"How's Fahad?" I croaked hoarsely to Nurse Margaret, who was busy changing my bandages.

"He is perfectly fine. Just a minor burn to his left eyebrow. He'll live." She replied, her eyes focused on her task.

"Can I go home now?" I whimpered when a stray cotton thread rubbed against the tender skin. 

"For the sake of your sanity, I really hope that you're joking Ms. Hayat." Nurse leveled a quelling gaze at me, over the surgical mask tied over her mouth. She was wearing sterile scrubs from head to toe. "You have third-degree burns all over your shoulder, and second-degree burns down your arms. For the next four-five days, you're not even allowed out of the sterile room, let alone out of the hospital. Your damaged skin makes you extremely vulnerable to bacterial infections. Just sit back, and relax. You're safe here."

I would laugh out loud, if I wasn't in excruciating pain. 

And most of it wasn't even physical pain. 

When I started Hiraeth, I wasn't looking to collect awards, and recognition, and the public's admiration for my philanthropy. I just knew that a lot of women would die if I didn't reach out my hand in support. It was always about fighting my own demons through this. It was always about vanquishing someone else's oppressor, because I never got the chance to vanquish my own. It was this drive to save as many as possible. 

But when I met those first 10 women; everything changed. 

I was no longer obsessed with avenging my past, and exorcising my old demons. My history with sexual abuse almost ceased to matter, because it seemed almost trivial when I came to know some of genuine horror stories these women had gone through. 

28-year-old Farwa was an honor-killing survivor from a village near Peshawar, she was hiding from her family after they killed her husband, and threatened to kill her too. Her crime: marrying someone out of her tribe. 

Sheherezade was barely 16 when she refused a marriage proposal from her neighbor, and he decided to ruin her for any other man who might want to marry her. She lost vision in one eye, and looked almost sub-human with the acid burns covering her otherwise perfect face. 

Ghosia's husband was an abusive alcoholic, prone to senseless violence. At 23, she became a cripple when he got home too late one day, and didn't find a hot meal waiting for him. He beat her until she broke her spine, and still didn't stop.  

After she gave birth to a baby girl, Raeesa's mother-in-law used to encourage her husband to divorce her as punishment. As if she was the one responsible for her baby's gender, she was treated like a slave at home, until one day her patience snapped. When her mother-in-law tried beating her up, she beat her right back. Afterwards, terrified for the safety of herself and her baby, she escaped the hellhole that was her life, and ended up at hiraeth. 

There are more stories, each of them worse than the one before. 

I remember when I first met these women through Ms. Delores, all those years ago. They looked beaten, bruised, and broken on the outside, but I could sense a spark within them. This tiny ember of life. Like the glowing flickers that burn brightly in a barbecue, just before the coal cools down, and to keep that fire alive, you have to protect those sparks. 

And just like that, I fell in love with them. These women had experienced various degrees of hell on earth, and they had survived it somehow. They still had those sparks inside them, just waiting to be fanned, protected, encouraged...

And that's when it all changed. Everything became about them, about pleasing Allah through helping His creation. And I never looked backwards. I was at peace, when I most needed it. I was heartbroken, lost, confused, and very angry 6 years ago. Hiraeth changed me. Made me into the self-assured woman I am today; one who knows that what she does for a living, is making a difference in the world. I felt a little bit closer to my Allah, every time I saw one of these girls heal back, and smile. I will never ever forget how He made this project easy for me. Every time I thought, 'This is it. There's no way I can raise enough money', or 'There's no way I can give this enough time.'  something would happen to make my job easier for me. 

It always reminded me of this quote from the Holy Quran: 

"Your Lord did not abandon you. Nor did he forget." (93:3)

My faith in Allah's support has never been so shaken before this moment. For the first time ever, I'm doubting my work! And for what? At the baseless accusations of a disgusting pervert!

I never imagined my work being brought so low, by demons from my past. 

I never imagined that there'd come a day when I'd have to hear the words "Whore" and "Slut" being hurled against me. 

