, but neither of you spoke about it immediately. The faint hum of music outside felt distant, like the world beyond the door had paused.
You studied his face, the fear in his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before.
“Phir bhi,” you murmured softly, trying to lighten the weight settling between you, “tum waiter ki uniform mein bhi itne ghamandi lag rahe the. Tray pakad ke bhi ghoor rahe the. Ismein ghar jaao, Uzair tere saath hotel-hotel khelega.”
Rehman laughed, even though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Uzair Donga ke ghar mein so raha hai, toh voh nahi ho payega. Aur vaise bhi…” he trailed off, eyes deliberately travelling down to your waist as his fingers traced slow circles on its side. “Tu bhi utni hi besharam hai, varna itni paas khadi nahi hoti.”
You rolled your eyes.
“Tu mujhe chhed raha hai, aur ab main besharam hu?” you huffed, but there was a smile on your face as you kissed him, his grip on your waist and hip tightening as he pulled you impossibly closer. You were sure there was a small bruise, considering how tightly he was holding you, but you didn’t mind in the slightest, throwing your arms around his neck as you deepened the kiss.
A small beep broke the moment.
Rehman pulled back from you, his face suddenly very serious.
“Meri baat sun,” he said, the words slipping out very quickly. “Tum yahan se jao, aur apne khaandan ke saath ghar jao. Paanch minute hai tumhare paas. Aur peeche mudke mat dekhna.”
You nodded, still reeling with all the information he gave you. Your voice was shaky when you finally spoke. “Tum theek hoge na?”
He kissed your forehead, not gracing you with a reply as he slowly opened the door.
You gathered the pleats of your saree and stepped out, walking quickly but trying to appear inconspicuous, your heartbeat loud in your ears. The reception lights felt harsher now, the chatter sharper, like everything around you had gained an edge when you got to know what would be happening in the next few minutes.
You spotted your family near the stage. Your father was still talking to Khanna ji, while Rashmi adjusted her bangles. You moved toward them, but before that, your eyes found Geeta.
She was still seated under the lights, smiling tiredly as another relative leaned forward to bless her. For a second, your chest tightened. You lifted your hand slightly — a small, subtle gesture. She caught it, her brows knitting faintly in confusion, but she gave you a quick nod anyway, and the sharpness in her gaze told you that she expected an explanation of what made you leave so early later.
You turned immediately.
“Mumma,” you whispered in her ear, your voice deliberately strained. “Lagta hai khana suit nahi kiya. Ulti ho gayi.”
Your mother’s expression changed instantly. “Are? Kab?”
“Abhi,” you replied softly, pressing a hand to your stomach. “Thoda chakkar bhi aa raha hai.”
Your mother nodded and whispered something to your father, whose face changed, concern replacing the ease in his posture. He excused himself from Khanna ji’s presence and whispered to you. “Chalo, phir chalte hai. Ghar jaake aaram karo.”
He motioned to Rashmi, who gathered her purse quickly, your mother muttering about outside food, and within seconds, your family began moving toward the exit, offering hurried goodbyes to whoever stood nearby.
The cool air outside hit your face as you stepped out of the hall, the night more peaceful than it was inside. You tried to look for Rehman near the handwash, but he had disappeared, and your stomach felt sick for a completely different reason. Your father had driven out of the gates when it happened.
A gunshot ripped through the air inside the hall.
You didn’t look back.
Main tera, main tera, main tera, Main tera, main tera
Rehman had never been so nervous.
The August sky was overcast, thick grey clouds stretching endlessly overhead, muting the sunlight. The air smelled faintly of rain that hadn’t fallen yet, and the wind moved lazily through the narrow lanes as Rehman stood next to the big tree on Bazaar road, turning a single rose over in his fingers.
He hadn’t imagined that his life would change so quietly and so completely. First, he had seen you at the Saraswati mandir — just a fleeting moment, nothing more than a girl standing with a fruit in her hands. Then there you were again at the jhumka shop, bargaining with the shopkeeper, like fate had decided one meeting wasn’t enough. Small moments turned into long conversations, into shared silences, into a friendship that slipped so naturally into something deeper that he hadn’t even realized when the liking began. Then came the kiss, and suddenly, a year had passed with you beside him, and Rehman found himself hopelessly, irrevocably in love. You had become the center of his days and the quiet of his nights, the person he reached for in every thought before he even realized it. You were his comfort, his restlessness, his laughter, his patience — the one who made his world softer simply by existing in it. Somewhere along the way, without ceremony or declaration, you had become everything to him.
