Third person's POV.

The sun had begun to set over Üsküdar, painting the Bosphorus in shades of gold and rose. The evening call to prayer echoed faintly through the neighborhood as Hikmat Demir pulled his sleek black car into the driveway of his family home — a spacious villa with olive trees flanking the front yard and a warm light spilling from the windows.

He took a deep breath, brushed off the day’s dust, and stepped inside.

“Selamün aleyküm, anne… nene.” (Peace be upon you, mother… grandmother.)
His voice carried both warmth and fatigue.

“Aleyküm selam, oğlum.” (And peace be upon you, my son.)
His mother, Elif Hanım, looked up from the kitchen island, where she was slicing pomegranates. The faint scent of Turkish coffee filled the air. On the sofa, Nuriye Ana, his grandmother, sat wrapped in a light shawl, her prayer beads gently clicking between her fingers.

Hikmat bent to kiss his mother’s hand, then his grandmother’s, placing each kissed hand on his forehead — the traditional gesture of respect.

Without ceremony, he sat on the couch, reached for an apple from the fruit bowl, and bit into it, his eyes absentmindedly catching the light of the television. For a long moment, the only sounds were the quiet hum of the TV and the rhythmic tick of the wall clock.

Then, casually — but with something heavy beneath the words — he said in Turkish,
“Aarib evlendi.”
(Aarib got married.)

Elif froze mid-slice, her knife pausing over the cutting board.
“Ne dedin? What? When?” she asked, eyes wide in surprise.

Nuriye Ana’s brows furrowed. She leaned slightly forward on her cane.
“O kızla mı evlendi? Must be the same girl he brought here last time,” she murmured knowingly.

Elif nodded thoughtfully. “Maliha çok iyi bir kızdı. Maliha was such a good girl. I wish them happiness,” she said, placing the fruit bowl before her mother-in-law.

Hikmat’s next words broke the calm.
“O, Maliha’yla evlenmedi.”
(He didn’t marry Maliha.)

Both women looked up sharply, their eyes reflecting confusion and disbelief.

“Ne? Not Maliha?” his mother whispered.

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “No. Someone else. A girl I’ve never seen before. And I swear… something is off. He’s hiding something — something deep.”

Nuriye Ana’s prayer beads stopped moving. She studied her grandson’s face with wise, narrowed eyes.
“Oğlum,” she said softly, “bazı acılar sessizdir. Ama sessizlik en yüksek çığlıktır.”
(My son, some pains are silent — but silence can be the loudest scream.)

Elif looked at Hikmat with quiet concern. “Maybe you should go talk to him. He listens to you more than anyone.”

Hikmat nodded slowly, finishing his apple. His mind wasn’t at peace. “I will. Soon,” he said under his breath.

The grandmother resumed her beads, whispering prayers for Aarib — a boy who, in her heart, she had always treated like her own grandson.

Outside, the call to the night prayer began again, echoing softly through the still air, while inside the Demir house, three hearts silently wondered what storm was brewing in Aarib’s life.

----

A soft television glow filled the living hall. The channel played a cooking show on mute; the sound was swallowed by the apartment’s hush. Aarib sat slumped on the sofa, one arm draped over the back, eyes on the screen but clearly somewhere else.

Roshaane sat beside him, in casualt-shirt with a loose trouser of candl colour.. Her hair fell over one shoulder in a careless fall, and a pink bubble of gum popped quietly as she chewed, more out of habit than hunger. She watched him — the way his jaw tightened when his phone buzzed, the little crease between his brows. He hadn’t spoken much since Hikmat left.

She nudged his knee gently. “Aarib… you know I didn’t make you to take the day off so you could sit and look like a statue?” Her voice was light but steady, trying to cut through the quiet. “I wanted to talk to you. I wanted us to have the day.”

He blinked, the statue cracking a little, but said nothing.

Roshaane rolled her gum between her teeth and tried something softer. “I’m missing Pakistani food,” she said suddenly, looking at him with a small, hopeful smile. “Can you make pulao tonight? Your pulao — the one your Zeeya Maa taught you. Please.”

He turned to her then, the request passing through him like a sparrow’s wing. For the first time that evening, the slightest movement of attention returned to his face. His mouth opened as if to answer, then closed.