I never imagined that a day would come when I'd have to fear for my life, because of my work. 

I thought people involved in more dangerous political games, like my father were more likely to experience this. Or perhaps I just chose to ignore the rhetoric my country has for bringing down their heroes. 

I remember the gruesome assassination of Sabeen Mahmud (A prominent Pakistani Activist), and suddenly, the attack on my organization makes a lot of sense to me. 

They're creating a story in the minds of the Pakistani public. Musa Shah is using the illiterate, easily provoked mentality of the common man, to his own ends. He wanted to create the story, before I had the chance to tell people exactly what he was-A high profile rapist, with an affinity for younger girls. My story would have hurt his chances in the next elections, so he decided to pull out the big guns; my brother. He manufactured other details about the brothel, to destroy any credibility I have in the fight against women's rights. And he did it when I'm at my most vulnerable self. 

Thousands of miles away, my mother is fighting a battle inside her own body. 

My brother is effectively in exile because of me. 

My father is off hiding from political death threats of his own. 

I have never felt more alone. Suddenly it becomes so much harder to believe that Allah is still with me. That he will somehow create something good out of something so ugly. 

And it is ugly. 

I can barely stand to look at myself in the mirror. 

Ugly blotches of burned skin cover my right shoulder, all the way down to my elbow. Yesterday, when I was carried unconscious, into the hospital emergency, I was worse. The cotton of my shirt had burnt and melted into my skin, making it unbearably agonizing for me, when the burn rehab team had to remove the stray pieces of charred fabric from the mangled tissues of my skin. 

They actually had to sedate me, to keep me from screaming myself hoarse. 

A constant supply of pain-killers kept the pain to a lesser version of extreme agony for now. Most of the pain was now centered at the second-degree burns on my arms, because the worse burns on my shoulder had actually killed sensory cells of my skin, making me unable to feel anything in that area. 

"It will take months for this to heal fully." My Doctor had warned. "You have to be very vigilant about keeping the wound clean and under wraps." 

They avoided my questions about scars. But it was pretty obvious from the pitying gazes they threw my way. 

Now I will have permanent scars on the outside, to match the ones I have on the inside. Thanks to one particular asshole. 

Nurse Margaret finished cleaning my wound, wrapping clear gauze around the ghastly, gaping flesh. I kept biting my lip from screaming, every time her gentle fingers even lightly touched the worse areas. 

My own little preview into hell. 

I swear, whenever it is time to change my bandages, I almost wish I had died so I wouldn't have to live through this agony again, and again. 

......

"Miss. You have some visitors. They refuse to leave, even though we told them that you're not allowed to receive anyone." A new, younger nurse whispers to me hours later, when she wakes me up for some breakfast, and yet another round of wound cleaning. 

Pareeshae and Fahad probably. 

"If the security team lets them through, would you like to meet them?" 

Even though the doctors and nurses at one of Karachi's exclusive hospitals were trained to be discreet about their high profile patients, someone from the hospital had leaked photos and videos of me being admitted into the trauma unit, after the attack. 

That grainy footage was now being circulated in the media, and political commentators from were voicing their opinions about the connection of my attack with Musa Shah's press conference. 

The armed forces had taken notice, and now the entire Burn Unit of the hospital was swarmed by security personnel, assigned to guard me day and night. They had even taken away my phone to screen the hate calls I was receiving on it. I had no idea how my family and friends were reacting to this incident. It's like the outside world had left me, in a cocoon of false security behind sterile walls, that didn't even allow microscopic organisms past them. 

I am not sure I wanted them to see me like this. Scarred and ugly. I didn't even have the dignity of being clothed. A loose hospital gown without sleeves was draped over me. 

"I don't want to see anyone." I blinked away the tears threatening to crawl out of my eyes. 

"Okay Miss." 

..........

"...SIR, YOU CAN'T BARGE IN LIKE THIS! YOU COULD KILL HER!" 

"Well then, scrub me up, dammit! It's been three fucking days!" 