Khuda, he was so in love. He had whispered it to Donga that day, his best friend and most understanding teammate, and Donga had clapped him on the back, telling him to make this day special, or as special as it could get, since you had to shop for vegetables before meeting him for just another hour. He had begged you to stay longer, but you had declined, telling him that only you and him knew the significance of that day. He even had a speech ready, and he had finally perfected it after practicing in front of the mirror a thousand times, though he was sure he would stutter when he had to say it to you. Not that you’d mind, of course.
The sound of your anklets reached him after what felt like an eternity, soft at first, then clearer, each chime making his heart race. Rehman straightened instinctively, putting the rose in his pocket, a smile already forming before he even saw you, his heart quickening with a boyish excitement he never quite managed to hide when it came to you. The familiar rhythm meant you were close — just around the corner — and he found himself leaning forward slightly, as if he could put you into view faster.
But when you finally turned the corner, the smile faltered on his lips.
Your steps were slower than usual, the anklets that had moments ago sounded bright now dull against the silence you carried. Your shoulders seemed weighed down, your face pale and drawn, the light in your eyes replaced by exhaustion. There was no teasing smile, no soft spark of recognition — only a quiet heaviness that dropped his smile before he could even understand why.
The excitement that had been bubbling inside him stilled abruptly, replaced by a creeping unease as he watched you walk toward him, looking like you were carrying something far too heavy, and it was not the bag of groceries.
“Kya hua?” he asked, quickly taking the bag of groceries from you. “Sab theek?”
You looked at him finally, taking him in. He had worn his best black shirt — you knew it, because it was the only one without a tear or a stain, the fabric sitting a little stiff on his shoulders as if he had taken extra care with it. His hair was combed back more neatly than usual, still slightly damp, and there was a faint trace of attar around him that you only ever noticed on days that mattered. He stood straighter when he saw you, though his fingers gave him away, fidgeting unconsciously, betraying the excitement he was trying so hard to contain.
Your chest tightened at the sight of him and your heart began to race, uneven and restless. You felt a familiar warmth spread through you — soft, instinctive, painful in its tenderness. He looked at you the way he always did, eyes gentle, open, filled with a quiet affection that made it hard to hold his gaze for too long. And despite the heaviness sitting stubbornly in your chest, you felt your breath catch slightly, because even now, just seeing him like this made everything inside you soften in ways you had never quite learned to control.
He snapped his fingers, pulling you out of your daze. “Y/N?”
And suddenly, you couldn’t say it. You had thought about it all morning, how you were going to tell him, what your reactions were going to be, what you were going to say depending on whatever he replied. Your fingers clutched the sleeves of your maroon kurti a little tighter, and you fiddled with the fabric, trying to keep yourself in control.
“Kya hua?” he asked again, brushing his finger against your chin.
Everything you had prepared flew out of the window. Every carefully arranged sentence disappeared, every practiced version of this conversation scattered into nothing. You stared at him instead, your mind scrambling desperately, trying to gather words that suddenly felt too heavy to hold.
“Yaad hai, Geeta ki shaadi mein Khanna ji aaye the?”
He nodded slowly, his brow furrowing in confusion, like he was trying to follow a path he couldn’t yet see.
“Haan, toh— matlab…” you trailed off, the words catching in your throat, refusing to come out easily unless they were dragged through a collection of blades. “Unke saath photos liye the, maine socha tha family friends hai, isliye, lekin… lekin—”
Your voice faltered. The air between you felt unbearably heavy, and you could feel your chest tightening, breath coming in shallow bursts. You closed your eyes, unable to look at him anymore, unable to watch the warmth slowly leave his face, unable to witness the moment before everything changed.
“Meri shaadi tay ho gayi hai.”
The words came out too quickly, breathless, like they had been trapped inside you for far too long and had finally forced their way out. The silence that followed felt louder than anything you had ever heard, pressing down heavily on your shoulders, making it hard to breathe.
Even though the news itself was still new, the rest of the details began to spill out of you, quieter now, like your brain couldn’t fathom the new silence between you.
“Khanna ji ka bhatija hai, Hindustan mein rehta hai…” you continued, your voice unsteady, the words tumbling over each other before you could register what you were saying. “Engineer hai, achhi naukri hai, settled hai, Mumma keh rahi thi sabko bahut pasand aaya. Geeta ki shaadi mein hi— shayad tabhi baat shuru ho gayi thi, mujhe toh pata bhi nahi tha—”
You swallowed, blinking the tears away. You still didn’t open your eyes.
