𖥻﹕𝖥𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖮𝗇𝖾𝗌﹒ຯ - Chapter 12: Chapter 12

The soft hum of voices and the distant clatter of plates stirred Fahmid from his half-sleep. He sat up slowly, rubbing his neck. It was early. It was too early for his parents to be that lively, especially without the smell of breakfast wafting up to his room.
That was odd, he thought, pulling on a hoodie and trudging down the stairs. What greeted him made him pause mid-step.
His parents were both seated at the dining table, hands folded in their laps, waiting patiently—like guests expecting to be served. His father skimmed through the morning newspaper, and his mother smiled softly, almost smugly. Something was off.
He stepped down fully and frowned. "Maa, what's going on? Why are you sitting? Don't you usually make breakfast?"
His mother did not even flinch. With a calm sip of water, she replied, "I have my daughter-in-law now. She's making breakfast today. I'll take over for lunch."
Fahmid blinked. Once. Twice. "Your... what?"
Before the question could fully settle in the air, soft footsteps echoed from the kitchen. And there she was.
Afreen. Wearing a pale yellow cotton kurti, her dupatta tucked neatly at her side, she emerged holding a tray of steaming parathas, egg curry, and fresh fruit. Her hair was loosely tied in a messy bun, a few strands curling at her temples. Her expression was composed, calm, almost rehearsed. Like it was routine. Like she belonged there.
She placed the dishes on the table, her hands careful, precise. She glanced at him once, her gaze unreadable, and then smiled politely as she served his parents. "Here you go, Baba. A little less oil, just like you like it," she said softly.
Hamza chuckled. "And yet you still added just enough to make it taste good. Smart girl."
Afreen smiled, then turned to his mother. "Maa, I made the tea with a pinch of cardamom today. Thought you'd like that."
"Oh, I do," Sabrina beamed. "You know me too well already."
Fahmid's hands tightened at his sides. "Okay," he said slowly, looking between them. "Can someone explain to me what exactly is going on?"
His mother waved her hand dismissively. "Why are you acting so surprised? Afreen has been living here for three years. As your wife."
His stomach dropped. "My what?!"
"Wife," Hamza repeated calmly, as if discussing the weather. "You know, that thing where two people get married, and one of them actually stays behind and takes care of your parents while you're off training and chasing dreams, etc."
"BUT WE AREN'T MARRIED?!" Fahmid's voice rang out across the dining table, sharp and stunned, like a slap against the morning calm. The clatter of cutlery paused—for all but a moment.
Hamza continued chewing nonchalantly, barely looking up from his plate. Sabrina sipped her tea with utmost grace, as if her son had not just dropped a bombshell in the room. Only Afreen flinched slightly, her hands frozen mid-motion as she placed the last bowl of curry on the table.
It was as if his words had dissolved into the steam of the parathas. His mother finally looked up with an amused glint in her eyes, lips twitching at the corners. "Yet," she said, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. "You aren't married to her yet, son."
She even added a playful smirk, like she had just made a witty comment on a soap opera. Hamza chuckled behind his glass of water. "Don't shout early in the morning, Fahmid. People might think you're being forced to eat a homemade breakfast."
Afreen quickly looked down, trying to suppress the color rising to her cheeks.
"I mean, am I the only one who finds this ridiculous?" Fahmid's brows furrowed in disbelief. "She—she's living here, calling herself my wife, and you're just..." he gestured helplessly at the scene, "...eating aloo bhaji like it's a normal Friday?"
His mother gave a small sigh, placing a warm paratha on his plate. "Why waste time being shocked? She's done everything a wife does for three years while you were off training. I'd say she's more wife than most women who've signed a paper."
"Don't say it like that," he muttered, jaw tightening.
"And what should I say then?" Hamza added, voice light but gaze sharp. "That she waited three years under this roof, helped your mother with everything, took care of the house, and looked after your room better than you ever did?"
"She even refilled your cologne bottles," his mother muttered under her breath like a gossiping aunt, pretending to sip her tea again.
"Maa!"
"Oh, please. Like you didn't notice the scent the moment you walked in yesterday."
Fahmid stared, flustered. His eyes flicked to Afreen, who was then quietly setting his glass of water, lips trembling between a smile and an apology she did not voice.
"Sit. Eat. Sulk later," his father said firmly. "And no one gets up until the breakfast is finished."
