A gentle hum of conversation and the soft chirping of evening birds greeted Murtasim as he stepped into the Khan Haveli. His eyes scanned the living area and he stopped dead in his tracks. Meerab was there – she had arrived only days ago - his camera in her hands, and all of his precious belongings were spread out on the table in front of her. They were scattered remnants of his past, each carrying a weight of unspoken dreams and buried ambitions.

Each item transported him back to a different point in his life, memories he hadn't touched in years. The camera's metallic body, reflecting the dim light of the room, brought a rush of emotions. Every photo he had taken, every dream he had of capturing the world's beauty, flooded back.

The weight of his responsibilities and the sacrifices he made to uphold his family's legacy bore down on him in that instant. His heart ached sharply at the sight of the camera, which once represented all his dreams and passions.

His eyes, usually calm and steady, burned with anger and regret. "Who gave you the right to touch these?" He snapped, his voice dripping with bitterness.

"Murtasim!" Meerab gasped, as if she hadn't heard him approaching. "I... I was just-" Meerab began, her voice faltering as she tried to explain, but he cut her off.

"You can't just go around touching stuff in other people's houses." He growled, overcome with anger at her for bringing back the emotions he had spent so long trying to bury. The sight of his long-abandoned dreams in her hands felt like a direct assault on the walls he had built around his past.

"It's not what -" She started, but he interrupted her again.

"This isn't your house, you're a guest," he continued, his voice raising with every word. "But what can I expect of you? You have no manners; you never did. Apni aukat mein raho. You're a guest, so act like one."

She blinked, seemingly taken aback by his ferocity. The fiery spirit she usually met him with was replaced by disbelief. Her mouth opened and closed, trying to find the words, but nothing came out.

He scooped up his belongings, each item another painful reminder of what once was. The room's dim light glistened on Meerab's moist eyes. In that fleeting moment, Murtasim felt a pang of regret for his words. But the sting of his own buried emotions, now unearthed, overwhelmed his better judgment. As he retreated, a heavy silence enveloped the room, with Meerab's shocked expression a testament to the depth of his outburst.

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The rich wooden door to Murtasim's room vibrated with a sudden knock that broke his chain of thoughts. Opening it, he was met with Maryam's livid gaze. Her brows furrowed, and her nostrils flared - the usual signs of her anger. "You yelled at Meerab?" She accused, her voice laced with a protective fury.

"Not now, Maryam," Murtasim sighed, leaning against the door frame. He was all too familiar with his sister's fondness for Meerab, and her penchant to jump to her defense, Maryam had fought him multiple times in defense of Meerab.

"You misunderstood! She didn't deserve that!" Maryam snapped back, her hands clenched into fists, her eyes sparkling with righteous anger.

He felt a deep pull in his chest, as though a weight had been dropped onto his lungs, making it hard to breathe. Murtasim paused, his hand frozen on the door handle, a chill of doubt running through him. "You took them out?" He asked tentatively, trying to piece the events together.

"We were looking for an old CD, and I found the camera. Maa saw it and wanted it thrown out, even after I told her it was yours so only you had the right to throw it out." Maryam divulged, her voice softer now, but with an unmistakable hint of bitterness.

The familiar burn of betrayal seared Murtasim. His mother had never understood or appreciated his passion for photography. The fact that the camera had remained untouched in the haveli for so long was a miracle in itself. That she would dispose of something so precious to him, however, was not surprising.

"Meerab fought with Maa." Maryam added softly. The revelation hit him like a sledgehammer. "She told her she had no right to throw away stuff you cared about. She insisted she let it be."

Murtasim's eyes darted downward as the full weight of his mistake bore down on him. The anger and hurt he had directed at Meerab, all based on a misunderstanding, gnawed at his conscience. His chest tightened further, and he felt a choking sensation. The seed of regret that had been planted when he saw Meerab's teary eyes bloomed into a whole tree.

He sighed heavily, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the headache forming from the tumult of emotions inside him. The walls of his room seemed to close in, echoing his thoughts: he had indeed, fucked up.

"Maa said the same thing to her that you did. That she was a guest and should act like one. But she stood her ground...for your stuff, Bhai. She didn't need to, but she did. And you yelled at her too." Maryam's voice held a hint of incredulity, her disbelief evident.

