Stories Untold (Ramsha X Salar ff)

Chapter 1

“Do I look like a man who wastes his time over hypothetical scenarios?”

The words lingered in his mind as he thought about Imama. What if he had been willing to suffer with her? What if his parents never tried to fake his death? What if she never had to live under a fake name? It must have been easier to locate her then, right? Soon enough, Salar stared at the web of possibilities he never wanted to consider. He didn’t believe in what ifs. That’s what he stated to Imama. But now he did. Hopelessly. Desperately. Imama was his karma.

He had to force himself to look away from the Jhumkas Ramsha was wearing. How long had he been staring?

“I’m too young to think about marriage,” said Salar. He hoped that was the reply to the question she asked. His reply formed out of two lies- partial truths, as he called them.

She met his eyes trying to form a sentence. But failed and merely nodded.

“I'm sorry if you didn't like the parcel,” she said.

“No, you aren't,” he thought.

“Be mindful next time.” The statement was short, concise, and more rude than he intended to be. Just like his every statement was while conversing with her. How could someone choose a man with the emotional range of a teaspoon as their life partner?

Another nod from her and the sweet chime of the beads of her Jhumkas filled the air. He looked away. He had to. Everything was a painfully constant reminder of her.

The conversation lingered in his mind on his way home. Her awkward confession and his awkward responses. He never knew she would be bold enough to propose to him. Neither did he know he would have to ponder to reject.

He was married already. A predicament it was. Still is. What if she was married to another man? He clenched his jaw at the thought of her children that might exist. His helplessness was laughable. Every wall he had created around himself crumbled at the very thought of her.

His inner monster of stubbornness and impatience overpowered his calm and collected exterior often these days. 9 years. It took him 9 years to realize he had no option but to wait. 9 years to develop patience. 9 years to learn how to live above his demons. But all that composure  had crumbled within the last 9 days. He had no idea why. But he didn't want to figure it out either. He just wanted this to end by itself.
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“Returned the gifts? All of them?”

“Obviously,” Salar gave Faizan a look.

“Should’ve given me that cologne though.”

“I can get you one myself.”

“In a parallel universe, surely.”

“Rude.”

“Just like returning those gifts,” commented Faizan, raising an eyebrow.

“Just like sending a man letters out of nowhere,” countered Salar.

“She set things in motion.”

“I’m sorry? Whose side are you on?”

“The winning side, definitely.” Faizan gave him a cheeky smile.

“How could she even say that? Straight up to my face?” Salar groaned, recalling the previous meeting of yesterday’s afternoon.

“Unlike you, most people actually want to settle down in life, you know? Get married. Start a family.”

His switch from a normal conversation to the start of a lecture always took Salar by surprise. He could practically guess what he was going to say next.

“Are you going to waste away your life? Working in a bank all your age? Pretending to be indifferent to the concept of finding love?”

“Love.” He cringed at the very word. How could Faizan lecture him about love when he himself had an arranged marriage? Has he ever even experienced it? From the way he uttered his words, one could think he must have. For a moment, Salar wanted to ask him about what it felt like? How could one know whether he is in love or not?

Was he in love with Imama? Could one call it that? It didn’t matter. His love never found a way owing to his obliviousness regarding the destination. It was all so complicated.

Salar took a deep breath. The clicking noise of his laptop's keyboard combined with the sound of water droplets from the sink and Faizan's constant criticism and pieces of advice made an awfully  combination. One he would rather not listen to. Not now. Nor ever. Salar met his eyes, the lid of his laptop now shut.

“Tea?” he offered. A polite way to end a conversation or to start a different one. An excellent method but unfortunately overused.

“I’m done with your excuses and stubbornness, Salar. Go ahead and continue to make a fool out of yourself. I can’t help you when you can't even admit it's need to yourself.”

The words hung in the air. Faizan just walked into the other room, adding all but more to the tension. He read him so thoroughly but still failed to see what truly mattered.

The silence stretched for a while and was killed by the notification bell of his phone. A message from Ramsha. Just Perfect.

“Salar, do you know anyone who lives in Lahore?” stated the message. With an attached image file.