Afreen did not say anything. She simply poured him a cup of tea and gently pushed the plate of food toward him.
"Eat before it gets cold," she said softly. "I made your favorite... you used to love this, right?"
Fahmid stared at her, then looked at the table, at the familiar dishes, the soft butter glistening on the bread, and the tea poured just the way he liked it. He looked back at her. However, he did not sit.
"You can't just walk back into my life and act like nothing happened," he muttered.
Hamza raised an eyebrow. "Sit. Eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"You are." His father's voice carried that commanding edge Fahmid had not heard in years. "And no one leaves the table until the food is finished."
Reluctantly, he sat. If things were different, he would have smiled. But things were not. And so, he chewed the food like it was laced with memories instead of spices.
The tension in the room crackled like static electricity, but his parents seemed unfazed. They exchanged playful glances while Afreen, ever graceful, continued serving. She even dabbed a bit of extra chutney on his plate like she used to.
"Look at her," his mother said, nudging his father. "She does everything so perfectly. How did we get so lucky, huh?"
"Might be the only smart decision our son ever made," Hamza smirked.
"Oh yes," his mother nodded. "Except he didn't make it. We did."
Fahmid groaned under his breath. "Please, stop."
Afreen looked down, a small smile tugging at her lips. And yet, despite everything—the pain, the unresolved past, the betrayal—he could not deny how his heart fluttered at the way she moved around the table. The way she still remembered how he liked his tea. The way she avoided eye contact, even though he knew she was watching him with the corner of her eye. She was trying. But he could not forget. He did not want to remember.
Later that morning, the clang of the dishes being washed was the only sound that echoed through the quiet house after breakfast. Fahmid leaned against the wall of the hallway, arms crossed, his jaw clenched.
Afreen moved through the house like she belonged—because, somehow, she did. Her dupatta was draped over her shoulder, her hair loosely tied, the gentle clinking of her bangles tapping against time. She moved in and out of the kitchen, wiping the table, smiling at Sabrina, who was lounging on the couch, satisfied and smug.
Hamza folded the newspaper and cleared his throat. "She has her university admission test today. You'll take her."
Fahmid straightened. "Why me? She can go by herself."
"Because I said so," his father replied coolly, not even sparing a glance. "And no daughter-in-law of mine walks alone to something this important."
"Baba-"
"Don't make me repeat myself."
He wanted to argue, but one look at his father's eyes—sharp and final—told him it was not up for debate.
Afreen came out just then, clutching a modest leather file, her eyes flicking nervously between the two men. She wore a simple kurti, minimal makeup, and a hijab wrapped around her face, and yet somehow she looked as radiant as she did back when he used to sneak glances at her during school debates.
She did not say anything. Just offered a soft, unsure smile. "Ready?" He asked, his voice colder than intended. She nodded and followed him out.
The ride to the exam hall was steeped in silence. Fahmid drove with practiced focus, not saying a word, eyes fixed on the road. Afreen sat behind him, holding onto the side handle lightly, occasionally adjusting her grip whenever the bike took a sharp turn or dipped into a pothole.
Three years ago, rides like that were filled with chatter. He would be scolding her for forgetting her admit card, teasing her about getting nervous, and pretending to be annoyed while secretly loving every second of her childlike jitters.
She used to nag him about his messy helmet hair. He used to bring her cotton candy or booster coffee on the way just to calm her nerves.
At present, he did not even look at her. Yet, hanging from the handlebars of his bike, swaying gently with each bump, was a small brown paper bag.
Inside was a flask. Her favorite boost-up coffee, just the way she liked it—extra light, no sugar. He had not said anything. He probably never would. But she noticed. Her heart ached with the bittersweetness of it all, and tears pricked at the corner of her eyes.
Occasional turns forced her hand to his arm or shoulder. Every time the bike jolted slightly over a pothole or slowed abruptly near a signal, her fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie. Her grip on his torso tightened more than necessary—seeking safety, yes, but also perhaps... trying to hold onto something that was already slipping.
Fahmid did not flinch. He did not pull away. But he did not look at her either.
The silence was not empty. It was loud. Laden with all the things left unsaid. With old laughter that echoed between them like ghosts. With warmth that still lingered in his gestures but died in his words.