The words burned into Murtasim's conscience, echoing over and over, amplifying the pain he felt.

He should've thanked her instead of the misplaced anger that had spewed from him.

"She was just cleaning it," Maryam continued, her voice softer, "and planning to give it to you when you returned home."

The room around him seemed to blur as he took in Maryam's words, processing them.

Murtasim let out a deep exhale, running his fingers through his hair. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath.

He was visualizing her face again - the hurt, the vulnerability, those shimmering tears in her large brown eyes.

His own reflection of that moment was like a lance to his heart, especially realizing the extent to which she had gone for him. The sting of regret grew sharper, cutting deeper.

Maryam sighed heavily, her shoulders sagging, and her eyes, moist with unshed tears, bore into him. "I wish she didn't have to come here. Everyone is always so mean to her. You and Maa are always quick to judge her. Haya is always after her for some reason. Anwar-Chachu, the one who insisted she spend her summer here, barely even looks at her. But she's stuck here all summer despite all of it. And she...she tries so hard to appease all of you, she doesn't talk back to Maa, she lingers just so Anwar-Chachu has a chance to talk to her, and she asks before she goes anywhere. She hates that we have to take Bakhtu and the others with us, but she does it because you asked. And despite all of it, everyone just treats her like utter crap."

Murtasim's throat tightened, his breath caught in his chest. He had been so engrossed in his own world, his work, that he hadn't noticed the other currents of tension in the house. It had never struck him how isolated Meerab might be feeling.

"Can you just be a little nicer to her, Bhai?" Maryam's voice was filled with a pleading desperation. "And if you can't...just don't talk to her, please. It'd be better if you ignored her too."

Without waiting for his response, Maryam turned on her heels, her steps heavy, echoing with accusation and hurt. She stomped away, leaving Murtasim alone with his thoughts.

The sheer weight of his guilt pressed down on him. He felt the room grow smaller, the four walls pressing in on him. Murtasim slowly walked over to his bed and fell onto it. His gaze fixed on the ceiling, lost in the maze of patterns, the weight of his regret and guilt swirling inside, consuming him.

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As everyone settled around the dinner table, Murtasim couldn't help but notice the empty chair beside Maryam. Meerab's absence was palpable, the silence surrounding her place deafening. She had never missed a meal, no matter how strained the atmosphere was.

His mother rolled her own dramatically, scoffing. "That girl is such a drama queen."

Meerab's father, seated opposite, simply took another mouthful of his food, seemingly indifferent. It struck Murtasim how disconnected he was from every situation that concerned Meerab. He thought it had been Meerab who was avoiding him, but going by Maryam's words, and the general disinterest that he always seemed to show when Meerab was actually in the Haveli, hinted that it was mostly him.

Maryam's eyes were stormy, betraying her anger and frustration. She filled a plate with food, perhaps in an attempt to mend things, and made her way to Meerab's room. But she returned mere minutes later, the tray of food untouched. "She's not hungry," was all she said, her voice quivering with barely suppressed emotion.

The weight of guilt on Murtasim's shoulders grew heavier. Every tick of the clock felt like an eternity as he tried to muster up the courage to face Meerab. The realization that he owed her an apology gnawed at him, but the weight of pride and the potential confrontation held him back.

After an excruciating hour of self-debate, he finally stood up, the soles of his shoes echoing his dread.

He hesitated outside her door, his heart racing. Taking a deep breath, he knocked softly.

Silence.

The world seemed to come to a standstill as he waited for a response, but nothing came.

Tentatively, he turned the handle, peering into the room.

It was empty. Panic gripped him instantly. The room, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the curtains, felt eerily cold and silent. The sight of the neatly made bed and the absence of Meerab sent a chill down his spine.

Had she left? The very thought sent his heart into a tailspin. Although Meerab had been less impulsive since the previous summer, not leaving without telling someone, it wouldn't be unlike her to make a hasty exit after the day's events. Murtasim's footsteps grew urgent, his voice edged with panic as he called out her name, wandering the hallways and checking each room.

