Zoha sat in her bedroom, twirling a pen between her fingers. The textbook in front of her remained untouched.
Her mind wasn't on studies. It was on Zaid.
Ever since he started his intense training, they barely had time to talk. She understood his dreams, respected his ambition, but… she missed him.
She picked up her phone, hesitating.
Should she text him?
No. He was probably exhausted.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She knew Zaid struggled with his self-worth, always feeling like he wasn't enough. But he was. More than he realized.
Zoha sighed and glanced at the time.
10:37 PM.
He must be home by now. Maybe… just a quick message?
She typed:
Zoha: Hey, I know you're busy, but don't forget to take care of yourself. Eat properly, okay?
She stared at the screen, then hit send.
Seconds later, the message was marked 'Read.'
Her heart skipped.
Zaid is typing…
Chapter 87: A Simple Message
Zaid lay on his bed, staring at his phone screen. Zoha's message glowed softly in the dark.
Hey, I know you're busy, but don't forget to take care of yourself. Eat properly, okay?
A small smile tugged at his lips. Even in the middle of everything, she still thought about him.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Zaid: I will. Just tired.
He hesitated, then added:
Zaid: Thanks for checking on me.
He hit send.
A second later, the typing bubble appeared.
Zoha: Of course, idiot. Someone has to take care of you.
Zaid chuckled softly. She always knew what to say.
His eyelids felt heavy. The exhaustion from training pulled him under. But for the first time that day, he felt at peace.
And just before sleep claimed him, one thought lingered—Zoha was special.
The next morning, Zaid woke up to the sound of his mother moving around in the kitchen. The air was thick with the smell of leftover dal and roti from last night. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it.
He checked his phone.
Zoha: Morning! Hope you're not skipping breakfast. Don't make me come over there and force-feed you.
Zaid smirked. She knew him too well.
Zaid: Not skipping. I swear.
A lie. He barely had anything to eat.
His phone buzzed again.
Zoha: Liar.
Zaid blinked. How did she always know?
A minute later, another text came.
Zoha: Come outside.
His heart skipped a beat. Outside?
He quickly threw on a hoodie and stepped out of his cramped home.
Parked at the end of the dusty lane was a sleek white BMW, its polished surface gleaming against the rough surroundings. The stark contrast was enough to make passing neighbors steal glances, whispering among themselves.
Zaid swallowed hard as the driver stepped out first, moving swiftly to open the back door.
And then she appeared. Zoha.
Dressed in casual jeans and a fitted top, her sunglasses perched atop her head. Even in the simplest outfit, she looked effortlessly elegant—so different from everything around them.
Zaid exhaled. "Seriously? You brought the BMW here?"
She smirked. "What else was I supposed to bring? A bullock cart?"
He let out a short laugh but felt that familiar pang in his chest. Their worlds were too different.
Zoha walked up to him, shoving a warm food container into his hands.
"Here. Don't argue. Just eat."
He stared at it, then at her. She really came all this way… just for this?
As if reading his thoughts, she nudged him lightly. "Don't overthink. Just say thank you."
Zaid exhaled, gripping the container. "Thank you."
She grinned. "Good. Now go eat before I really do start force-feeding you."
With that, she turned back toward her car. The driver pulled open the door, and she slipped inside.
Zaid stood there, watching as the BMW glided away, leaving a cloud of dust behind.
A small smile crept onto his lips.
Yeah. He really was lucky.
Zaid sat on the worn-out steps outside his home, the food container still warm in his hands. He glanced at the spot where Zoha's BMW had been moments ago.
The stark contrast between them wasn't lost on him. She arrived in a luxury car with a driver, while he barely had money to buy a second-hand bicycle.
Shaking off the thoughts, he opened the container. Inside were neatly packed parathas with a small cup of homemade yogurt. Simple, but something he hadn't had in days.
His mother noticed and walked over. "Where did that come from?"
Zaid hesitated. "A friend."
She gave him a knowing look. "That girl?"
He didn't answer, just took a bite. It tasted different. Maybe because it came from her.
His mother sighed. "She seems nice. But…" She trailed off, and he knew what she meant.
But she's rich. But she's from a different world. But this won't last.
Zaid kept eating, refusing to let those thoughts take root.
Zoha didn't care about those things. So why should he?
Later that evening, his phone buzzed again.
Zoha: You're not mad, right?
Zaid frowned. Why would he be mad?
Zaid: About what?
Zoha: About me coming there.
Zaid: No. But you didn't have to.
Her reply was instant.
Zoha: Of course I did.
He stared at the screen, something tightening in his chest.
She was stubborn. And maybe, just maybe, he liked that about her.