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Third person's POV.

It had been two days since their return to Istanbul.

Two days of silence.

Two days of unspoken words filling the air between Aarib and Roshaane like an invisible wall.

Roshaane had never been one to hide her heart. She had always been outspoken, blunt, and unwilling to carry the weight of unsaid feelings. But Aarib was different — calm, composed, someone who bottled his storms within. Yet now, even his patience felt brittle, his silence sharper than words.

He wasn’t angry at her, not truly. He was angry at fate, at the circumstances that had pushed him into this marriage, angry at himself for agreeing to sacrifice love for duty. But the one thing he didn’t want was to unleash that anger on her.

So he avoided her.
And she waited for him to turn toward her.

It was just after 7 in the evening when Aarib returned home. As soon as he stepped inside, his senses caught the sharp, unpleasant smell of something burning. His heart raced.Taking off the shoes in front of the door, slidding his deet into another slippers, he rushed straight toward the kitchen.

At the entrance, he stopped.

Roshaane stood in front of the stove, wearing a loose ivory top that reached her mid-thigh over fitted jeans. Her hair was tied carelessly in a bun, a few strands falling against her flushed cheeks. A wooden spoon in one hand, a knife in the other, she looked caught between chaos and determination. Smoke rose from the pan where an egg had been reduced to a charred mess.

She turned at the sound of his steps, her eyes widening. Quickly, she dropped the utensils on the counter, turned off the stove, and stepped back nervously.

“I was just… trying to—” she began, but stopped when she saw him fold his sleeves and walk toward the stove with quiet authority.

“Step back.” His voice was low, firm — the first words he had spoken to her since their stay in this house.

Obediently, she moved aside and sat at the small dining table in the corner of the kitchen, her eyes glued to him.

With practiced ease, Aarib took over. He pulled out a packet of spaghetti, set water to boil, chopped vegetables with sharp precision, and marinated strips of chicken. His movements were calm, efficient, almost rhythmic. The scent of garlic and olive oil soon filled the air, blending with the hiss of chicken frying.

Roshaane watched in awe. He wasn’t just cooking — he was creating, his hands moving with the confidence of someone who belonged in the kitchen. She couldn’t help the way her lips curved into a small smile.

Minutes later, a steaming bowl of spaghetti with fried eggs on the side sat on the table. Aarib poured a glass of juice and placed it in front of her before settling across from her.

“Can we talk?” Roshaane asked quietly, her fingers toying with the fork. “Whenever you’re free.”

“We can talk now.” His tone was clipped, businesslike. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, fingers interlocked. “Say what you want to say.”

Her gaze lifted to his face, and for a moment, her breath caught. He was too handsome for his own good, the harsh seriousness only adding to his charm. Her heart skipped a beat, her palms trembled, and yet a smile tugged at her lips.

“I must say… you have every right to make me fall for you all over again.”

Aarib’s eyes widened, his hands stilled. “Huh?”

“I said I love you.” She repeated without hesitation, giggling at his stunned expression.

He blinked, clearly at a loss for words.

“I’m sorry,” she added quickly, dabbing her mouth with a napkin before sitting straighter. “I’m sorry for stepping into your life like this. I know you loved Maliha Aapi. I know this marriage wasn’t what you wanted.” Her voice wavered, but she forced herself to keep speaking.

“I can’t undo what happened. But I can tell you the truth — I fell in love with you long before all this. I don’t know when, I don’t know how. It just… happened.” Her eyes glistened, a tremor in her smile.

“I hope you won’t shout at me. Or… hit me.” She laughed softly through her tears, though her voice cracked with vulnerability.

Aarib’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“I know you married me because of your Zeeya Maa. Because you can’t bear to see her in pain. And I can’t hate you for that — I could never hate you. But loving you is something i cant control.” Her fingers twisted together nervously as her tears slipped free.

“I just want one favor from you,” she whispered, finally meeting his gaze. “Try to love me. Even if it takes time… even if it takes forever.”

For a second, silence thickened between them. Then she forced a small laugh, wiping her cheeks.

“But it’s okay. I’ll wait. I'll love you like i always did but don’t ever think of me as a burden. If you ever do, I’ll leave. I swear I’ll leave before you have to ask me.”

Her words hung in the air like fragile glass.

Aarib stood suddenly, pushing his chair back. “I’m getting late for the restaurant.”

Her lips parted, but before she could reply, he was already heading toward the door.

“Can I have paratha for breakfast tomorrow?” she called after him, her voice light but hopeful. “I can’t eat this bread in the morning.”

But he didn’t respond. The door closed behind him, leaving her with nothing but the echo of her own words.

