I'm sure you've heard a lot about unrequited love, but what if I say there exists an unwilling love, hidden somewhere between the echoes of silence and the whispers of the heart's secrets? A love that fights to stay buried, yet yearns to be discover...
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๑ 🥀 ๑
Pastel pink, a colour she had always adored, draped around her, the delicate golden border settling over her head and flowing onto her shoulders.
Haya had brought the outfit, claiming it was Shazal’s personal choice—that he had handpicked it himself. But she found that hard to believe. Why would he go to such lengths for a marriage that meant nothing?
The makeup artist had finished her final touches, and under the soft lighting of her room, her face glowed with a subtle pink hue. She looked beautiful—her dark eyes accentuated, the curve of her nose more defined—just as a bride should.
"I'll see you out," Fatima said, helping the makeup artist gather her bags before escorting her out.
Left alone, she exhaled slowly, trying to make sense of it all.
Why am I even doing this?
But everyone looked too invested, too happy. She couldn't help but feel guilty for having thoughts of backing out at the last moment. No matter how much she tried, she knew in the end she was a coward who couldn't do that
She pushed herself up from the chair, stretching her back as if to shake off the weight settling over her. Almost instinctively—out of habit more than intent—she walked to the window, the one that overlooked the Haider Cottage.
So many times before, she had let herself dream. What if things had been different? What if her feelings had been returned with the same intensity? She had imagined stolen moments on the terrace (which they had shared anyway, though never for the reasons she wished), or the quiet thrill of catching a glimpse of each other through this very window.
But now, as she stood there, watching those dreams unravel thread by thread, an ache settled deep in her chest.
She hadn't expected to see Shazal outside. Yet there he was, speaking to Hayat, likely giving her instructions for an errand. Even from a distance, it was obvious from his expression that he was occupied, distracted.
Her gaze stilled solely on him.
He was dressed in an ash-coloured kurta, a simple light pink pashmina draped over his shoulders.
A sharp pang shot through her.
He was her groom. She, his bride.
The reality of it pressed against her, suffocating in its certainty.
She should have turned away, but just as she was about to, Hayat rushed off, leaving Shazal standing alone. And in that brief pause, his eyes lifted—straight to her.
Her breath hitched.
Had he known she would be watching? She saw his chest rise and fall in a slow sigh. Was he exhausted by all of this, too?