“Aaj subah hi bataya Mumma ne, aise hi bol diya ki shaadi tay ho gayi hai, mat—matlab unhone haan kar di… mujhe pata nahi tha, aur ladke ke ma-baap jaldi karna chahte hai kyunki usko vaapas Hindustan jaana hai aur—aur main shayad unke saath hi jaaungi—”
Your voice cracked.
“Maine na bolne ki koshish ki, Mumma ko bola mujhe shaadi nahi karni hai, par—par baat nahi maane, baat pakki ho chuki thi… aur Mumma bas keh rahi thi ki itna accha rishta hai, mana kaise karte, toh—”
“Kab hai?”
His voice firmly cut through your rambling, but there was an edge of desperation to it. You opened your eyes, but you looked down, fingers still fiddling with the sleeves of your kurti.
“Paanch din.”
The words landed with a weight that seemed to hollow out the air itself. Neither of you moved, and even the sounds of the birds chirping and vehicles honking seemed to blur. The silence that followed was deafening — like there were so many things it was screaming, but they fell on ears that were too in shock to register anything apart from numbness.
Rehman didn’t react immediately.
He just looked at you.
He wasn’t angry, he wasn’t shocked, he was just numb. Like his brain hadn’t caught up yet, and a part of it was refusing to even fathom the possibility of you getting married. It was such a foreign concept to him — lost in the feeling of being with you and loving you — that he couldn’t even imagine you in the same outfit as Geeta, couldn’t imagine you holding hands with someone seven years older, couldn’t imagine the thought of you calling someone else yours. Weirdly, it wasn’t possessiveness or jealousy, just the thought of it was fundamentally wrong.
The silence stretched some more, like a lake whose ice finally got cracked.
“Toh?”
His voice came out softer than usual, careful, like he was testing the reality of it, like there was still something left to clarify, something that could make this less final.
“Kuch karte hai…”
The words sounded small even to your own ears, like they might fall apart if either of you looked at them too closely. Rehman let out a slow breath, his gaze dropping briefly to the ground before returning to your face, searching, trying to find something that hadn’t slipped away yet.
There was a pause. A long one.
“Bhaagte hain?”
You chuckled at the thought, the idea planting itself in your mind. It would be lovely, of course. Lovely to run, to escape, to be with the love of your life forever. A small smile broke onto your lips, and the words started tumbling out, the delusion of it shining through every word.
“Haan, bhaagte hai. Gilgit jaate hai, pahaadon ke beech.” Your voice sounded like it was coming from someone else. “Hum Uzair ko ek acche school mein daal denge. Main tailor banungi. Aur tum padhai khatam karke accha naukri dhundhoge. Aur—aur uske baad hum shaadi karenge. Bas hum dono, Uzair, aur hamare doston ke saath. Aur kuch saal baad do bacche honge. Ek ladka aur ek ladki. Ladka ka naam Naieem hoga — tujhe voh naam bahut pasand hai — aur ladki ki Tara. Koi hume tan nahi karega. Koi hume…”
Rehman saw how your voice was shaking, how your resolve was crumbling with every next word, every new idea, every new hope for a future. For a second, he imagined what you said — a peaceful house in the mountains, surrounded by greenery and snow and a love that could overcome any setback — getting to love you and fulfilling every promise made under the wooden roof of a house that looked over landscapes he could only dream of.
But, he didn’t let the image stay for too long.
He knew himself far too well for that. He knew you far too well for that. He wouldn’t be able to leave this town, with its dust, its heat and its violence, because these streets shaped him, forged the ambition and the power that had sunk deep into his very bones. He knew he wouldn’t be able to live a domestic lifestyle, even with you by his side, because the fire that had carried him so far still burned in his soul, and any semblance of peace would be destroyed by it.
And you — you deserved someone steady, someone clean, someone safe. He couldn’t ask you to build a life beside someone whose hands were never entirely free of blood, whose nights were always shadowed by violence waiting around the corner, whose safety was always a question of who he trusted, who he surrounded himself with, and the power and luck he had on his side. You didn’t deserve the gunshots ringing through the town, the slashes of knives, and the barbaric deaths that defined life in Lyari, and he would never be able to forgive himself if he chose to keep you in a violent hell that could kill you.
