"You said you don't hate me. So, can't we start a new chapter?" she said trembling, her eyes filled with hope.
He laughed loudly. "Aliya Emdad are you a stupid or just pretending to be. Listen to me carefully. Yes I don't hate you. Actually I feel...
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2 Hours Later
I didn’t realize when I drifted off on the balcony couch. Waking with a start, I returned to the bedroom, only to find Aliya struggling to drape a sari. She was watching a YouTube tutorial, earbuds in, her hands fumbling with the fabric.
She hadn’t noticed me yet, so I took a moment to observe. She was dressed in a full-sleeved blouse and underskirt, her hair gathered in a messy bun. Her slim waist was visible from behind, a subtle curve that stirred something inside me. I cleared my throat, hoping she’d hear, but she remained oblivious. I took another step closer, and finally, she saw me in the mirror.
With a gasp, she grabbed the dupatta lying on the bed and quickly draped it over herself. "When did you wake up?" she asked, voice tinged with nerves.
"Just a moment ago. You should have woken me up," I replied, watching her carefully.
"You were sleeping so deeply… I didn’t want to disturb you," she said, glancing down.
"It’s okay. But we need to hurry. We’re already running late," I said, glancing at my watch.
She bit her lip, hesitating. "Um… could you call Mom for me? Sarah isn’t home, and I’ve been trying for over an hour, but I can’t make the pleats right."
Knowing Mom was unwell and asleep, I shook my head. "Mom’s resting. Maybe you could wear something else?"
She sighed, looking down at the sari. "Mom really wanted me to wear this. It’s a gift from her."
After a pause, I exhaled. "Alright, I’ll help you. We don’t have much choice," I said, taking a step closer. Her cheeks turned a shade darker, a mixture of surprise and embarrassment coloring her expression.
"Wait, you know how to wear a sari?" she asked, incredulous.
"Yeah, I helped Anaz wear one during a stage play at university," I replied with a shrug. "But honestly, as a Bengali girl, it’s surprising you don’t know how to drape it."
She muttered something under her breath, a half-whisper, "Because I haven’t worn one since… that day."
Her words hit me like a jolt. That day. The memory of that November rain flooded back–the day she was in my arms, close. My pulse quickened, but I pushed the thought away, focusing on the sari.
Without another word, I took the fabric from her hands and began draping it, struggling to keep my composure. Her skin was smooth, porcelain against the black chiffon dupatta that fell loosely around her. A small red mole a few inches above her naval peeked out, taunting me, moving gently with her breaths. I could barely resist the urge to touch, to let my fingers trace that tiny mark, to kiss it.
She cleared her throat softly, snapping me back. "Are you sure you know how to do this?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
I muttered to myself, "Damn you, Tahmeed," forcing myself to look away from that mole and focus on the pleats.
