It had been a month since Zeeniya and Jahan had moved to Karachi.
The new house was vast — walls echoing with silence, servants moving quietly in the background, their presence never enough to fill the emptiness that surrounded her.

Life was unchanged.
And Jahan... he was still a stranger.

Every day, Zeeniya tried in small, silent ways to reach him — a cup of tea just the way he liked it, his favourite meals, a soft smile when he entered the room — but his eyes never lingered long enough to notice. She longed for a conversation, a word, even a passing question about her day. Yet his lips only spoke when needed, and never of her.

At times, she wondered if she existed in his world at all — or if she was just a name attached to a duty he had fulfilled.

Who am I to you, Jahan? she wanted to ask.
A wife? A stranger? A decoration placed in your life out of obligation?
But she never dared.

---

The Morning

That morning, sunlight streamed through the glass windows of their room, falling over the neatly arranged table where Jahan’s laptop and files lay. He was already dressed in his charcoal suit, tie perfectly knotted, sleeves crisp against his skin. His expression, as always, was serious — a man too accustomed to control to ever let emotion slip through.

Zeeniya entered the room quietly, holding a tray with his breakfast.
He didn’t look up. He was searching for something, moving from drawer to drawer with growing impatience.

“Jahan… are you looking for something?” she asked softly.

“My blue file,” he replied, distracted, pulling open another drawer. His phone rang almost immediately.

“Yes, I’m coming,” he said curtly. “Yes, I have the file. I’ll be there.”

But his brows furrowed deeper as he kept searching.

“The blue one?” she asked hesitantly. “I—I think I saw it yesterday. I placed it in your study with your other books.”

He froze.
“What?” His tone sharpened.

“I thought… you forgot it there, so I just—”

“Who told you to touch my things?” His voice cut through her words like a blade. “How dare you move anything from my drawers without my permission!”

Zeeniya stepped back, her breath caught in her throat. She had never seen his eyes this cold, this filled with irritation.

“I’m sorry, Jahan. I didn’t mean to—”

“You don’t understand,” he interrupted harshly. “That file is important. Don’t ever touch my things again.”

His phone rang once more, and he answered without looking at her. When the call ended, his voice lowered — calm but far more wounding.

“Stay in your limits, Zeeniya. Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you and your mother did to me — to my sister. Don’t test my patience.”

The world around her seemed to still. His words echoed through the quiet room long after he had left it.
The door slammed shut.

---

She stood there, motionless — the tray trembling in her hands, her heart slowly breaking under the weight of his anger. Then, tears fell, one after another, until she sank to the floor.

For the first time, the hope she had carried for weeks — the fragile dream that maybe someday he would see her, love her — cracked beyond repair.

Stay in your limits.
Don’t touch my things.
I haven’t forgotten what you and your mother did.

Each word carved deeper than the last.

---

When she finally rose, her body felt heavier than her soul. The breakfast she had prepared still sat untouched on the table, steam long gone cold. The servants had retreated to their quarters, and silence once again filled the mansion.

She cleaned the dishes quietly, her tears slipping into the running water. Then, she went upstairs to their room, mechanically tidying everything. When she reached for one of Jahan’s shirts, his voice echoed again in her mind — Don’t touch my things.

Her hands trembled.
She placed the shirt aside and covered her face with both palms.

By the time she stepped onto the balcony, her eyes were swollen, her breath uneven. She sat on the chair, curled her legs to her chest, and stared at the grey sky. The world outside was calm — utterly indifferent to the storm raging within her.

Why, Jahan? she whispered in her heart. Why can’t you see that I only wish to love you?

The wind brushed her face like a quiet comfort she hadn’t asked for.
But it wasn’t enough.

She cried until exhaustion won.
When she woke later, her head throbbed from the ache of unshed words. She went to the washroom, washed her face, and made tea for herself — the same way she always made it for him.

As she sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes fell on a framed photograph of Jahan. She lifted it gently, her thumb brushing over his smiling face.

“You’ll never know what you mean to me,” she whispered. “And you’ll never know how much it hurts.”

Her tears dropped onto the frame.

Then she set it down, performed her ablution, and prayed.

Her voice trembled in her Dua:
“Ya Allah, give me strength to endure… and a place in his heart someday.”

The room fell silent again — except for the faint sound of her whispered prayer, rising into the still air like the last light of hope.

---

A/N:
Assalam-o-Alaikum dear readers,
I hope this chapter touched your heart. Zeeniya’s pain is quiet but deep — the kind that hides behind patience and love. What do you think of Jahan’s coldness? Can hearts that start so far apart ever meet halfway?
Share your thoughts and keep Zeeniya in your prayers — she’ll need them. 🌸

Keep reading,
Keep smiling,
and keep believing in gentle love. 💫