She didn’t push. She only watched, pulse waiting on his next breath, holding the small, ordinary hope that perhaps a bowl of home might be the thread to pull them back together.

A few minutes later...

The kitchen smelled of onions and cardamom. Aarib stood by the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, wristwatch lying near the spice jars. He was cutting onions with quick, practiced motions — neat, rhythmic, but silent. The blade hit the board in steady clicks, filling the space where words should’ve been.

Roshaane leaned on the counter beside him, her head slightly tilted, eyes following his every move. He washed the meat next, water splashing over his hands and the sink. His black shirt clung slightly to his arms, his beard untrimmed, his hair untamed — it gave him a rugged look, far from the crisp man she had known him.

Every time he moved to fetch something ,rice from the jar, oil from the shelf, she followed, quietly shadowing him around the small kitchen. It was almost comical, the way her soft slippers padded behind his steps.

Finally, he paused, glancing at her over his shoulder. “Why are you following me everywhere?” His tone was low, curious rather than annoyed.

Roshaane blinked innocently. “Because I'm trying to learn cooking from you."

He raised an eyebrow. “Then cook.”

She bit her lip, hiding a smile. “I don’t know how to.”

Aarib turned fully now, the knife still in his hand but forgotten.

"Can tou take my clothes to laundry?" She asked the next question. His eyes narrowed slightly in disbelief. “You don’t know how to wash your own clothes?”

She shook her head with a small grin. “No. Back home, I never had to. And I don’t know where the laundry place is here either. Since i came here you're the one washing my clothes or taking it to the laundry but today i thought to ask for a laundry by myself.” Her innocence was out of the way.

Aarib stared at her for a second — long enough to make her glance away. Then a small, unwilling smile tugged at his lips. “Unbelievable… the princess of Jahan Mansion,” he muttered, rinsing his hands again.

“I told you,” she said, grinning now, “I’m learning.”

He only shook his head, but for the first time that day, the silence between them wasn’t heavy. It was soft.

They sat together at the small dining table, two plates of steaming pulao between them. The TV murmured softly in the background, forgotten. Aarib ate quietly, his focus on the food, while Roshaane occasionally glanced up from her plate, watching him more than she was eating.

“I found out a nice thing about you,” she said suddenly, breaking the silence.

He looked up, puzzled. “What thing?”

“That you cook better than you talk,” she said, half-teasing, half-serious. Her lips curved in a faint smile.

He exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smile flickering and fading. “Maybe.”

She leaned a little forward, resting her chin on her hand. “But why have you stopped taking care of yourself?” she asked softly. “You used to look… gentle. Refined. Now you look like someone who’s forgotten what a mirror is for.”

He looked at her then properly looked  and she continued before he could respond. The plates were half-finished, and only the sound of spoons lightly touching the plates filled the silence.

Roshaane looked at him across the table — his hair uncombed, the stubble rough on his jaw, his eyes distant. She hesitated before speaking.

“I don’t want anyone to notice that I’ve forced myself on you,” she said quietly. “That this marriage was forced.”

His brows furrowed, but she continued, her voice soft and trembling. “People should see you the way you’ve always been — calm, gentle, respected. I want you to look after yourself, Aarib. Dress well, keep your head high. You deserve that honor not pity.”

He leaned back, eyes fixed on her, expression unreadable. “Is it not true then?” he asked slowly. “That you forced yourself on me? That you forced this marriage?”

Her heart stung at his words. She lowered her gaze, fingers curling around the edge of the table.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “It’s true.”

He said nothing, only kept staring at her.

“I forced you to marry me,” she continued, her throat tightening. “But I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help my heart… my love for you.”

Her words trembled in the air between them, heavy, sincere, and painful.

“I know I ruined what you had,” she said after a moment, her eyes glistening. “But I can’t apologize for loving you. Even if it makes me the villain in your story.”

Aarib sat still, his jaw tight, his fingers unconsciously gripping the table not out of anger, but something else he couldn’t name.

He leaned back, his jaw tightening. “Then how am I supposed to forget that?” he said, his tone cracking. “How am I supposed to erase that night from my mind? I was ready to start a life with someone else, a woman I promised to protect, to love. You destroyed all that in one night. How do I make sense of it now?”

