𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐀𝐓 - Endless Devotion

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

⇢Ishaq's Pov𑁍ࠬ

I walked into the room where Sarah used to paint—our favorite place. Sometimes, we painted together. A soft smile crossed my face as I looked at all the paintings. I reached out, running my fingers gently over them, and whispered, "What if there had been no betrayal? Would Sarah and I still be living happily together?"

I sat down in the chair, staring at one particular painting. Or rather, I wasn’t staring at the painting itself—I was lost in the memories it held.

Just then, there was a knock at the door. I turned and said, "Come in." My world came to a halt when I saw her standing there—the person I had been thinking about. Yes, I knew she’d visit us this month, but why now? Why had she come? After all, it was her decision to leave. I reminded myself I had no right to question her—but then again, wasn’t this my house? No, it wasn’t. It was my dad’s house.

I whispered softly, "Sarah..." She nodded slightly and asked, "Are you staring at the paintings or the moments they carry?"

I froze. How did she know? "No, I...I just came to check if the room was clean. Otherwise, the paintings might have gotten ruined," I stammered.

She raised an eyebrow and asked, "Why do you care?"

I replied, my voice tinged with both pain and defiance, "Because the paintings and those moments still live in my heart. I know they’re tied to you, but you’re no longer the Sarah I once loved."

She looked down, her voice quiet but cutting, "Mita rahe ho uske nishaan jiski yaadon mein uljhe hue ho khud tum."

(You’re erasing the marks while being tangled in the memories yourself.)

I smiled bitterly, nodding as if to agree. "Faqat nahi mita sakta woh nishaan mere dil se, par kam se kam yaadon se to bahar aa hi raha hoon tumhari. Ya phir koi mujhe laa raha hai."

(Of course, I can’t erase those marks from my heart. But at least I’m moving on from your memories. Or maybe...someone else is helping me move on.)

Her eyes narrowed as she asked, "Who?"

I looked up, meeting her gaze, and replied firmly, "That’s none of your business, Ms. Sarah Reza."

The way her name rolled off my tongue, the tone I used—it surprised even me. For a moment, I felt a strange sense of pride in what I’d said, like reclaiming a piece of myself I thought was lost.