In the quiet recesses of the heart, there exists a mystery that has confounded men for centuries-a creation so delicate, yet so resilient, that even a mere glance, if harsh, can unravel her.
She weeps not just with her eyes, but with her very soul...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"You're looking so pretty, sweetheart," Nazma Begum said, her voice filled with genuine warmth as she handed Nazlae her purse.
Nazlae took the bag, her fingers lightly grazing the dupatta as she adjusted it over her head one final time. She murmured softly, "Thank you," smiling a little.
She wore a floral kurti with soft, faded pink flowers on a cream fabric, paired with matching pants and a long cotton dupatta that cascaded gracefully. Her makeup was elegantly chosen, a hint of blush, a whisper of lipstick, and a fine line of kohl accentuating her eyes. The simplicity of her look highlighted her natural grace, making her appear both delicate and poised.
As the evening settled in, dinner at Akram Khan's house loomed before her. The idea of joining the family for the meal stirred a knot of anxiety in her stomach. Although she had seen her in-laws during the wedding, the prospect of spending an evening in their company made her feel anxious. Navigating the social intricacies of this new chapter of her life stirred a quiet anxiety within her.
The faint, rhythmic clatter of heels against the floor broke the quiet hum of the room. Umair, seated on the couch, his eyes fixed on the TV screen, knew instantly who it was. As the sound drew closer, he finally looked up, his gaze moving slowly from the TV to the doorway.
His brows lifted ever so slightly, a look of mild curiosity flickering across his face. But it was his eyes that betrayed him-softening with an unspoken recognition, a gentle warmth seeping into the depths of his gaze.
A soft murmur drifted through the air, delicate and fleeting like a whisper carried on a breeze. It brushed past him, tugging at the edges of his consciousness, but its meaning slipped through his grasp.
A deep frown etched his face, a flicker of annoyance directed inward for allowing himself to feel this way. His gaze, now narrowed and searching, lingered on her, and he could sense her growing fidgety under the weight of it.
Nazlae, aware of his gaze but unwilling to meet it, looked anywhere but at him. Her eyes flitted across the room, settling momentarily on the framed pictures on the wall, the patterned carpet beneath her feet, anywhere but him. Yet she could feel the intensity of his gaze.
Noticing her unease, he adjusted his posture and stood up, his hand tucked into the pocket of the soft fabric of his beige Punjabi suit."Ready?" Umair asked, his voice low and steady, breaking the silence.
Nazlae responded with a soft hum, her words were caught in the same hesitance that kept her eyes from meeting his. With a final glance, Umair turned and began to walk, guiding the path ahead. Nazlae followed suit, her steps falling in line with his.
The car moved through the quiet streets, the engine's hum the only sound filling the silence between them. Nazlae sat in the passenger seat, her posture slightly rigid, hands clenched tightly in her lap. Her eyes fixed straight ahead, although her thoughts were far from the road before them.