"She doesn't want to see you!" 

An ominous crash followed, that sounded very much like a large plastic object being hurled against a wall. 

"SIR! You have to control yourself, or you won't be allowed in the waiting area!" 

"ASK HER AGAIN." 

"She doesn't--"

"BLOODY ASK HER AGAIN, WOMAN!" 

I have only heard him this angry once before. 

It was years ago, when he thought I was being molested by a co-actor for Faris' play. 

"Miss. I don't think I can control your...friend...any longer. He wants to see you. desperately." The younger nurse almost snapped at me. She was red-faced with anger. 

I winced when my arm accidentally touched the pillow I had been leaning against. 

"Tell the rangers to throw him out, if he's bothering you too much. I don't want visitors." I stared stonily at the glass walls surrounding my room. Just beyond that glass was the scrubbing area, and the waiting room. The glass was opaque, so I couldn't see him, but I could hear the tantrum he was throwing. 

I was mad at the world right now. 

It all started with a phone call from my Dad, the day before.

"Daddy!" I had sobbed when I heard his voice over the phone. "Daddy, I want you to make him pay. I want to fight this in court. Sue him for slander! He...he took everything away from me, again!" 

"Laylee, sweetheart. I want you to listen to me carefully. I can't come home soon enough to protect you, so you need to stop this NGO nonsense, once and for all! For my peace of mind!" 

I almost couldn't believe my ears at this. I hiccuped into silence when I realized that he wanted me to quit Hiraeth. Take the cowards way out, to save myself. 

"No, I can't do that! I just need your help fighting him, Dad. You're friends with some of the best criminal defense lawyers in the country. Can't you just help me take legal action against that...that animal?" 

"You're being childish, Layla!" His tone sharpened with fear and anger. "I am already knee-deep in legal shit, because of your stupid brother. I don't have the energy to protect all of my children from their own selves! For God's sake, stop this madness and shut down this little social adventure of yours! You have enough money to settle someplace else. I'll buy you an apartment near your mother in London. You can go to Oxford for Post graduate studies like you always wanted...." "

Unbelievable.

"You know I have always encouraged you and your siblings to do as you please..."

"Because you never cared enough, Dad." I finally answered back, years of hurt and neglect making its way out of my tongue. "Do you even know the name of my 'social adventure'? Do you even know what degree I have from college?"

His silence was worse than his words.

My heart was being shredded to pieces. And for the time being, the flesh wounds gaping on my shoulders ceased to matter. 

I felt like a canopy of protection was suddenly lifted. A protection that I always imagined I had because of my powerful father. 

Now I now what it feels like to lose a parent. 

Because I think I just lost the love I always had for him. 

I always thought it was Mama who was the overbearing one in my family. The one who was perpetually disappointed in me and my choices. Guess I was wrong. It was both of them. 

"My 'Little social adventure' saves lives, Dad. I'm not shutting it down." I added woodenly, refusing to plead more with him. 

Once again, my life reminds me that I have nobody to rely on, but myself. Me and my Allah, against the world. 

"Well then for God's sake, return that man's child-bride to him! The Shah family released a statement today regretting the attack that was made on you--"

An attack that was incited by their own words. Hypocrites!

"--I accepted the apology on your behalf, and I made a counter statement, ensuring the release of that girl Chandi, into the custody of her husband." 

I think in that moment, I actually understood the real meaning of the term 'Seeing Red'. Because I was so angry, that my vision hazed around the edges a little bit. 

"How dare you?" I whispered. 

"How dare I? HOW DARE I?" He roared, "You're lying broken and burnt in a hospital, Layla! A random girl with domestic issues shouldn't be your primary concern right now! I can see that I made the wrong decision letting your mother raise you by herself. You've turned out just like her! Obsessed with your work, to the point where you don't care about the lives and reputations of others in your family! I have never been more ashamed of you, Layla! A BROTHEL? REALLY? DID I REALLY DESERVE TO HAVE THIS ATTACHED TO MY DAUGHTER'S IMPRESSIVE RESUME--" 

I flicked off the phone with my left hand because I could no longer bear to hear him. 