As he caught sight of his own reflection in a mirror as he walked by, his face filled with worry, he wondered why he cared so much. Why did the thought of her leaving unsettle him to his core? Each step he took was laden with anxiety, the weight of regret, and the burgeoning realization that he cared about Meerab far more than he would ever allow himself to admit – that the sight of her tears and sadness unsettled something inside him.

The breeze that drifted through the terrace was cool, a stark contrast to the heat that emanated from the depths of Murtasim's tormented heart as he stepped outside. That's where he found her – Meerab. Wrapped up in a blanket, the fierce girl he'd grown accustomed to seemed lost, diminished. The lights from the garden below bathed her silhouette in a dim glow, the distant stars mirroring the tears that stained her cheeks. The image felt surreal, a juxtaposition of strength and vulnerability that he had never witnessed in her before.

Hearing the soft shuffle of his footsteps, Meerab's hands swiftly moved to her face, wiping away any remnants of her tears, her pride evident even in her vulnerable state.

Murtasim's heart ached, her emotions echoing in the chambers of his soul.

How did this woman manage to affect him so profoundly? He had mastered the art of indifference, but with her, it felt like an impossible task.

Hesitating for just a moment, Murtasim took a deep breath and slowly made his way towards the bench where she sat. The clicking of his shoes on the concrete seemed loud in the silence, but he continued, sitting down beside her. Their proximity created an electric charge in the air, two opposing forces trying to find common ground.

Meerab's eyes, previously fixed on the distant horizon, now darted away, refusing to meet his. The tension between them was palpable. "Leave." She managed to snap, her voice hoarse and strained from the weight of suppressed emotions.

"Are you crying?" He found himself asking, unable to keep the concern out of his voice. The fiery Meerab he knew would shout, argue, challenge him. This subdued version was unfamiliar, unsettling.

"Roye mere dushman." She retorted sharply, trying to regain some of her usual spirit. But even her feisty response lacked the usual bite. Murtasim sensed that beneath her defiant facade, a storm of emotions raged, threatening to drown them both.

Murtasim looked at her silhouette, the soft moonlight playing on her face, making her seem even more ethereal and out of reach. He felt a tightness in his chest, a mixture of guilt and a strange protectiveness towards her.

"I am sorry, I overreacted, I didn't know..." He began, the words heavy in his mouth, the weight of his remorse threatening to crush him.

She shrugged, a gesture that lacked her usual defiance. "I am used to it now," she whispered, her voice carrying the weight of unshed tears, "everyone seems to have the right to say whatever they want to me now."

Murtasim felt a pang of guilt. He had only ever heard her sounding like a lively and fiery person, but now, she sounded so small, so broken. Her words painted a picture of a bird with clipped wings, struggling to find her place. The once roaring flame that was her spirit seemed to have been doused, leaving behind a smoldering ember.

"I really shouldn't have said all of that..." Murtasim started, regret making his voice tremble. He fumbled for the right words, trying to make her understand, "I just - when I get angry, I say a lot of things I don't mean and-"

"You're right though." Meerab cut in, her voice devoid of emotion.

The resignation in her tone caught him off guard. As did her words. He never thought she'd say those words to him in that order.

"You said nothing wrong. This isn't my house. I am a guest." She let out a weary sigh, her breath white in the cool night air. "I don't belong in this house or in the house that I always thought was mine. Every summer, I beg not to come here, but I am told that this is my house and I need to accept that, that my father lives here. That the house I grew up in isn't mine, and here...this house isn't mine either." She sighed again, whispering the next part more to herself than to him. "It turns out that perhaps I don't really have a place in this world."

The raw honesty in her words made Murtasim's heart ache. He remembered the first summer she had come to the Khan Haveli, trying to navigate the complexities of a truth she couldn't quite come to terms with. It was hard truth to reconcile, he couldn't imagine being told on his 18th birthday that everything he knew was a lie. Yet, he had believed that with time, Meerab had found her footing and made peace with her place in the two worlds she straddled. But tonight, her words tore open old wounds, revealing that the pain still lingered.

"This house is yours just as much as it is mine - you own half of it - " Murtasim said, trying to convey a sense of belonging.