As they reached the exam hall location, he parked the bike under a shady tree, quite similar to the one where he once waited with balloons on her last school exam day just to surprise her.
Afreen stepped down slowly, her hands holding onto the strap of her file. She lingered near him. Waiting. Hoping. For something. A word. A wish. A glance.
In the past, he would have held her shoulders, looked her in the eye, and said, "You're going to do amazing. You always do. Don't forget cotton candy afterward, okay?"
But Fahmid said nothing. He did not even glance her way as he dusted his sleeves and sat on the bike seat. He just looked ahead.
After a long pause, "Go on," he muttered. "You'll be late."
She nodded slowly, clutching her bag. "Right... okay." She walked inside, her shoulders slumped a little. She gave a small nod, lips pressed into a silent smile of disappointment, and walked away. And Fahmid waited until she disappeared from sight.
She did not see him turn his head once she disappeared into the hall. Did not see the way his eyes followed her until the very last corner swallowed her from view. Then he got back on his bike, drove a few blocks over, and entered the small mosque tucked beside the marketplace.
It was empty and still. He took off his shoes and did his ¹¹*wudu. Then, in the quiet sanctuary, he knelt and he prayed. His knees trembled slightly—not just from exhaustion, but from the emotional war he had been fighting since morning.
"Ya Allah..." He paused, swallowing the knot in his throat. "I prayed for her success once when she didn't even know I loved her. I'm praying again now... even though she broke me." He wiped a tear quickly before it could fall. He did not cry. Not for her. Not anymore.
And yet, he did. He prayed two ¹²*raka'at of ¹³*nafl. Two quiet, heartfelt prayers. Not for himself. But for her. Not for forgiveness. Not for healing. Just for her success. Not out of duty, but out of devotion. That she finds peace. That she succeeds. That somehow, the pieces she was trying to mend would come together, even if his heart still bore the cracks.
Even if his lips were silent, his heart screamed a thousand unspoken duas. Because even in silence, even in distance, even in pain, he still loved her. Deeply. Desperately. And maybe, just maybe, love did not always need to be loud.
The sun had risen higher by the time Afreen stepped out of the exam hall, a soft breeze rustling the edges of her hijab. Around her, the chatter of students created a background hum—some were jubilant, others distressed, and some already calling home to share their news.
She did not reach for her phone. Her eyes were already searching for someone else. And there he was.
Fahmid stood under the shade of the same tree where he had parked earlier. His arms were crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable, and his jaw sharp and unmoving. He did not glance around or wave. He did not even flinch as her gaze locked onto him.
Yet... he was there. Waiting. Just like he used to. Afreen walked toward him slowly, her sandals crunching lightly over the gravel. Every step felt heavier than the last.
"I... I'm done," she said quietly, clutching her file tightly to her chest. "It went okay, I think."
He did not look at her. Just nodded once. "Good."
No smile. No 'I knew you'd do well.' Just that single word. As flat as the silence between them. He held out the helmet without a word, not meeting her eyes. She took it with hesitant hands, her fingers brushing his for the briefest second. He did not react.
She slid onto the bike behind him. The engine roared to life, and they sped off, the air thick with everything unsaid. The wind howled in her ears, but it couldn't drown out her thoughts. Her memories.
Three years ago, that exact road echoed with her laughter and his mock-scoldings. He used to tease her about her nervous habits. She used to fuss over how his hoodie always smelled like bike oil and cologne. She would rest her chin on his shoulder, humming some silly song. He would pretend to be annoyed, but his smile always gave him away.
But then, her hands hovered awkwardly in the air, unsure of whether she was allowed to hold onto him anymore. When the bike hit a sudden bump, instinct kicked in—her hand shot forward, fingers gripping the back of his hoodie tightly. His back muscles tensed beneath her touch.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice barely audible over the wind. He did not reply.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," she continued, her voice trembling now. "I just... I thought I was doing the right thing."
Still, he said nothing. "I was scared," she whispered. "I thought that if I chose you, I would risk Abbu's reputation and business in front of Uncle Liam. And those gossips of those relatives... I thought I was protecting you..."
He let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "By pushing me away?" he scoffed. "By pretending none of it meant anything? By asking me to leave you? To forget you? Without even thinking to talk it out with me?"
