I was nine the first time I decided I was going to marry her.

Ridiculous, I know. Nine-year-old boys are supposed to care about gully cricket, not life partners. But there I was, standing outside her nani’s house in Lahore, sweating under the June sun, staring at the girl who had just stolen my Sprite and then my sanity.

She was ten. Taller. Bossier. The self-appointed captain of every gali game. She walked around like the street belonged to her. Maybe it did.

I was the kid with perpetually torn slippers and dust on my face, running behind her and her cousins because apparently I enjoyed humiliation. Every time she turned around, her ponytail whipped me in the face like destiny being annoying on purpose.

She used to flick my forehead and say, “Aik din tu sudhar jaayega, Saad.”

I didn’t know what sudharna meant in her dictionary.

Didn’t matter.

I was going to grow into whatever she meant. Even if it killed me.

So, I did. Slowly. Painfully. Quietly. Like some tragic side character no one asked for.

I got taller in my teens. Broader, thanks to cricket and God’s pity. Learned when to speak and when to shut up. Learned how to hide the way my gaze followed her—every laugh at family weddings, every new outfit on Eid, every time she tied her hair and exposed the curve of her neck like my self-control wasn’t already hanging by a thread.

Boys came and went. Boys with their sleek bikes and over-gelled hair, showing off outside tuition centers like they were auditioning for a Pepsi ad. I watched all of it from the sidelines, grinding my teeth into dust. Telling myself my time would come.

It had to. Because no one, literally no one, could love her the way I did.

Then came him.

The one she thought was different. The one she actually blushed for. The one she defended even when he started pulling away like a coward.

He cheated. Obviously.

I wasn’t shocked. I’d seen the insecurity in her smile for weeks. The cracks he caused. I hated him before I had the pleasure of proving myself right.

The day she found out, her entire face changed. The kind of hurt you feel in your ribs.

I didn’t gloat. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t say “I told you so” even though I’d rehearsed it in my head for months.

I just showed up at her door.

She opened it in an oversized sweatshirt, hair a mess, eyes swollen from crying. Her voice was barely there when she said, “Tumhe aana nahi chahiye tha.”

“I know.”

“Kis ne bataya?”

“No one,” I said. “I just… felt it.”

She stared at me for a second, like she was searching my face for the lie.

There wasn’t one.

She stepped back. Let me in.

We didn’t talk much. Her house smelled like chai and heartbreak. She sat beside me on the couch and slowly leaned her head on my shoulder, fingers clutching the fabric of my kurta like she didn’t realize she was holding on.

She cried a little. Laughed once, bitterly.

Then whispered, “I’m so stupid.”

My chest contracted so sharply I thought it might collapse. “Don’t say that.”

“He made me feel like I’m not enough,” she said quietly. “That’s the worst part.”

My teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. “He didn’t see you right,” I said.

Her eyes lifted to mine. Red. Shaking. Fragile. “And you do?”

No hesitation. No retreat. No escape left.

“Always.”

She inhaled sharply, like the truth hit too hard. But she didn’t move away.

“Saad…”

“I know I’m younger,” I said, voice low. “I know I’ve always been the idiot trailing behind you. But I’m not that kid anymore. I’m not asking you for anything. Bas… let me be here. Let me take care of you.”

She stared at me like I was someone new.

Maybe I was.