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I like mornings. They are predictable. Every day, I wake up and see the sun rising at the same angle through my window. The sunlight feels like a gentle hug.

I make breakfast exactly the same way every day. Routine is comforting. Today, Murtasim sits at the table. He looks serious, as usual. I notice the way his hair falls on his forehead and how he always wears dark clothes. Dark colors suit him; they make him look strong.

I place his cup of tea in front of him. "Tea is ready," I say. His eyes soften for a moment. I think he appreciates it, even if he doesn't say it out loud.

The garden is my favourite place. The colours and patterns of the flowers calm my mind. I sit on the bench, feeling the texture of the wood under my fingers. Each groove and line is familiar to me.

Murtasim joins me. He doesn't sit too close but close enough. He is like a shadow - always there but not overwhelming. I feel safe when he is near, even if he doesn't talk much.

"Maheer itni pyaari hai phir uske Abbu aise kyun?"

Murtasim's eyes flicker with a mix of emotions. He is trying to read my face, perhaps wondering if I am questioning his feelings for Maheer. I know Maheer means a lot to him, just like the roses that can shift my world with their beauty and scent. Maheer is soft, with an angelic nature. Murtasim has always been drawn to her, perhaps because she is everything his mother is not. Where his mother is harsh and critical, Maheer is gentle and supportive. He admires her; he is attracted to her. Were his feelings involved? Yes, they were.

"Shayad uski Ammi pyaari hongi," I answer my own question, offering a simple explanation.We are sitting in the garden again. Murtasim is wearing his baby blue shirt with a blue coat on top, his 'to impress' outfit. He has had other crushes before Maheer, but he was always too introverted and proud to express his feelings.

"Bashar Uncle ne humein 1 crore aur honeymoon ke paise kyun diye?" I ask suddenly. Murtasim's head turns swiftly towards me. It's a question that has been bothering me, and it seems it bothers him, too. Why was Bashar Uncle so generous?

"Tumhe bura nahi lagta ki humari shaadi itni zor zabardasti ki?" Murtasim asks, shifting the topic.I think for a moment, my mind processing his question.

"Hmm," I finally say. "Shuru mai laga tha magar, fir socha itna haseen shauhar mila hai..." It's true. At first, the forced marriage was painful, but Murtasim turned out to be a good husband. The pain of the past is fading.

"Accha ji, shauhar ke baarey mai kya accha lagta hai?" he asks, his tone teasing.I smile and move closer, as if sharing a secret. "Ammi kehti hai shauharon ki zyaada taarif nahi kartey warna woh sar pe chadh jaatey."

"Aur agar shauhar biwiyon ki taarif karte hai toh?" Murtasim questions, his eyes twinkling.

"Karte hai kya? Maine kabhi nahi dekha. Chai mai shakkar kam hai, dal mai namak kam hai, sharbat mai nimbu zyaada hai, roh afza mai roh afza nahi hai..." I start, listing all the things my father would say to my mother.

Murtasim listens, amused, as I go on like a radio, animatedly recounting how my father would always find something to complain about.I laugh as I tell him how I would sometimes take advantage of my parents' fights to steal my father's food. "Mujhe laga aapko parantha nahi accha laga," I would say innocently, and my mother would always save me.

Murtasim takes my hand in his, and I pause, feeling the familiar comfort of his touch. It's different from other times. I think back to when people had freaked me out before. In school, there was a guy who wanted to marry me. When he and his family came for the rishta, I mistakenly spilt tea on his mother's lap.

He held my hand to reassure me, and I felt a disgusting crawling sensation inside, like a thousand tiny insects. I wanted to pull away, but I couldn't move. But when Murtasim holds my hand, I feel safe. I feel like I am back in my childhood when everything was good. I remember us sitting on the mango trees, swaying our legs. I would rest my head slowly on his shoulder as his arm casually rested on mine. We would watch the garden outside, listening to the night birds. Murtasim would tell me random facts, and I would insist on seeing the khet.

"Please, Murtasim," I would say, using the same trick that had always worked on him since we were kids. I'd give him an innocent, pouty look, my eyes wide and pleading. It never worked on my mother, but with Murtasim, it was like magic. His heart would melt, and he would softly flick my chin, hiding his smile as he looked away.

"Okay, okay, let's go see the khet," he would concede, and I would see his dimple, a small indentation that fascinated me. I had the urge to poke it, to see how deep it went.One time, I couldn't resist. I raised my finger towards his cheek.

