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~ TEN YEARS LATER ~
After Falaq met me outside the hospital, everything changed. It was there, in that sterile environment, that she found out about my illness. Her reaction was immediate—regret washed over her, and she apologized for the mistakes she had made in the past. I could see the sincerity in her eyes, the weight of the guilt she carried. It wasn’t easy for her, but in that moment, it felt like we had reached a turning point.
She took it upon herself to inform my family about my condition. I hadn’t expected much, but a part of me still held on to hope that this news might soften their hearts. Yet, when the silence from them stretched into days, then weeks, it became painfully clear that they had made up their minds. They wanted no relationship with me, not with the person I had become or the life I was living with Shahzain. Not a single call, no messages, no concern—just an unspoken decision that we were no longer part of their world. The hurt cut deep, but the absence of their contact became the loudest answer.
Life moved on, as it always does. Within a few years, Falaq’s life took a new direction. She married a colleague, a fellow teacher, and they built a quiet, happy life together. I saw glimpses of their joy from afar. They had a beautiful daughter, who was now six years old, full of energy and curiosity. Falaq had found her peace, her family. And now, she was expecting again—twins, this time.
Though time had distanced us, Falaq still called me sometimes. Each call was brief but meaningful. We didn't talk often, but when we did, it felt like a small bridge still connected us, even if the chasm between us was wide.
Despite everything, there was a bond between us—fragile, yes, but unbroken.
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As I stepped into the house, a heavy silence greeted me, one that seemed to stretch through every corner of the empty rooms. The faint echo of my footsteps was the only sound, emphasizing the eerie stillness. I placed my purse down on the plush sofa in the living room, the soft fabric sinking slightly under its weight.
"Shahzain," I called out, my voice breaking the quiet like a sudden gust of wind. I waited, listening for any sign of movement-a reply, the rustling of footsteps, anything. But there was nothing. A chill crept up my spine as I glanced around the dimly lit space. The curtains were drawn halfway, casting long shadows across the polished floor. The air felt unusually cool, almost unsettling.
I started towards the hallway, my steps cautious. "Shahzain, where are you?" I tried again, my tone edged with a hint of unease. There was still no response. A sense of foreboding began to coil in my chest as I approached the staircase.