She let out a bitter laugh, one that sent chills down his spine. It wasn't the merry sound he had come to associate with her, one he only heard from a distance. "I might be inheriting half this land, but that doesn't mean this house is mine." Meerab responded, her voice dripping with disdain. "You don't need to pretend otherwise."

He sighed, feeling a pressure build in his chest, weighing him down. Comfort wasn't his forte, words often evading him when he needed them the most. A couple of years ago, he would have told her to just suck it up and look at the positives, but that seemed unfair. "I really am sorry... and thank you." He whispered, the admission coming out more vulnerable than he had intended.

She hummed softly in response. "Maryam told you then, that's why you're here." She deduced, her voice barely above a whisper.

Murtasim's heart sank as a realization hit him hard. Had Maryam not told him, would he have made the effort to seek her out? He hadn't even known all that Maryam told him happened in his absence. He had been ignorant, especially today, for being blinded by his own feelings to see her pain. "I didn't know." He admitted, the regret evident in his voice.

"You never stop to listen, at least not to me," Meerab muttered, her voice filled with years of pent-up frustration. "But it's okay, it's not like I listen to you either...mostly."

The words stung. He had always prided himself on being understanding, but he guessed it wasn't the case when it came to her. He rarely made the effort to hear her out, to understand her perspective, something he constantly accused her of. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and Murtasim felt a growing lump in his throat. He knew she was right, and it tore him apart.

"Seriously, thank you. Those things mean a lot to me." Murtasim tried to convey his gratitude once more, his voice filled with sincerity.

"They were really dusty and not taken care of, for something that means a lot to you." Meerab observed. The absence of her usual sass made her words feel distant, and it pierced through him. He hated the fact that he was the reason she was suppressing her usual fiery spirit.

Taking a deep breath, he opened up, a vulnerability surfacing. "It hurt to look at them for a while." He admitted, his voice cracking slightly. He never shared this with anyone, but something about the rawness of the night, the emotion hanging in the air between them, made him confess.

Meerab tilted her head, humming in curiosity, inviting him to elaborate as she looked over at him, her eyes were red like her nose and cheeks, she had really been crying.

"I didn't want any of this – to be a feudal lord." Murtasim confessed, looking into her eyes, finding it hard to look away. "I wanted to be a photographer."

Her eyebrows rose in surprise, a glint of mischief returning to her eyes, bringing the missing warmth back. "I can't imagine you at weddings taking pictures, you'd kill the vibe." She teased, her voice lightening a little.

Murtasim rolled his eyes, but the edges of his lips curled upward, relieved that she was beginning to sound like herself again. "A wildlife photographer." He clarified, pride evident in his voice.

"Ah," she nodded, a smirk forming on her lips, "makes sense that you'd want to take pictures of aggressive animals. You'd fit right in." The playful jibe was reminiscent of their usual banter.

Murtasim bit his cheek to stop himself from laughing outright. She was right; the comment was amusing. Instead, he feigned annoyance. "You always have something to say, don't you?" He sighed in mock frustration, feeling the weight of the night slowly lifting from their shoulders.

She tilted her head slightly, looking at him, her eyes reflecting the soft glow of the moonlight. "So what, you weren't allowed to be a photographer?"

Murtasim hesitated for a moment, the memory weighing heavily on his shoulders. "I came to tell my dad I wanted to be a photographer," he began, his voice heavy with emotion, "but he was on his deathbed and entrusted all of this to me. I felt trapped, like I had no other choice."

She frowned, puzzled. "You could have said no." She pointed out, a hint of defiance in her voice, he knew she would have said no if she was in his place, and she would have gotten what she wanted too, because she always seemed to.

He met her gaze, the intensity of her eyes drawing him in. "And then what would have happened to all of this, and my family?" He countered, a hint of desperation in his voice.

She hummed thoughtfully, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "My father didn't step in?" She asked softly.

"Your father..." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "He's been absent for most of his life. At first, I didn't understand why. But when I found out about you, I realized he probably couldn't handle the grief of losing his wife."

She let out a sad laugh, her voice filled with bitterness. "Seems like he's the absent sort then. At least he loved his wife." She sighed, the weight of her words lingering between them.