To live with the knowledge that my father was more concerned with his spotless political reputation, than my own safety, is yet another preview into hell. I don't wish it on anyone. It was almost as bad as the knowledge, that apparently my father ashamed of me.

I have no idea what led me to even hope that I would have some kind of support from him in this battle...lesson learned. Again. And again. 

And then we come to him. Azaan. 

"The guards won't throw him out, Miss." The nurse replied wearily. 

"Why not?" I scowled. 

"He is the one who requested them, as a favor from the Army Chief himself. He is friends with most of them." 

'Of course he is.' I thought irritably to myself. 'Freaking Shahnaz-loving Army brat!'

"How long has he been waiting outside?" 

"Three days. He hasn't moved, except for food breaks. And when he has to go home and change clothes at night. He has set up his own work-station in the lobby. His poor assistant is living in the hospital on crackers and coffee, because he works like a demon." 

A stab of guilt broke through the wall of defensiveness I had erected around myself since the fateful phone call with my dad. 

I was so busy being hurt over the rejection of one man, that I couldn't fathom an opposite reaction from anyone else.

"Well, tell him to go home, and--" 

The automatic glass door swung open to reveal Azaan in his blue-scrubbed glory. Only his eyes were visible through the mask over his mouth, and they widened with horror when they landed on me. 

"Sir, you're not allowed to--" 

"It's okay. I let him in. He is clean." Nurse Margaret walked in behind Azaan, briskly checking my vitals, before ushering the other nurse out of the room. She whispered near my ear, her eyes twinkling,"He is a very persuasive young man..." 

Once we were alone, I couldn't bear to look at him, so I busied myself, awkwardly smoothing my sleep-smushed braid lying thickly against the uninjured side of my neck. I looked like death warmed up. I was suddenly aware of the dark circles under my eyes, and the chapped lips I had because of the cold temperature in the room. I smelled like disinfectant and lingering smoke. I have never felt uglier.

Why did I care about how I looked, anyways?

"Your hair looks fine, Layla." His deep voice gave me pause, as he settled on the uncomfortable looking chair beside my bed. 

My hand halted the fiddling. 

"Can I see?" He asked, nodding to light blanket I had draped over my bandaged right arm. 

"You will throw up, Princess." I grimaced weakly, reminding him of his weakness of gore. "This is pretty ugly." 

"I want to see." He insisted gently, "I want to let you know that even the ugliest part of you, is beautiful to me. You shouldn't ever have to hide from me, or refuse to see me, because there's nothing you can do to yourself, that will ever make you less than the most beautiful person I've ever known."

"Please leave me alone." I breathed out, not wanting to see the pity and disgust, that I know he'd have in his eyes, no matter what he says. 

Or maybe I was afraid that he won't be pitiful, or disgusted. 

What will I do then? 

"I can't do that." He said gently. "I told you I'm not going anywhere. I meant it." 

But you will. When you finally know...

"Did you see his press conference? Don't you realize what that means? You're still bent on being near me, knowing what you know now?" My voice got higher with desperation.

I couldn't understand why it was important for me that he should walk away now, like my father had. 

Maybe because if he walks away now, then it'll make my life simpler. Then I can truly say that I was alone to make whatever decisions I please. Then I can live a life without interference from men who think they can dictate my choices, my life. 

"Are you saying that you're running an underground sex-club over there?" He asked astonished. 

"Oh for God's sake! Of course not!" I snapped, "That news about my brother! doesn't it bother you to know that I'm related to someone who escaped conviction because of his privileged background? I'm part of the elite society who thinks that laws are created below them! Doesn't it rattle your patriotism? Your decency?" 

He pulled down the mask from his face, and I saw him pinch the bridge of his nose in despair. He looked absolutely exhausted, what with the several days worth of facial hair darkening his jaw, and the tired wrinkles around his eyes. His dimple was MIA.