Slowly, the softness in his eyes settled into something quieter, more resolute. Loving you, he realised, meant wanting you far away from all of it — the violence, the bloodshed , the wars that flared and swallowed people whole. He would rather carry your absence than spend every waking minute fearing a call, a scream, your name tied to something irreversible. You staying with him would mean living inside that fear forever, and he couldn’t bear that thought. If his love meant anything, it was this — letting you go where you would be safe, where your life wouldn’t be measured in risks and funerals, even if it left him standing alone, loving you from a world you no longer had to survive.
You saw how his face changed, and your voice faltered again, sobs threatening to rip through your throat. Your voice was hoarse now — and you just knew he had resigned himself to your fates. You saw how the hope and excitement in his eyes had given way to something you couldn’t name — love, sadness, devotion, despair — but you knew, and he knew, that your story was writing its last chapter.
“Aise mat dekho mujhe,” you attempted to joke, playfully hitting him on his arm, where your fingers instinctively curled to feel him again, possibly for the last time. “Lyari ka sher-e-baloch biwi ke bina nahi ho sakta.” Your voice cracked. “Ek din teri bhi nikaah hogi.”
His eyes widened, as if he hadn’t even considered that he would get married someday too. But you saw his jaw clenching, and when he raised his eyes to look at you again, there was a resolve in his eyes you hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t like he had decided something that minute, not that he had mulled over his decision, but there was a finality in it, like he was finally telling you a truth that had sat in his heart for a very long time.
“Agar main nikaah kar bhi lu,” he muttered shakily, like he was suppressing a sob as he said it, “toh voh meri biwi hogi, meri haveli ki malkin hogi, meri bacchon ki ma hogi…”
He paused, eyes shining with tears as they stayed fixed on you.
“Par mere dil pe hamesha tumhara haq hi rahega.”
The words settled between you, like something sacred had just been placed in the space between your hearts. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You simply looked at him, almost like you could feel your heart breaking with every second that passed, as his words echoed quietly in your mind, each one leaving behind something that felt deeper than mere grief — something final, something that neither of you could undo.
And then, the sky began to weep.
Within seconds, the clouds opened, and the rain began to pour, drenching you both where you stood. The air shifted instantly, the scent of wet earth rising around you, the world blurring at the edges as the downpour thickened.
Both of you were rooted to your spots.
It was the same rain. The same suddenness. The same downpour before everything changed.
Last year, he had stood in front of you just like this, rain soaking through his shirt, his voice shaking as he had finally confessed what he had been carrying for months. You had kissed him for the first time then, heart racing, the rain hiding the tears you hadn’t realised had slipped free.
Now, the rain fell again — not as a beginning, but an ending.
Water clung to his lashes, ran down the sharp line of his jaw, darkening his shirt until it clung to him. Your kurti grew heavy against your skin, the cold seeping in slowly, but neither of you seemed to notice. You just stood there, soaked and silent, like the rain had carved out a small world for the two of you one last time.
You couldn’t tell who moved first, but before you knew it, both of you were standing a hair’s breadth apart again. It was a strange sense of deja vu, the same scene as it was last year, the same red eyes from the tears streaming down your faces, but this time, they were of sadness, of despair, of love, and of mourning the life you could’ve had had circumstances been slightly more different. Had he not been a gangster. Had religious differences not existed. Had you not been too weak to defy your family. Had both of you been older. Had both of you been wiser.
His hands shakily cupped your cheeks, his thumbs barely brushing your skin as his eyes moved slowly across your face, as if he was trying to memorise every part of you before you slipped away from him. Your hands clutched his wrists — like they would provide some sort of twisted comfort — as you mentally captured the furrow of his brows, the hazel and gold flecks swimming in his reddened eyes, the slightly crooked nose that had interrupted your first kisses, the cheeks you had slapped playfully too many times, the faint scar near his jaw you had once traced absentmindedly while he pretended not to notice.
The rain clung to his lashes, making them heavier, droplets sliding down the familiar lines of his face, and you found yourself staring harder, wishing you could hold onto him just by remembering enough. His breath trembled against your lips, the warmth of him cutting through the cold rain, your own heartbeat loud enough to drown out everything else.
Your body betrayed you, leaning forward instinctively, drawn by habit, by love, by the countless times you had closed this distance without thinking.
Then something inside you tightened.
He wasn’t yours anymore.
You weren’t his anymore.
You were promised to someone else.
Your fingers curled more firmly around his wrists — and then loosened.
You pulled back.
