He married her with pride. Now he doesn’t know how to handle the disappointment.

Talha Shamsher was used to getting what he wanted.

Not out of arrogance—he simply moved in a world where his name meant weight. The Shamsher legacy was stitched into the mosques of Lahore, into hospitals named after his grandfather, into politics and piety in equal measure.

He was never the loudest man in the room. But when he walked in, conversations shifted.

He prayed in the first row. Spoke with authority. Wore sherwanis stitched in Madras, and never once touched interest-based transactions. His faith was clean. His name was old. His intentions, pure.

And then, he saw her.

It was at a nikah event—his cousin’s. She walked in late, draped in a soft peach abaya, her head bowed, smile small but sure. She wasn’t flashy. She wasn’t loud. But she had the kind of stillness that made people look twice. And Talha did.

By Fajr, his mother had her biodata. By the next Friday, they were engaged.

It wasn’t love. Not yet. It was certainty. And certainty was enough.

He imagined her as a calm presence. A soft supporter. Someone to fill the quiet corners of his estate with peaceful dhikr and whispered duas. Someone who’d serve chai when guests arrived. Who’d smile when he quoted Hadith. Who would never raise her voice, or eyebrows, or questions.

But two months into the marriage—and his daydreams were breaking.

It was the third night in a row that she had eaten dinner before him.

No argument. No tension. Just a pattern. A quiet way of saying: You are not someone I wait for anymore.

Talha came home from a long waqf board meeting, the collar of his sherwani slightly wrinkled from the weight of the day. The house was dark, except for the golden lamp in the lounge. She was curled up on the sofa, scrolling through her phone. She didn’t look up when he walked in.

Something inside him twisted.

He looked at her. Really looked at her.

She wasn’t cruel. She wasn’t rude. She just didn’t care anymore.

And for some reason, that hurt more than anything she could’ve said.

He exhaled sharply, then chuckled under his breath. The sound was bitter.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “I used to make so much dua for you.”

She froze.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I saw you once—once—and I thought, ‘That’s her. That’s the woman who’ll complete my deen.’”

His voice cracked. Just slightly.

“I imagined a home filled with peace. With barakah. With someone who’d… who’d look at me like I was enough.”

Her fingers loosened around her phone.

“I don’t know if I fell in love with you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Or with the version of you I built in my head.”

She opened her mouth—but couldn’t find anything to say.

“I tried,” he said. His throat felt tight now. “I tried to stay quiet, to be patient. I used sabr like a shield every time you pulled away. But it’s like… you’re not even trying.”

He looked up at her then. And for the first time since they got married—Talha Shamsher looked small.

“I feel like a stranger in my own house,” he said. “And I don’t know how much longer I can pretend that doesn’t hurt.”