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The door closed behind Aarib, leaving the house wrapped in silence. Roshaane sat still at the dining table, her eyes fixed on the untouched plate before her. His words, his silence, his absence—it all pressed heavily against her chest.

This was the marriage she had prayed for. She had longed to live with him, to share his world, to become the rhythm of his days. And now, here she was—in his home, his wife, bound to him in every way that mattered. Yet the emptiness in his eyes was louder than any rejection.

She rose slowly, her feet dragging her into the bedroom. The house was beautiful, elegant in its Turkish style, but it felt cold, unwelcoming. No laughter echoed in its walls, no warmth of family lingered in its corners. Just her and him. And even he was slipping away into the distance.

She sank onto the bed and clutched her phone tightly. Her fingers hovered over her mother’s number, trembling with every attempt. Once, twice, thrice—she dialed. And each time, as the call connected, her courage faltered. Her thumb pressed end before the ring could echo.

What could she even say? That the man she loved, the man she had fought her world for, was now a stranger under the same roof? That the dream she had painted for years was slipping through her fingers like sand?

Her tears spilled freely as she buried her face into the pillow. Her heart cried for someone to listen, someone to understand, but there was no one here. No motherly lap. No friendly hug. No one.

“Ya Allah,” she whispered brokenly into the silence, “give me strength. Don’t let me become a burden. Don’t let me break.”

The house remained still, holding her sobs within its walls. Outside, Istanbul glowed with life, but inside these walls, Roshaane’s world was unbearably lonely.

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The evening rush filled A&A Restaurant with the sounds of clinking plates, sizzling pans, and voices in different tongues. Waiters moved swiftly between tables, the aroma of kebabs and spices hanging warmly in the air. From his private chamber upstairs, Aarib watched it all quietly through the glass window. His staff was efficient, his managers confident—his empire in Istanbul had grown even in his absence. Business was alive, thriving, yet he felt hollow.

Outside, the glowing streets of Istanbul pulsed with life. The Bosphorus lights shimmered in the distance, cars streamed through the roads, laughter echoed from passing crowds. But within him, there was no joy—only noise, a suffocating tangle of thoughts.

His mind wandered back—always back—to the time when life had been simple. When Maliha’s smile was the only home he needed. When her soft voice across the restaurant counter had promised him forever. Even now, even after everything, he felt he belonged to her… and she, to him.

But now there was another name pressing against his thoughts—Roshaane.
Her blunt confession. Her teary-eyed plea. Her giggles breaking in between her pain. He could not push them away. He had tried. He had avoided. Yet her voice lingered, echoing in his mind again and again.

He leaned forward, elbows pressing against his knees, hands clutching his phone. The screen glowed in his palm. His thumb hovered over the name that could break him apart—Maliha.

One tap, and the dial tone began to ring. His breath caught in his chest, hope and pain wrestling inside him. But just as the connection buzzed alive, he pulled away, thumb pressing end.

Again, he tried. Again, he stopped. Three times his courage failed him.

Finally, he dropped the phone onto the table and buried his face in his hands. The tears came uninvited, rolling silently down his cheeks. His heart yearned for her—his Maliha, his lost love, the one who had made him dream of growing old with her. But now she was far, unreachable, a memory dressed as reality.

And here he was—someone’s husband, someone’s hope—trying to find a way to breathe, to live as though life was still normal, when nothing about it felt normal anymore.

The restaurant bustled with warmth and laughter below. But in his chamber, Aarib sat alone, his soul breaking against the walls of his own silence.

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Rome slept under September skies, but Maliha’s room stayed restless. Wrapped in her blanket, her face hidden from the world, she stared at the silent ceiling. Her chest ached with a hollow weight, and her tears had no end. She had shut herself away for days, refusing food, refusing company, trying to heal. But healing, she learned, hurt more than the wound itself.

That night her phone buzzed. The screen glowed.

Aarib.

Her heart froze. Fingers trembled. She reached to answer but the ringing ended. She gasped, holding the phone to her chest, her tears falling harder. Minutes later it rang again. This time she almost answered—but again, silence.

She broke into a bitter smile. He was as restless as her. He wanted to speak, but courage failed him. Just like her.

Finally, with hands shaking, she pressed his number.

The line clicked. Breaths—his and hers—merged across the distance. Then his voice came, quiet, cracked with longing.

“Maliha…”

Her lips trembled. “Aarib…”

The silence that followed was louder than words. Neither wanted to cut the call, neither wanted to let go. Their sobs blended softly, two broken hearts finding release in each other’s breaths.