Rehman noticed, he always did, and his hands slipped slowly from your face, falling uselessly to his sides. The hurt that crossed his face was devastating, his expression crumpling just slightly, like something inside him had finally given way, to a deep, aching understanding that you knew all too well.
The distance between you felt unbearable now, wider than the few inches that separated your bodies. Rain streamed down his face, mingling with the redness in his eyes, and for a moment, he looked so heartbreakingly vulnerable that your knees almost gave way. You wanted to drop in front of him, to hold onto him, to beg for forgiveness for something you hadn’t chosen, for a future you hadn’t agreed to, for a pain you were both being forced to carry.
But you stayed where you were, your fingers curling into your palms instead, as the rain fell harder between you, and the silence grew heavier than anything either of you had said.
Then, as if by instinct, your hand rose to your ear.
You were wearing your maroon kurti again, a choice you had made to celebrate your anniversary before the news of your marriage was broken to you. In hindsight, that choice was pure poetry; what was present at the beginning was also present at the ending.
But what made this even worse was the fact that you were wearing those jhumkas.
The ones you had worn when he first saw you. The ones you had worn when you walked down the steps of the Saraswati mandir, clutching your prasad as Geeta laughed about Lalita’s upcoming wedding. They had been there at the start of everything — him finding excuses to pass by, conversations that stretched longer than intended, friendship softening into something deeper, and finally, the love that neither of you had been able to hold back.
Your fingers trembled.
Slowly, carefully, you slid the fallen one out — the one with the tiny red beads at the bottom, the slightly misshapen hook that had once slipped free, the one he had kept for a month before finally returning it to you, his fingers lingering just a second too long when he had placed it back in your palm.
You didn’t look at him as you took his hand, your movements quiet, reverent. His palm opened instinctively beneath yours, warm despite the rain.
And you pressed the jhumka into his hand.
He looked at it, a single tear falling onto the silver dome. A red blur fell into the water to his right, the force of the rain pushing it between your bodies for a split second before it was carried away, but he didn’t register it, his attention solely focused on the jhumka in his hand, what was soon to be the only tangible reminder he had of your existence before you left him for good.
He raised his eyes to meet yours once again, water dripping from your hairline, a droplet gliding along your nose which you had recently adorned with a small nosering, passing just shy of the birthmark above your lip which he had kissed so many times.
“Chhod du ghar?”
His voice was rough, like the words had scraped their way out of his throat, leaving bruises in their wake.
A faint smile tugged at your lips for just a second, the devastation in them quiet yet obvious to his eyes. You shook your head lightly.
“Nahi, rickshaw le loongi.”
He simply nodded.
You turned before your resolve could crumble, picking up the grocery bag you had discarded. Your steps were slow at first, then steadier as you forced yourself forward. The rain had grown heavier now, soaking through your clothes, tears blurring your vision, your hair clinging to your face, but you barely noticed. Your body felt tightly held together, like if you loosened even slightly, everything inside you would spill out onto the wet road behind you.
You didn’t look back.
And Rehman stayed rooted to his spot, watching you disappear into the rain, only slipping the jhumka into his pocket when you turned the corner—
Far enough that even blind hope had no reason left to linger.
~~~~~
Many years later…
“ABBU!”
Rehman looked up from where he stood near the doorway, watching Naieem run toward him, his slippers slapping unevenly against the dust on the verandah.
Rehman smiled, reaching into his pocket as he turned, searching for his lighter, his fingers brushing past something cool, curved and slightly sharp before closing around the familiar metal. He pulled it out absentmindedly, lighting his cigarette as he listened to his son’s words, nodding while Ulfat quietly chuckled from the sofa.
“Haan? Uzair chachu ke room mein bhoot hai?”
Naieem nodded urgently, already pulling his father’s hand towards the first floor with the intent only a four year old could muster.
Rehman followed.
And the faint jingle in his pocket became silent once again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
a/n: to everyone who read and interacted with Kalank, thank you, from the bottom of my heart. This is the first multi-part fic I have ever written, and it was your likes, comments and interaction that kept me going. I cannot thank you all enough. Thank you, thank you, thank you, I love you guys so much <33 Tags: @shadylovedhurandhar @layinglowkey @dumbestchaos @kisswithknife @rini4everdreaming @goodnightkatherine @tanipartner @cloudmast @ossiespinsladen @gulaabjamun08 @fakestraykidz @humsafarhumhihai @jkdaddy01 @leftmakerpaperpie @mrgrungusthefrog @quillbyana
