For a moment, I stared out of the window. The early morning light filtered through the window, casting a golden glow on the room. The faint chirping of birds outside mingled with the hum of the fan overhead. I rubbed my hands over the soft fabric of my bedsheet, grounding myself in the quiet stillness of the moment.
Maybe this is where I take control, I thought to myself.
It was the realization that no apology, no explanation, no act of remorse could change the past. Nothing they could say would make me feel whole again. The pain I had endured, the manipulation, the constant pressure—it all left deep scars. And yet, I wasn't entirely hardened. I wasn't ready to curse them, to carry hatred in my heart forever. I didn't have the strength for that, and besides, what good would it do me? But forgetting, letting go—that was a different story.
There was a strange calm settling over me, like I was standing on the edge of something new, something unknown but full of potential. I had spent so long thinking about everyone else—Muazam, the expectations of my family—that I had lost sight of my own path. I was done waiting for someone else to dictate my future, to tell me what I should feel, what I should want.
Muazam was not mine. I had loved him, maybe still did, but love—real love—wasn't meant to be forced or manipulated. The bond we could have had was shattered long ago, not by one single act, but by years of confusion, missteps, and misplaced intentions.
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the stillness of the early morning wrap around me.
When I opened them again, I was more certain than ever. It was time to focus on myself. I had spent years being swept along by the tides of other people's choices, but now, the tide was shifting. I was going to create something for myself. I wasn't entirely sure what that meant, or where it would lead me, but I knew it was the only way forward.
I thought about the things I loved—the art, the creativity, the dreams I had put on hold. I would start there. I would pour myself into my work, into building a future where I was not dependent on anyone else's decisions. Where my worth wasn't tied to someone else's love or approval.
I had been pushed into loving Muazam, convinced that our lives were meant to intertwine. And maybe, at some point, I had accepted it. But now, with the weight of it all pressing down on me, I realized that love couldn't be manufactured. It couldn't be born out of pressure, or obligation, or someone else's hopes.
It had to be real. And if it wasn't, then it wasn't meant to be.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt a sliver of hope—not for a life with Muazam or anyone else, but for a life where I was in control. Where my choices, my dreams, mattered most. It was a feeling I wasn't used to, but it felt right.
I stood up, wiped the last tear from my cheek, and took a deep breath. A decision had been made, and it was the only one that mattered now: I was going to live for myself. I was going to become someone on my own terms.
The memories of childhood, of Muazam, those would always be there. But they were part of a story that had ended, and I was ready to begin a new chapter.
This time, I would write it my way.
I started searching for jobs here in Pakistan, and as a Mashraqi girl, teaching is considered the best and most secure profession for women. However, I lack experience and am only 19 years old. But from what I know, many small, budget-friendly private schools are willing to hire young teachers, especially if they see potential. While I may not have formal teaching experience, I can demonstrate my enthusiasm, willingness to learn, and dedication.
I submitted my resume to various local private schools. As I walked around exploring my options, a sense of despair washed over me. Different types of negativity hit me, but I still stood tall, despite my shaky legs. After some struggle, I finally landed an interview, and on the first day, I began a three-day demo.
I got my first job. It won't be easy, but it's better than having nothing at all. My salary is modest, but still, it's better than earning nothing. I'm managing things, even though I know it will be hard for an introvert like me. But I also know that someday I'll have to push through, so why not start now?
I heard Muazam is also looking for a job. He mentioned it when we met at some event—I don't remember much because we don't see each other often, and when we do, it's just brief, almost like passing each other in the rush of time. He's already done some freelance work, but now it seems like he wants to gain experience in a formal company setting.
We bumped into each other while I was coming back from work. He was at a shop, and when he noticed me walking by, I stopped to say hi out of courtesy. After he finished his shopping, we walked together back to the building. It was just a normal walk—nothing significant. Maybe I was too tired to feel anything at all, too drained to entertain any fictional thoughts. So, we just walked.
I told him about my new job and how things were going at work, sharing the usual details. He also had something to share once he saw me open up. We walked together to our floor; after all, we live in the same building now, just in opposite blocks on the same level.