Murtasim had a soft spot for his uncle and found himself defending the man. "He's not a bad man, Meerab. After my father's death, he did help me in those initial years. He came back." He remembered how Anwar had taken him under his wing, teaching him about the responsibilities that lay ahead, shouldering some of the burden he hadn't been able to carry at first.

She nodded, swallowing hard, tears shimmering in her eyes. "To you, maybe. He accepted you. But he deserted me. And now, even though I'm here all summer, he never really makes it a point to spend time with me."

She sighed, a quiet sound that pierced his heart. Then, in a voice so low, it was barely audible, she whispered, "So I often wonder why I'm sent here - from one place that doesn't want me to another."

Murtasim felt a pang of guilt hearing her words, realizing the depth of her loneliness. He couldn't begin to imagine the sense of abandonment she felt, and he figured that his family didn't help with it.

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Murtasim didn't want to admit it, but a persistent niggle of unease had lodged itself in his chest. He didn't understand why Meerab's sadness affected him so much. A discomforting undercurrent ran through the haveli, and he felt its ripples every time he spotted her.

There was an undeniable change in her demeanor. Gone were the days when she was the epicenter of chaos, where her energy filled rooms, and her voice echoed with laughter. Now, she moved like a wraith - quietly, unobtrusively, as if she didn't want to disturb the very air she breathed.

He caught himself observing her wardrobe, a detail he had never paid attention to before. Every day, like clockwork, Meerab chose to wear a long-sleeved kurta of muted hues. The vibrant palette that she once wore seemed to have been replaced by a sea of grays and beiges.

Her once untamed hair, which flew around her face, adding to her aura of wild freedom, was now neatly confined in a tight ponytail. It felt like she was holding a piece of her essence captive, and Murtasim found himself missing the Meerab with her hair flying behind her as she stomped away from him.

Bakhtu, on his order, approached Meerab each day, asking if she wanted to venture out. But she always declined, her voice barely audible, her eyes distant. Murtasim wondered what held her back.

Her indifference was even more puzzling. She treated him like he was invisible, not even sparing him a glance, let alone their usual heated banter. The piercing glares, the fire in her eyes, all seemed to have vanished, leaving in their place an unsettling emptiness.

It wasn't just him. Meerab seemed to be distancing herself from everyone. When his mother addressed her, all she received in response was a vacant stare rather than the defiance and quips that usually coloured their conversations. It was as if Meerab was present in body but not in spirit. The way she would look at her ringing phone, gaze fixated on the screen displaying her parents' number, and then look away, made him wonder what storm raged inside her.

Even Maryam, who had always been her closest confidante in the haveli, failed to penetrate this wall of silence. She tried, time and again, to draw Meerab out, but to no avail. Meerab would just sit in a corner, seemingly engrossed in a book. But Murtasim noticed how her eyes didn't move, how the pages didn't turn, and how sometimes, her gaze would get stuck on a particular word, lost in thought.

On occasions when he would linger, perhaps longer than he should have, she'd sense his presence and promptly leave the room. It wasn't the Meerab he knew, who would have met his stare, challenged him, or even engaged in a heated exchange.

The halls of the haveli echoed with silence, the air thick with tension, and Murtasim found himself trapped in the whirlwind of his own thoughts, struggling to decipher the maelstrom of emotions that Meerab evoked in him.

His concern reached a new height when Maryam, in her characteristic soft voice, had whispered her concerns. She had wondered if Meerab was clinically depressed. The gravity of her words had made Murtasim's heart sink. This was Meerab they were talking about – fiery, passionate, vibrant Meerab. The idea of her drowning in the depths of depression seemed unfathomable.

His mother's response hadn't helped. She had nonchalantly rolled her eyes, commenting, "Why doesn't she just stop being sad then?"

At that moment, a weight settled in Murtasim's chest, making it hard for him to breathe, for he would have said the same thing to her too. But Maryam's biting words about how depression wasn't just being sad had wormed into his brain, and he found himself leafing through various articles and books on the subject, far removed from the usual drab management reads he immersed himself in. The newfound knowledge weighed heavy on his heart, making him look at Meerab's behavior through a different lens.

