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You'll Always Be My Home: Part 7

Sharjeena found herself loosening up around Mustafa, almost against her will. It wasn't that she had consciously decided to forgive or forget—it was more that his presence, his quiet yet persistent efforts, and the tiny moments of comfort he brought were hard to ignore. Mustafa, true to his word, continued to "pursue gardening" as a hobby, often joining her on the balcony when she was there. But it didn't take long for her to realize that his clumsy watering and rearranging were less about the plants and more about getting her attention.

At first, she tried to ignore it, but watching him hover around a plant with a watering can poised too long or move a potted flower three times in ten minutes was too much for her to bear.

"Mustafa," she eventually said, her tone carrying both amusement and exasperation, "us poudhe ko itne paani ki zarurat nahi hoti. You're overwatering it."

His face lit up, that small, victorious smile breaking through his feigned concentration. "Oh, acchha? Toh aise hi rehne doon ise?"

She sighed and got up, walking over to him. She adjusted the plant's position and drained some of the excess water, aware of his gaze on her. It wasn't heavy or probing, just soft and warm, as if he was soaking in the sight of her caring about something again.

From then on, it became a pattern. Mustafa would purposefully "mismanage" the plants, and she would step in to guide him, no longer able to hold herself back. Each time, she noticed that little smile, and though she didn't want to admit it, she felt a faint happiness bloom within her.

She began to let her walls down, just a little. She stopped rushing out the door in the mornings, allowing herself to sit with him for breakfast. At first, their meals were quiet, but Mustafa always made a point to start a conversation, asking about her day ahead or sharing small anecdotes about his work. Slowly, she started to engage, offering more than a nod or a polite response. She even smiled back at him on occasion, those moments fleeting but precious to Mustafa.

The list she had clung to so tightly began to fade into the background. She still kept it in her journal, but she found herself reading it less often. Every time she thought about picking it up, she told herself that if she had asked Mustafa to stop treating her like a ticking bomb, she should stop treating him like one too. It was only fair.

Yet, her mind was still clouded with unanswered questions. As much as she appreciated Mustafa's efforts, the doubts and pain of the past lingered. Why hadn't he answered her calls on that fateful day? The thought gnawed at her, often creeping in late at night when she was alone with her memories. She wanted to know what had happened to their old apartment, their belongings, the life they were building before everything fell apart. What had Mustafa been doing during the six months they were apart? When did he decide to move to this apartment?

But most of all, she wanted to ask about their baby—their child, whose presence she had felt so strongly, whose absence had left her hollow. Why hadn't he been there when she needed him most?

Still, she wasn't ready. The pain was too fresh, the wounds too deep. She knew that reopening those doors would require strength she didn't feel she had yet. For now, she focused on the little moments: the breakfasts, the balcony chats, the quiet evenings. Mustafa wasn't pushing her for answers or declarations, and for that, she was grateful. He seemed content to let her take the lead, to let her dictate the pace of their fragile reconnection.

For now, that was enough. She didn't know where this would lead or if she would ever feel whole again, but she was willing to let the small cracks of light in. Just for a while.

One evening, as she wrapped up her class and walked to her car, Sharjeena slid into the driver's seat, already exhausted from the long day. She turned the key in the ignition, but the car sputtered without starting. She tried again—nothing. Frustration built in her chest as she tapped the steering wheel, muttering to herself.