Her heart clenched. "I didn't think thoroughly," she murmured. "I—"
"You stayed silent, Afreen," he cut in, his voice cold and quiet. "And you didn't just stay silent. You made me feel like I was something you couldn't accept. Something unworthy. Something less."
She closed her eyes, the sting of his words slicing deeper than she expected. "It wasn't like that..."
"Wasn't it?" He snapped, and then he glanced at her through the side mirror. "Then what was it, Afreen? A phase? A game? Or did I just not fit into your perfect life's image?"
She swallowed hard, unable to answer. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back. "I thought I was protecting you," she whispered.
He let out a slow breath. "No, Afreen. You were protecting yourself." The rest of the ride was silent. Unbearably so.
When they finally reached home, he pulled the bike to a stop outside the gate. Afreen removed her helmet slowly, eyes downcast. She turned to thank him, to say something—anything—that could bridge the distance between them.
But he had already gotten off. He walked toward the house without waiting for her, without looking back. She sat frozen on the bike for a moment, helmet still clutched in her lap, her chest tightening.
"Lion-ie," she called softly.
He paused mid-step, his back still to her.
"I'm sorry," she said again. "I was foolish. I thought letting you go was the right thing to do. But all I did was lose the only person who truly loved me."
He stood still for a moment. Then, quietly, without turning around, he said, "Some losses don't come back, Afreen. Some wounds don't heal just because the knife feels sorry." And with that, he stepped inside.
She sat there for a few seconds longer, the words wrapping around her chest like chains. It was not just heartbreak. It was penance. And for the first time in her life, Afreen realized... regret was louder than grief. Because it replayed every moment she should have chosen differently. And it echoed in every silence Fahmid left behind.
The house was wrapped in silence that night—the kind that creeps in not with peace, but with heaviness. The dinner table had been cleared, the dishes washed, and the lights dimmed one by one. The only sound then was the ticking of the old wall clock in the living room, each second echoing louder in Afreen's ears than the last.
She sat curled on the edge of the bed in her room, knees pulled to her chest, her chin resting atop them. The window beside her was half open, letting in the faint breeze of an early summer night. The moonlight spilled across the tiled floor, painting shadows around her, but inside her chest, it felt like dusk had never lifted.
She held the then-empty coffee flask Fahmid had packed—the very one she thought she would toss aside after the exam. But her hands had refused. Her heart had clung. She stared at the flask, knuckles white around its curve.
He remembered. No sugar. Extra light. Just like she used to like it during their late-night study sessions in the school library. No one else had ever bothered to learn how she liked her coffee—not even her father. Yet, after all those years, after all her choices, he still did.
A soft knock tapped against the door. She flinched, straightened, eyes wide. Her heart picked up pace. She stood, hesitant. Her fingers hovered over the doorknob. But the door did not open. There were no words spoken. Only the sound of something light being placed gently on the floor. Then silence again. Followed by slow, retreating footsteps.
Afreen cracked the door open cautiously, her eyes scanning the hallway, her breath caught between hope and regret. Empty. But on the ground, just outside her door, sat a small white plate. Steam still faintly rose from it. A slice of chocolate fudge cake. Her favorite. The same one he used to buy her every time she finished an exam, no matter how she thought she had done.
A slightly crumpled tissue sat beside it. No note. No message. No words to soften the blow of all that had passed between them. And yet, somehow, it screamed more than any letter could.
Afreen's throat tightened. She knelt down and picked up the plate with trembling hands. It was still warm. "He must've microwaved it," she thought absently, and that broke her even more. He remembered it too. Every small detail. Every ritual.
She closed the door behind her slowly, quietly, as though the moment might shatter if she moved too quickly. Her back was pressed against the wood as she slid down to the floor.
Her tears finally fell. No hiccups. No sobs. Just quiet, helpless drops rolling down her cheeks, tracing the edges of a smile that was not really a smile.
"He still cares," she whispered to the silence. "Even now..."
And that—that—hurt more than if he had screamed at her. More than if he had ignored her completely. Because it... it was the kind of kindness that came from pain. That came from the love left behind.
She took a bite of the cake. It tasted like memory. Like forgiveness she had not earned. Like a heart still breaking quietly across the hallway.
And suddenly, the silence of the night was too loud. Too full of everything left unspoken. She clutched the plate to her chest, curled up by the window again. And cried. Until her eyes grew tired and her eyelids became heavy.