The stark change in Meerab was unsettling. Murtasim hated how much it bothered him. Every time he saw her, a pang of longing hit him. He yearned for the old Meerab. The one who would challenge him at every step, who would argue, stomp her foot, and demand things. He missed the spirited debates, the fiery exchanges, the constant banter that kept the haveli alive.

Yet, all he got now was silence.

There was no more fighting, no talking back, no impromptu demands to go places, no stomping around claiming boredom. The haveli seemed to echo the void she left behind, making the walls seem colder, the rooms emptier.

Murtasim felt trapped in a paradox. He yearned for the very things he had once loathed. The silence around him was deafening, and he longed to break it, to reach out, to bring back the spark in Meerab's eyes. But how? How did he bridge a chasm that seemed to grow with every passing day?

As he walked through the dimly lit corridors of the haveli, lost in his thoughts, he couldn't shake off the gnawing feeling that something needed to be done. And he had to be the one to do it.

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The sunlight streamed through the ornate windowpanes, painting golden patches on the long wooden dining table, which was adorned with a lavish spread. As Murtasim entered the room, he found his mother seated at the head of the table. She was in deep conversation with Maryam, her eyes occasionally darting towards Meerab with a mix of concern and curiosity.

Clearing his throat to draw attention, he began, "Maa, I've been thinking. It might be a good idea for Maryam and Meerab to accompany me to the wedding in the village this week. The whole village is buzzing with excitement. The daughter of one of our oldest tenants is getting married, and it's been some time since there was any festivity there."

Maa Begum frowned, her eyebrows knitting together in hesitation. "I'm not sure, beta. Is it really appropriate for them to attend?"

Murtasim looked at Meerab, catching a brief moment where her blank eyes seemed to flicker with a hint of curiosity. He turned back to his mother with determination. "It might be a good change of pace for...them." For Meerab really. "The vibrancy of a village wedding might lift their spirits."

Maryam's face lit up at the mention, her excitement evident. "Oh! I've already got a couple of outfits in mind! Meerab and I can wear matching dresses! You can borrow mine, I know you didn't bring many. Bhai! Can we go shopping too? Wait, there's no time for that – I'll just call the designer from last time and have her send stuff, okay?" She gushed.

He nodded, his eyes on Meerab but she said nothing.

Maa Begum sighed, her eyes softening as she looked at Meerab, who had gone back to staring at her plate. She looked into Murtasim's earnest eyes for a moment, then slowly nodded. "Alright. But promise me you'll take care of them."

Murtasim smiled, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. "I promise, Maa."

As they continued with their meal, Murtasim watched Meerab, for a sign that she was excited...that she wanted to go. But he got nothing.

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The afternoon sun slanted across the stone corridors of Khan Haveli, casting elongated shadows on the walls. Murtasim ambled slowly, intentionally lingering outside the rooms of Meerab and Maryam. His heart pounded in a rhythm of anxious anticipation, a strange feeling he wasn't used to. Would she come to the wedding? The very idea that Meerab might decline gnawed at him.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't hear the door open or the soft footsteps approaching. Suddenly, a swift motion had him colliding into someone. It was Meerab. The faint scent of roses wafted up from her, she had changed her perfume.

She stood there, clutching an empty suitcase, her usually defiant eyes now seemingly distant, making him question if he should say something.

All she did was raise an eyebrow, her silent query evident. Gone were the sharp retorts and cutting remarks he had grown accustomed to, and, oddly, had come to miss. He wanted her to react, to show some spark of the old Meerab.

Choosing his words carefully to provoke a reaction, he commented. "Pack light, I am not lifting your bags."

For a moment, the corridor remained silent, then her eyes flared with a familiar fire.

"And please don't bring jeans, it's a village, you'll scandalize them."

She glared at him, the intensity in her gaze unmistakable.

Murtasim's heart skipped a beat, taken aback by the sheer ferocity of her stare. He had...missed those eyes. That anger, that passion—it suited her, painting her in a fierce and wild aura.

"Oh, and definitely not those pajamas you're fond of." He couldn't help but add, remembering her fondness for shorts.

With every fiery glare, she seemed to transform into someone ethereal, transcending the ordinary. Those chocolate brown eyes, once dull and distant, now appeared almost luminous, igniting the air around them.