"Kya kar rahi?" he asked, his tone playful. Before I could place my finger on his dimple, he intercepted it, lightly gripping my hand.

"Why are you bringing your finger to my mouth?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.I shrugged, smiling. "I want to see how deep your dimple is," I admitted, unabashed.He gave me a side glance, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"You're strange," he said, but there was no malice in his voice, only affection.Now, as I sit beside him, holding his hand, I feel that same comfort. His presence makes the world less chaotic, and his touch is a reminder of the stability I crave.

I glance at him, taking in his serious expression, the way his hair falls just so on his forehead, the dark clothes that make him look so pretty.

I like pretty people, but most of all, I like Murtasim.

The cloud thunders and Murtasim tried to stand up, but I pulled him down, shaking my head. It starts raining heavily. I love the sound of rain. Each drop is like a tiny, rhythmic song.

Murtasim looks at me and then the rain. "Do you want to dance with me?" he asks. His questions are always straightforward. I like that.

I nod eagerly. We stand up, and the rain kisses my skin. I laugh, feeling the water trickle down my face. Murtasim stands beside me, getting wet, too. He doesn't laugh, but his eyes are softer, almost smiling.

I take his hand. It's a bold move for me, but the rain gives me courage. His hand is warm and strong. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he holds my hand a little tighter.

We stand in the rain, and for a moment, everything else fades away. I take a deep breath, feeling the cool drops on my skin, and look up at Murtasim. There's a softness in his eyes, a rare glimpse of the boy I knew, free from the burdens he often carries.

"Let's jump in the puddles," I suggest. He grins, a boyish smile that makes him look years younger. We find the biggest puddle and jump, the water splashing around us, soaking our clothes. I laugh, a sound I don't hear often from myself, and it feels free.

Murtasim takes my hands and twirls me around, lifting me off the ground just like in the movies. I gasped in surprise and delight, feeling the rain against my face, the world spinning around us. His strong arms hold me securely, and I feel weightless, like a child again.

He sets me down gently, our eyes meeting. For a moment, everything is perfect. His eyes twinkle with unabashed happiness, reflecting my own joy. It's a rare sight to see him like this, his guard down, allowing himself to simply be in the moment.

We lay down on the wet grass, our heads touching, legs stretched out in opposite directions. Our hands remain entwined. I start breaking weeds absentmindedly, my fingers finding comfort in the repetitive motion as I stare up at the grey sky.

I glance sideways at Murtasim, taking in his features. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, rain droplets clinging to his lashes. His face is strong, yet gentle, a paradox that makes him so uniquely him. The lines of worry and responsibility that usually crease his forehead are smoothed out, replaced with a rare peace.

"Murtasim, you look happy," I say softly, more to myself than to him.

He turns his head slightly to meet my gaze, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I am, Mahjabeen. With you, I am."

His words make my heart flutter. I think about how he's always been there, a constant in my unpredictable world. His patience with my quirks, his understanding of my need for routine, and his unwavering support all make me feel seen and accepted.

The rain continues to fall, but it doesn't bother us. In this moment, lying on the grass, I feel more connected to him than ever. I continue to break the weeds, feeling their textures and shapes, and I think about how Murtasim has always been a part of my life.

He's my anchor in a world that often feels overwhelming. His calm presence and steady hand guide me through the chaos. I glance at our entwined hands, feeling the warmth of his touch despite the chill of the rain.

I look at him, my eyes meeting his. I see my reflection in his eyes, and for the first time, I feel truly understood. The joy in his eyes mirrors mine, creating a perfect harmony between us.

As we lie there, the rain slowing to a gentle drizzle, I know that this moment will stay with me forever. The grass beneath us, the sky above, and Murtasim beside me - it all feels like a beautiful, vivid dream. Our hands remain clasped.

"Murtasim," I whisper, breaking the silence. "I'm happy too. With you, I am."

"You wanted to know what I like about you? I like us dancing in the rain. I like us holding hands. "

He smiles. "I like that too," he says. In that smile, I see warmth. I see Murtasim, my Murtasim.

"Mahjabeen..." he says my name softly, his face closer to my ear. For a moment, I think he is about to kiss me, but then he backs away and sneezes.

"I think I caught a cold," he says, chuckling.I laugh with him.

The rain, the grass, the gentle touch of his hand - it's all perfect. Even his sneeze.

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