Fanaa || فنی

12 | the majnus and the forsaken

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tu wo zaalim hai jo dil mein rehkar bhi mera na ho saka, aur dil wo kafir jo mujhmein rehkar bhi tera hogaya
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"Where were you?"

Madiha scowled at the question as her lips twisted unnaturally, her eyes gleaming with demonic annoyance. She walked past him, into the room that the two of them were sharing for the time being.

"You were supposed to rest." He shuffled behind her closing the door shut. She noticed he had changed into a clean pair of black sweatpants and a shirt that seemed two sizes too big on his body.

"Tum kya deevar ki chipkali ho? Aate jaate logon par nazar daali hui hai." She grunted removing her abaya with great difficulty as she threw it in a pile on the chair nearby. Closing her eyes, she sat down, her body drowning with exhaustion but her mind was at unease, reeling with incredulous possibilities.

"Madiha! If you keep this up, your stitches will snap open." He replied, his forehead scrunching in tension. This woman was pulling at the strings in his heart and she was being merciless in her pursuit. He couldn't pretend to not care even if he tried his best.

"Just leave me alone, okay? I didn't want to come here in the first place. I shouldn't have listened to you, you are only adding onto my problems." As soon as these words left her mouth she regretted them, his crestfallen face only added to her guilt. Shaking her head she shuddered out one last time hoping he would go away before she could hurt him more. "Mustafa, just go. Go back to your Janam."

"Janam?" His pupils visibly dilated, as he took slow steps towards her, not taking one visible clue that she wanted him to not be near her.

"That friend of yours."

"Her name is Sanam." He replied sitting across from her but leaving enough face that if given the opportunity she wouldn't claw down his face.

"Sanam-Janam, tumhari mehbooba-maashooqa jo bhi hai." She dismissively swatted her un-injured hand, not meeting his curious gaze. "Just go away."

"It's not like that..." Mustafa frowned, wanting to lean in more to check her wound but he wasn't one to take risks. So he sat back mumbling to himself.

"Why not? She is very pretty. Kaali-Kaali ankhein, Gore-Gore gaal. She looks just like your type."

"How do you know what my type is?" He questioned, finding the courage to lean in a little more, his perfectly dark eyebrows shooting up in amusement. Her face immediately froze as if just realising what she had blurted out but soon she frantically diverted the topic.

"You are getting old, plus the bad reputation of a runaway groom. You don't seem to have many prospective romantic options."

"To think of it, if Kaali-Kaali ankhein and Gore-Gore gaal are my type, then you have both of those things. Plus a pretty face and a soiled reputation just like me." He leaned impossibly close now, his lips quirking upwards into what resembled a smirk. Only a hair's breadth space remaining between them, he knew he was testing the stormy waters that would backsplash on him any moment but he surely was enjoying her discomfort. "That makes you the perfect prospective romantic option, does it not?"

"Mustafa..." She breathed out warningly, barely managing to not graze his lips with hers. Her tongue swiping at her lower lip, leaving them rosy glistening.