That evening, he came over to our house and told me he had gotten a job too. He looked genuinely excited, and from the expression on his face, I could tell he really liked his work. Of course, it was his dream job, and he seemed incredibly happy about it. I could have listened to him talk for hours—it didn't matter what he was saying, I just enjoyed seeing him that enthusiastic. He even mentioned that he hadn't made it official yet because he wanted to achieve a certain position before announcing it. I felt honored that he counted me among the few people close enough to share such joyful moments with. He asked me not to tell anyone in my family, and for a moment, I saw a hint of uncertainty in his expression, as if he wasn't sure he could trust me. How could he not know that I would never tell anyone? But I just nodded, keeping my thoughts to myself.
After that, he started coming over regularly on weekends. I began to expect him every Saturday night, knowing that Sunday was his day off. So, I prepared in advance—tidying up the room, cleaning the washroom, and making sure my hijab was properly in place.
He shared all the details of his weekdays at work, talking about everything as though he had a world of things to tell. I listened attentively. Of course, he gave me the space to share about my own work too. I was just as excited to talk about how things were going since, for both of us, this was our first experience in a job—something entirely new.
We discussed countless things, exchanged advice, and motivated each other. He'd visit, and I'd find myself waiting for these moments, feeling a sense of satisfaction as things flowed smoothly between us. I had buried my feelings for him, not wanting to disrupt what we currently shared. He saw me as someone he could confide in without hesitation, and I'd created that comfort zone for him—a space where he could tell me anything freely.
However, inside, I felt like I was burning. Sometimes, it was nearly impossible to hide my emotions, yet somehow, I found the strength. I'm not sure where that courage came from, but there was no other way to keep him close, so I chose to bear the burden alone.
Around that time, I became more interested in art—painting, sketching—all of it fascinated me. I started with simple sketches—lines that curved and twisted, abstract shapes that made no sense but felt right. Over time, the sketches turned into something more—mountains, waves, silhouettes of people whose faces I didn't want to define. Every stroke of the pencil felt like a release, like a small piece of the weight on my chest was being lifted.
Excited to show him, because his opinion mattered; he always gave honest feedback. His encouragement gave me a reason to keep creating, a small fantasy I held onto.
We shared our dreams, plans, goals—all kinds of things. When we talked, it felt like time slowed down just for us; not rushing forward, nor standing still, but moving at the perfect pace. In those moments with him, I felt so much, an entire world of emotions filling me each time.
I shared my dream of establishing my own studio with him, realizing that we only reveal such aspirations to those we hope will be a part of them. For me, that person was him.
One day, I opened up to him—not to confess that I loved him, but to reveal the hurt I'd been carrying. As I started speaking, my hands trembled in my lap, twisting the hem of my shirt for comfort. My throat felt tight, but the words kept pouring out, each one pulling a knot loose from the tangle inside me.
I told him everything I'd endured: the suffering, the pain, the constant pressure from my family, their endless words, and the weight of their expectations. I let all my frustration spill out, sharing the burden I had kept inside for so long.
By the time I finished, I was exhausted, like I'd just run a marathon barefoot. I avoided his eyes, afraid of what I might see there—pity, or worse, indifference.
After listening to everything, He ran a hand through his hair, his face a mix of frustration and guilt. "I had no idea," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "They never told me any of this. I wish I'd known—I could've done something, stopped them sooner." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "You shouldn't have had to deal with all that. I'm… sorry, Mehru."
When he shared that he had already stopped any plans his family had, I realized I had been the only one carrying the weight of it all. That day, I cleared up every misunderstanding with him, deciding to start a new chapter in our lives—just as friends and cousins, with no expectations or lingering hopes. This clarity wasn't just for him; it was for me too. I couldn't force him to choose me, after all. Love isn't something you can command—it finds its way to the heart naturally, almost like a divine whisper.
As I walked back to my room that night, I felt lighter, like I had finally put down a weight I'd been carrying for years. For the first time, I wasn't looking to Muazam to complete me or fix me—I was looking to myself.
My life was still mine to shape, and I was ready to do it with my own hands, one brushstroke at a time.