Murtasim stood at the edge of the garden, watching from a distance as Meerab sat quietly on the porch, her eyes focused on something far away, something none of them could see. She had always been so full of life, so defiant and strong-willed. Now, she was a shell of herself, a woman lost in her own confusion and fear. And the worst part? She didn’t remember him. She didn’t remember anything.
Every time Murtasim saw her like this—helpless, scared, and unsure of her surroundings—it felt like another crack in his already shattered heart. The woman he loved more than life itself was right in front of him, but she may as well have been a stranger.
He wanted to hold her, comfort her, whisper all the things that had once made her smile. But whenever he got close, he could see the unease in her eyes, the way she flinched ever so slightly if he reached for her. It broke him every time. He couldn’t bear to be the cause of her discomfort, couldn’t bear to see the fear in her gaze where there should have been love. So he stayed close but silent, his heart heavy with guilt and sorrow.
"How can I fix this when I’m the one who caused it?" he would often ask himself.
Murtasim could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on him. The family was trying their best, he knew. Mariyam would sit with Meerab for hours, showing her old photo albums, talking about shared memories, trying to stir something—anything—in her sister-in-law’s heart. Maa Begum, with all the strength she could muster, would recount the happiest moments of their family’s past, praying aloud in between stories that God would return their Meerab to them. Even Anwar, the man of few words, would stand by the doorway, hoping to hear some spark of recognition in Meerab’s voice.
But nothing worked.
They had shown her photos, videos, told her countless stories, and yet, every time, Meerab would only shake her head, her eyes clouded with frustration and sadness.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered one evening after a particularly long session of memory-jogging, her voice small and defeated. “I… I just don’t remember. I don’t know any of this.”
Murtasim had been standing in the corner, silent as always, when she said it. His heart clenched painfully in his chest. Every day, he hoped that something—anything—would bring her back. But it was like trying to grasp at sand; the harder they tried, the more her memories seemed to slip away.
Maa Begum reached out to gently stroke Meerab’s hair, her voice soothing but heavy with emotion. “It’s okay, beta. You’ll remember when the time is right. We just have to be patient.”
But Meerab shook her head, her eyes welling up with tears. “What if I don’t? What if I never remember?” Her voice cracked, filled with fear and uncertainty. “I don’t even remember myself, let alone any of you.”
The room fell into an uneasy silence. Murtasim clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought back his own tears. He couldn’t show weakness. Not in front of her. But inside, he was breaking apart, piece by piece.
---
That night, as everyone else went to their rooms, Murtasim stayed behind, sitting in the dim light of the living room, staring at nothing. His mind replayed every moment, every argument, every smile he had shared with Meerab. He tortured himself with the thought that maybe, if he hadn’t been so angry that night, if he had just listened to her… maybe she would still be the woman he knew and loved.
“You’re responsible for this,” his inner voice taunted him. “You were the one who drove too fast, too recklessly. You let your anger control you. And now look at her. She doesn’t even know who you are.”
He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but they wouldn’t leave him. Guilt gnawed at him relentlessly. His family hadn’t said it aloud, but he could see it in their eyes—the blame. Anwar chacha had always been distant, but now there was a coldness in his gaze, an unspoken accusation.