I added this under the list of things I'm currently guilty about.

"Everyone makes mistakes Layla. Everyone does things for the sake of their family, that aren't morally right. It is wrong to condemn them entirely as a person, because they slipped up in a heated moment." 

I couldn't believe my ears. 

I have grown up listening to this man rant about the privileged assholes in our society. He actually protested in a social activist event, against a similar murder case, where the rich kid got away with stealing a young life, just because his family had more wealth and influence (**). 

How could he ignore this about me, then?

"I haven't been the most honorable person too. I know a thing or two about difficult choices." He sighed, rubbing his tired face now. "I quit the army, Layla. Did you know that? It's the single most disgraceful thing I could have done to my poor father, and my brother's memory. And yet, I still did it. Because my Ma asked me to. Not a day passes by, when I don't feel guilty over it. But if given the choice, I'd do it all over again. Because that's what family means to me. So if you think I'm going to judge you for Zaif's actions, then you're hugely mistaken. He did what he did, out of his love for you, and I can never grudge him for that." 

He paused, unaware of the havoc he was wreaking on my poor heart. Or maybe he did know. The heart-rate monitor was certainly beeping in weird patterns now. Tattletale!

"...furthermore, Musa Shah is a blight against humanity, and I actually wouldn't have minded, if your brother had succeeded in injuring him someplace far more important, in the southern region of his--" 

I giggled out loud, "Stop. Oh my God!" 

He grinned back in return, suddenly looking younger by about twenty years, and my heart warmed up when I spotted my favorite facial deformities in the world; his dimples, almost hidden by the scruff. 

"Thanks for your support, Azaan. You have no idea how much this means to me." I shyly mumbled back, hiding my face with my uninjured hand. "I'm just dreading stepping out of this room, and facing the world, knowing that they will probably believe Musa's words. I have never been hated so much before. By people who don't even know me..."

"I'll tell you what I know about you now, Nightlife." He stood up, leaning forward so he could look me straight in my eyes. His arms came to rest on either side of my face, and I felt caged, with no choice but to stare right back. "I now know, that you're braver, stronger, more beautiful than I ever gave you credit for." He replied earnestly, "And I now know that Musa Shah is scared shitless because of you. Because you see, when a toxic person can no longer control you, they will try to control how others see you, through lies, and manipulative slander. You just have to stay above it, Nightlife. Eventually, everyone will realize exactly what it is; a load of fertilizer." 

I couldn't believe the strength, and vitality that flowed through me, after hearing him. 

"You know Laylee, a strong woman can do it by herself, but a good man will never let her."  Mama used to quote this whenever she was bitter about Dad leaving. "Make sure you're a strong woman, because good men are hard to find." 

"So...you're not going to tell me to quit this project, because it is too dangerous for me? That I'm biting off more than I can chew, by making a public spectacle of myself?" I asked cautiously, expecting him to go ape-man like my Dad, and urging me to stop my work, 'Because he cared for me'. 

I never imagined that one day, I'll want someone to approve of my choices, this badly. That one day, I will want him to be my supporter, even if it means forgetting our past differences. Even if it means forgiving him for something that I imagined was the worst time of my life.   

"Do you want to quit it?" He asked quietly. 

"I think I'll die inside if I quit." my voice broke, and I had to take a break to calm myself.

He nodded briskly, "Well, then, we'll just find a way to make it safer for you to work. You can't work at your old office, it is still being renovated. I sent over the crew myself. Did Pareeshae tell you that we have a new fence around the shelter building? Your girls will be perfectly safe there, with the additional security. But your office building is...it's in pretty bad shape right now. But we'll work something out, for sure..."

I cannot explain how light I felt after this. He made it sound so simple. Supporting me with my difficult choices, like it was no big deal. 

I loved how he said 'We' instead of 'You'. 

I loved how it was enough for him, that I needed to do something. How he didn't try to discourage me, or negotiate with me, or tried to convince me that I couldn't do something, like he might have done, a few years before. He just took my answer, and in one breath, made all of my problems, 'Our Problems'. 