“I shouldn’t have called,” he whispered. “But I couldn’t stop myself. Every corner here… every place… it reminds me of you. Even the streets look empty without you.”

Her tears slid faster. “And every minute here feels like prison. But Aarib… we can’t do this. We can’t go back. It will only break us more.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But tell me… how do I breathe without the promises we made? How do I sleep when every night I hear your voice in my head?”

Her throat tightened. “Then think of me… as someone who loved you enough to let you go.”

He closed his eyes, pain cutting deep. “I don’t want to let you go. Not yet.”

Neither hung up. Instead, they began talking—random, trembling words that circled around their pain. About the first time they met. About how it feels to laugh when your heart is bleeding. About the strange cruelty of life that binds you where you don’t want to be. Every word delayed the inevitable. Every silence begged for more time.

“You know what hurts the most?” Maliha whispered after a long pause. “It’s not that you’re not mine. It’s that someone else gets to see the side of you that I thought belonged only to me.”

His breath caught. “Don’t say that. My heart… it still belongs to you. Even if I can never say it again.”

She wept silently, clutching the phone tighter. He wanted to reach through the line, to wipe her tears, to hold her hand just once.

Finally, his voice steadied, though it broke inside him. “Maliha… promise me something.”

“What?”

“Promise me you won’t cry again. Promise me you’ll live. That you’ll smile like before, dream like before. Don’t let my name chain you, don’t let my memories shadow bind you. You deserve life, not silence. Promise me.”

Her chest heaved. “Aarib…”

“Promise me,” he repeated, his voice firm now, desperate.

She closed her eyes, lips trembling. “I promise.”

The line went quiet, their breathing syncing like two souls refusing to part. They wanted to hang up, but their fingers disobeyed. Minutes stretched into hours. They spoke again, then fell silent, then spoke again, clinging to the fragile thread between them.

And when finally the call ended—no one knew who pressed the button—it felt like tearing flesh from bone.

Both lay in the darkness, miles apart, phones still pressed against their hearts. They had let go, yet not. They had said goodbye, yet not. But for the first time since the storm, both carried a fragment of peace—because even in their breaking, they had healed each other.

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Haseeb had lost count of the days since Maliha shut herself away in that quiet corner of their house. Three… maybe four. The walls of the mansion felt heavier, darker, as though carrying the weight of her silence. Every time he passed by her door, his steps slowed, his hand lifted halfway—wanting to knock, wanting to say something—but his courage betrayed him, leaving him standing there, listening to the muffled quiet inside.

His heart ached with every hour she remained hidden. He could not eat properly, nor sleep in peace. His eyes would wander toward her door during meals, during conversations, as if waiting for her to emerge.

His parents noticed it all. They noticed the restless pacing of his footsteps, the way he stared out of the window with an empty gaze, the way he forced a smile when spoken to but failed to hide the storm within him. They exchanged glances but said nothing—for they knew. They knew his heart had chosen Maliha long before he ever spoke it aloud.

At night, he found himself standing outside her room, whispering to the closed door, his voice trembling.
"Maliha… please, don’t punish yourself like this. Come out. Just once. Just let me see that you’re okay."

But the silence answered him.

Sometimes, he thought of calling her name louder, of breaking the barrier and rushing in. Yet, he stopped. He respected her pain, even when it tore him apart. His love was not a chain to hold her but a quiet prayer whispered into the darkness.

And in that prayer, his parents saw the truth: their son’s heart beat only for her. They couldn’t tell her, couldn’t tell him—but they watched him fade a little more each day, carrying the burden of loving a girl who was drowning in her heartbreak.

Author's note.

Assalam-u-Alikum dear readers,

How are you all doing? 🌸
I hope I’m not too late with this update. Chapter 2 is already in your library now, and I truly hope you enjoyed reading it.

To be honest, I’m still struggling a little with Roshaane’s character. Back when I first hinted aAarib and Roshaane’s story during the arranged marriage story—and the heartbreak of Aarib and Maliha—I didn’t realize how difficult it would be to shape Roshaane’s journey later on. At that time, I thought maybe the person who caused so much chaos in their hearts should simply be removed, so the two broken hearts could finally meet. But now I see that’s not the actual plot.

Bringing Roshaane and Asrib together, making their story breathe with love and emotions… it’s not an easy path, even for me as the writer. Sometimes I don’t even know what I’ll write next, but that’s the beauty of this journey—we discover it together.

Let’s hope the story unfolds the way we all wish for. 💕

I’ll be waiting eagerly for your feedback. If you want the next update soon, do leave your comments—I’d love to see at least 50 of them before I start working on Chapter 3.

See you soon.
Much love,
Your Author