A pang of realization hit him. How long had it been since he had seen that spark in her?

That spark that made her uniquely Meerab, vibrant and full of life. The spark he had tired to put out himself many times. Why had it bothered him so much when he should have rejoiced?

Had she always been this pretty?

He had grown so accustomed to that dullness, that lifeless void, that seeing her so animated now was both jarring and exhilarating. It was like watching the first rain after a long drought, both surprising and desperately awaited. "I don't know why you're always so concerned with what I wear! What are you, the sexist fashion police?!" She snapped, her nose flaring as she spoke.

She looked so... beautiful, so enchanting, almost otherworldly.

And in that moment, Murtasim realized just how much he had missed that side of her.

He just shrugged. As he turned to walk away, she stomped away into her room, a smirk curled on his lips. It was a small victory, but he would take it. The old Meerab wasn't gone, not entirely.

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The rhythmic steps of Maryam echoed through the hall, pulling Murtasim's gaze momentarily towards the top of the staircase. But his attention was immediately hijacked by the figure a few steps behind her. Meerab, usually dressed in western attire, now adorned an ethnic outfit—a red suit that draped her silhouette perfectly, accentuating her curves and the graceful way she moved. The fabric shimmered subtly with every step she took, making her appear like a celestial being.

His heartbeat surged.

He hadn't realized how entrancing Meerab could look...even when she wasn't angry.

Her hair, which was always so straight and neatly tied up this summer, cascaded down her shoulders in soft curls, framing her face beautifully. Had it always been that lustrous? The curls added a touch of maturity to her appearance, transforming her from the girl he once knew into a mesmerizing woman.

A sudden gasp broke his trance. Maryam, in her overwhelming excitement, had misstepped and was now precariously tipping over. Instinctively, he should've lunged forward to catch her, but his body was frozen, his eyes still fixated on Meerab. It was as if the world had slowed down, every second elongated, stretching the moments of his stupefaction.

"Maryam!" Meerab gasped, reaching for her, but it was too late.

Maryam's ankle twisted as she tried regaining her balance, and she crumpled down with a soft thud, her yelp of pain finally snapping Murtasim out of his daze.

Murtasim's heart raced, and for a brief second, he felt like he couldn't breathe. The rush of panic was so sudden that it took him a moment to react. Thankfully, Meerab's reflexes were swift, and she partially caught Maryam keeping her from rolling down the stairs.

However, despite Meerab's quick response, it was evident that Maryam's ankle had suffered by the way she was holding it and the tears in her eyes.

Murtasim immediately stepped forward, his concern for Maryam overshadowing every other thought. Scooping her up into his arms, he began to make his way to the couch, even as Maryam protested. "Bhai, it's just a twist! I'm fine!"

Murtasim's eyes darted over Maryam's ankle, concern pooling deep within him. The familiar walls of their lavish living room seemed to constrict as he set her down on the plush couch, examining her foot closely, it wasn't swollen yet, he knew that would come later but it looked oddly bent.

"We need to get some ice on that." He murmured, his voice gravelly. His usually calm exterior betrayed signs of worry. "Feena, ice!" He commanded, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room. The maid, who had been a silent spectator at the side, sprang into action immediately.

"Do you think it's broken?" Meerab's voice, soft yet edged with palpable concern, brought him back to the present.

"Nahi, it's just a sprain, trust me." Maryam responded, trying to alleviate Meerab's concerns.

Feena returned promptly, holding a plastic bag filled with ice and a thin towel. The crisp sound of the ice shifting inside the bag echoed in the silence of the room.

Swiftly, Murtasim took the bag and wrapped the towel around it, elevating Maryam's foot and placing the cold pack over the sprain. His fingers brushed against Meerab's as she interjected. "I'll do it."

It was a fleeting touch, but the contact sent an inexplicable jolt through him, like a spark that ignites a hidden pile of kindling. Her fingers were soft, yet firm as they met his, and warm, so incredibly warm, like they carried the last light of the setting sun.