"Where will I work then?" I sniffed, imagining my office in ruins after the mob attack. All those inspirational ideas on the wall. All those training certificates awarded to my organization...I practically lived in there, imagining a new workplace was traumatizing for me. 

So it wasn't enough that Musa scarred me, he had to ruin my second home too. What else is he going to take away from me? The Bastard! 

"That is the least of our worries, Layla." He sighed, pulling out his cellphone to show me a Tribune article on screen. 

'BCW drops Hayats, after anti-feminist accusations made by former employee.'

The article went on to elaborate how my mother's brand was being kicked out of the upcoming Bridal Fashion week, because of "Unfeministic practices". It was a bunch of  bullshit, lame accusations to mask the real reason why the committee wasn't allowing Hayats to be represented: they were scared of the influence Musa Shah and his party had in such situations. Letting the brand walk on the ramp, would be akin to inviting more lunatics to storm the fashion event with protests and fire-arms.

I was so busy reading the infuriating piece, that I didn't realize when my blanket shifted, baring my charred shoulder. 

Azaan's muffled gasp alerted me. 

I looked up to see him staring blankly at the gaping monstrosity of bandages, and anti-septic creams. 

The urge to hide myself was so strong, that I actually squeezed his cellphone in my hand to stop myself from doing it. 

"I will kill him." He muttered through clenched teeth, leaning forward to tug the blanket further down, so he could see the blotches of half-healed minor burns down my arms. He sucked in another breath, sharply, "He is so fucking dead." 

"No you won't." I warned him, "I don't want to lose--I don't want you to be executed on my behalf. Seriously. Musa isn't worth dying for." I quickly amended my sentence, unwilling to let him know how much he already meant to me. 

He just kept glaring at me arm, as if he was committing each mangled tissue to memory.

"There's more than one way to kill a man, Layla. I will kill his name. You see if I won't." 

"Okay James Bond, happy plotting... Can you leave me alone now? You're making me extremely uncomfortable." I tugged the blanket loosely over me. I hate hospital clothes!

"You're still beautiful, Nightlife." He replied earnestly, "If you think I love you any less now, or want to be with you any less, then you're mistaken, you know I--"

I want to laugh out loud, even in the excruciating pain. He is so adorable, when he is trying to be unnecessarily reassuring.

"I know I'm okay, Azaan. These burns didn't bruise my vanity in case you're worried." I replied calmly, "But I still want you to go away. This isn't appropriate." 

He looked puzzled, "What do you mean?" 

I want to roll my eyes so badly. Clueless males. 

"I'm not wearing anything under this tissue paper gown, Azaan. Please get the hell out." I explained clearly, sweetly. Knowing that this will freak him out of this room like nothing else. 

It worked.

He turned bright red, before mumbling apologies, and practically banging into the glass door in his hurry to get away from me. 

..................

"I am her mother. I think she is safe from me." Mama's hysterical voice sounded in the hallway outside my new recovery ward room. Likely arguing with the mean-looking army officers posted outside my room.

It's been five days since the attack, and I was safe to leave the sterile box I had been a prisoner in. The doctor gave me my first good news in days: I didn't need surgery to repair the damage on my shoulder. The burn wasn't as deep as they had previously assumed, because of my skinny limbs.

In fact, aside from daily visits to change my bandages, and anti-bacterial shots, I was free to leave the hospital in a few hours. 

Now it seemed like my Mother had arrived on the scene.

Being in a secluded place for days, made me assume that Mama wouldn't be aware of the attack. Ruby had assured me during her visit, that Maria was trying her best to keep the news to herself. Mama was in a very sensitive period of her pre-surgery treatments, and the added worry for me, will make her lose focus on healing herself.

