The drawing room smells faintly of dinner and old furniture—familiar, but not quite home anymore.

Twelve years ago, Raheel Mirza left Karachi with his parents and a boarding school acceptance letter tucked in his bag. He didn’t look back—not even when his grandmother took his hand in her dying breath and made him promise to marry the soft-spoken girl from next door.

Their families had long held grudges; the engagement was meant to fix that. A peace treaty sealed with two trembling children and one last dua.

And now? He’s back. In the same house. Engaged to the same girl. Only now, she’s a woman he doesn’t know.

It’s been three days. Three days of sitting through tense dinners, polite silences, and watching her move like a ghost through the house—quiet, respectful, perfectly untouched by the bitterness he drags behind him like mud.

He’s slouched on the couch, collar slightly open, the flickering TV casting shadows across his face. The late-night news rambles on in the background, but he’s not listening. He’s just sitting—like the house is pressing down on his chest.

Then she walks in.

She’s dressed simply—dupatta ironed and pinned, sleeves rolled to her elbows, tray in her hands. Chai and two biscuits.

“You didn’t eat dinner,” she says gently.

“Wasn’t hungry.” He doesn’t look at her.

She walks over, placing the tray on the table. “Ammi asked me to bring it.”

He lets out a short, humourless laugh. “Of course she did.”

She hesitates. Doesn’t turn away. Doesn’t leave like he expects.

“I wanted to talk to you,” she says, her voice soft but held up by something steel-spined underneath.

He glances at her—finally. “About our fairy tale marriage?”

Her eyes flicker, but she holds. “About whether you even want this.”

He sits up, expression unreadable, voice dipped in that cold calm he wears too well.

“You think it matters what I want?”

“It should,” she says, bolder now. “I think you should say it. If you hate this—hate me—say it.”

He stares at her, studying the curve of her chin, the way her hands tremble slightly but her voice does not.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore. I remember a girl with ink-stained fingers and crooked braids who used to glare at me when I teased her. And now I come back and I’m expected to marry a stranger in my own house.”

She stays still. She doesn’t fold.

He leans forward, voice cutting now, a whisper that hits harder than a shout.

“You waited. That’s sweet. But don’t mistake that for fate. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t come back to pick up where someone else’s fantasy left off.”

Her hands curl into her sleeves. “Then why did you come back?”

He looks her in the eye—and for the first time, there’s something flickering there. Regret? Anger? Or maybe something so old and buried even he doesn’t recognize it.

“Because I didn’t have a choice.”