For a moment, Murtasim was disoriented. His eyes had involuntarily moved from the ice pack to her face, and as if magnetized, they stayed there. Her expression was one of genuine concern for Maryam, etched with a level of emotion that he hadn't seen from her in days. Her brows were furrowed, eyes clouded with worry, and her lips pressed into a tight line. The vulnerable openness on her face was like a window to her soul, inviting yet intimidating.

Suddenly, a myriad of confusing feelings washed over him. He was trapped between a sense of relief that she was showing emotion again, and a strange, burgeoning feeling that was new to him, a kind of awareness of Meerab that he had never felt before. He wondered why he found it so difficult to look away, why her fingers felt like they left an imprint on his skin. He found himself wanting to explore this new facet of his emotions, yet the very thought both enticed and scared him.

He shook his head subtly, as if physically shaking off the confusion, but the warmth from the brush of her fingers remained, tingling in his veins.

Clearing his throat, he reached for his phone and called the family doctor. Within what felt like moments, the doctor arrived, his familiar face wearing a look of professional concern. Maryam, despite her situation, managed to throw in her ever-spirited quips about the fuss everyone was making.

His prognosis was a relief, "Just a light sprain." Yet, the advice that followed had Maryam frowning - no travelling, especially not to a wedding.

Maryam's usual vivacious spirit seemed slightly dampened as she protested, but Maa Begum's entrance, coupled with a stern look, silenced her almost instantly.

Meerab's gentle voice filled the void as she comforted Maryam. "It's okay, it's just a wedding, we don't have to go." She carefully adjusted the ice pack and fluffed the pillows around Maryam, ensuring she was as comfortable as possible.

But Maryam was insistent. "You should go. I'll join in a day or two."

The raw emotion in Meerab's eyes struck Murtasim. "I can't leave you like this!" She protested.

Maryam's gaze shifted to Murtasim, her eyes pleading as they flickered between him and Meerab, silently asking him to intervene. The silent plea in her gaze spoke of her worry - not for her own well-being - but for Meerab. He had seen how much the lifelessness that had consumed Meerab lately bothered Maryam.

Taking a brief moment, Murtasim allowed his gaze to drift towards Meerab. The sheer effort she had put into looking presentable to go the village was undeniable. The intricate details of her attire, the beautiful, soft curls cascading around her face - she was a vision of beauty, a stark contrast to the dull, subdued Meerab of the past days. It was as though she had momentarily shed the weight of whatever plagued her. It would be cruel, he mused, to confine such a vision to the shadows of the house. A pang of determination settled within him; he had to make this trip, for both of their sakes.

However, before Murtasim could step in, Maa Begum, with her ever-present ability to sense underlying tension, remarked, "It's not necessary for Meerab to go either."

But determination surged within him. "She can help out." He replied almost instantly, cutting off any chance of rebuttal. Grasping Meerab's suitcase, he addressed Maryam, "Stay off your feet. If you feel better, I'll send the car." His gaze then shifted to Meerab. "We're leaving." His tone was unwavering, putting an end to any further debate.

The click of Murtasim's shoes echoed through the hallway as he quickly walked out towards the polished black Mercedes, Meerab's suitcase in hand. Every brick and stone of the estate seemed to absorb and radiate the day's heat, causing an uncomfortable warmth to permeate the air.

He felt a fleeting sense of triumph as he smoothly opened the trunk, ensuring the suitcase was securely nestled within. As he closed the trunk, he caught the scent of Meerab's perfume. A gentle mix of floral and musk – roses and vanilla? It was faint but unmistakable, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. Turning around, he saw her gracefully making her way to the car, walking past him, the soft glow of the setting sun catching the gleam of her curled hair and making her red suit shimmer with every step.

"I thought you wouldn't carry it." Her voice came, with a soft hint of sarcasm. He saw the quirk of her eyebrow, a hint of amusement playing in her eyes.

A corner of Murtasim's lips turned upwards, a smile tugging at his face. The simple comment, her light tease, had managed to bring a semblance of the old Meerab back, if only for a fleeting moment. In that instance, amidst the warm glow of the setting sun and the gentle symphony of the evening, Murtasim felt a glimmer of hope.

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A/N: Sooooooooooo, what do you think? What was your favourite part?

And most importantly, what do you think will happen next? What trope do you see coming? Hehehehhee.