The door flew open, revealing my poor mother. She looked like she had lost half of her weight. Her beautiful hair looked dead, and unkempt-like she hadn't conditioned in a while. She was wearing one of Zaif's USC sweatshirts with a shalwar and chaddar -a combination that she would have previously annihilated a female for wearing. Her face looked pale, devoid of her daily makeup routine; her eyes looking huge, lined with bruise-like dark circles. There was a surgical bandage peeking out from under collar. 

"Mama?" I croaked, tears welling up in my eyes at the sight of her. I ignored the painful protest of my right arm, as I rushed down from the bed, flinging myself in her arms. I sobbed for both of us in that moment, because she just wordlessly kept kissing my head, holding her own tears in check. Stoic, as always. 

I have never loved her more, than in that moment. So happy that she was letting me glimpse at this little part of her that she tries so hard to hide. This part-her motherhood, that can drive her to ditch a surgery appointment. Her love for me, that forced her to make questionable wardrobe choices, and likely made her travel in economy class, even though she is allergic to middle-class plane travelers. This soft, yielding part of her that makes her rush to support me, even though she has never approved of my career choices. 

"Laylee, I have told you again and again, that you need a better PR team." She muttered in my ears, "Media is might, my dear. And you just lost a fight, because you don't have enough influence in that circle." 

My mother. Always the blunt realist. 

I just nodded, sniffing away the tears, against her neck. 

"Are you mad at me, because Hayats got kicked out of BCW because of me?" I asked timidly. "Because I swear I'll make it up to you, Mama. I have a plan..." 

She sighed. 

"Would you believe me when I say that I couldn't give a rat's fart about BCW right now?" She stroked my hair gently, letting me cling to her. 

"Not really." I laughed weakly, "I know how much it means to you, and your team."

I remember her telling me once, that she starts planning for any event, at least 2 years before they actually happen. I cannot fathom the amount of energy that she's already put into her work. And I am suddenly determined to get it back for her. Everything that Musa is trying to steal away from her. 

"Laylee. Baby. If there's anything this disease has taught me, it's this: events, careers, jobs...they don't matter. You matter. And your sister matters. And your idiotic brother matters." She pulled away from me, pointing behind her. 

My eyes widened when I saw Maria crying her eyes out, being supported by someone freakishly tall, with too-long hair. 

"Hey sis." Zaif smiled weakly at me. "Wanna hug me before I go to prison?" 

So I did. 

Author's Note: 

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!! 

Phew. I needed to let that out. 

I am at that stage of the book, where a single misstep in writing will screw up the plot of the entire book. 

lol. no pressure or anything. Just almost a year's worth of storytelling down the drain. lol. 

In other good news; the gorgeous cover convention continues!! 

THANK YOU rain_pearl darling, for the amazing cover arts! <3 I am lucky to have you as a friend, and reader. :* 

ISN'T THIS GORGEOUS?????

...AAANDD my favorite: (Because I'm emo about this book)

*Heart eyes* 

Love you all for the support! 

Oh, and for the curious ones: YES I AM GOING FOR THE WATTYS, BECAUSE DUH! 

I'll change the tags when I feel that my book is ready. :) Relax.  

But you need to help me out here. If you're a regular reader who somehow still hasn't discovered the vote button: It's that adorable little star a little down to your left. See that? Yeah, I have some amazing news for you: you can press it!! Go on, try it! It's fun!! (For me atleast. LOL) 

Oh, and for the silent ones: I'm trying so hard to be honored that you're reading my book and enjoying it, even if you never let me know about it. :) 

.... -__- ......

See? This is me trying! :D 

To the lovely, generous friends who've made this book a pleasure for me to write: you're invaluable to me. You and your opinions. It has made me think a million times about what I pen down. That's something I never did before. Thank you for being the best critics a writer can ask for. The best cheerleaders as well. :* May all of you get the Faris/Azaan/Zaif/Chum Chum of your dreams. 

Love and Jalebis! 

-E. 

(**The incident I referred to here, is the murder of Shahzeb Khan, by Shahrukh Jatoi and his servant. You can google it for details. But ultimately, it goes to show the abuse of power by the wealthy in my country.)