Her throat ached. “I didn’t destroy anything,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I just... couldn’t lose you. You don’t understand what that night meant to me. I thought if I didn’t act, I’d lose you forever.”

He gave a hollow, bitter laugh. “And you think what you did saved anything? Roshaane, I wake up every morning and I can’t even see you as my wife. I can’t force my heart to accept what my mind rejects.”

His words cut deep, but she tried to steady her breath, her tears held back.
“I know,” she said quietly. “I know you can’t. But I can’t help what I feel either. I’ve loved you for years, Aarib. Maybe it’s wrong, maybe it’s selfish but it’s love. And everyone has the right to fight for their love.”

He shook his head, staring at his hands. “You call it love,” he murmured. “To me, it feels like a punishment I didn’t deserve.”

Roshaane smiled faintly through her tears. “Maybe it is for you,” she said softly. “But for me, it’s still hope. I’ll take even your silence over losing you completely. Because one day, maybe you’ll see me not as the girl who forced you, but as the woman who never stopped loving you.”

He looked up then, meeting her eyes for a brief second. There was no anger  just exhaustion, confusion, pain.

“Hope,” he repeated under his breath. “You still have that?”

She nodded slowly. “It’s all I have.”

The silence returned, heavier this time not cruel, but filled with the ache of two souls who had loved in opposite directions.
He looked away first, pushing his plate aside, while she sat there quietly, her eyes glistening but brave, still holding on to the very thing he was trying to forget — love.

----------

The night lay quiet over Istanbul, draped in a stillness that only sleepless hearts could feel.
Aarib stood by the window of their room, the curtains half drawn, the moonlight spilling gently across his face. His reflection in the glass looked distant — hollow eyes, an untamed beard, a man lost somewhere between regret and longing.

He hadn’t spoken much since dinner. The silence between him and Roshaane had returned, familiar, almost comforting now. Yet tonight, it felt heavier than before.

His gaze lifted to the moon cold, pale, and silent and his thoughts followed the same path they always did. Back to the day everything had changed. Back to her.

Maliha.

The ache in his chest was still the same. The image of her eyes, that hurt, the soft tremor of her lips when she had told him, when they took the decision — it was all there. Like a wound that refused to heal.

But then, another face came before his eyes, softer, warmer. Roshaane.

He exhaled slowly, pressing his forehead against the glass.
Every time he looked at her, he saw her mother, his Zeeya Maa.

The woman who had shown him kindness and love, who had smiled at him like a son, who had made him feel beautiful, loved and one of the most important in the world.

And Roshaane — she carried that same warmth in her smile, so much resemblance with her mother, that same innocence in her eyes, that same tone in her voice.

It was unbearable sometimes.

Maybe that’s why he couldn’t scold her. Couldn’t raise his voice. Couldn’t even look at her with anger for long.
Because when he looked at her, he didn’t just see the girl who forced him into marriage.
He saw Zeeya Maa's daughter.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and a whisper escaped his lips.
“She looks so much like her… same eyes, same heart.”

He sighed deeply.
He wanted to be angry with her — to hold her words, her actions against her. But he couldn’t.
Her voice softened him. Her eyes disarmed him. Her care — though unwanted — reached him in ways he couldn’t fight.

“She hurt me… but I can’t even hate her,” he murmured, almost ashamed of his own weakness.
“She reminds me of peace… and yet, she’s the reason I lost mine.”

He leaned back against the window, his eyes drifting to the moon again.
Maybe it wasn’t her fault entirely. Maybe she loved too fiercely, too blindly. Maybe he was the one who didn’t know how to accept love anymore.

He rubbed his hands together, the silence of the room heavy around him.
He thought of her sitting out there in the lounge — the same way Zeeya Maa used to sit when she was deep in thought, her fingers playing with the edge of her hand.

And something inside him softened further.

“Why does she have to look like you, Zeeya Maa?” he whispered into the quiet, his voice trembling for the first time in months.

The moonlight touched his face again, glinting against the tears, he refused to acknowledge.

And in the living room, Roshaane sat curled on the sofa, her head resting on her knees, the TV long forgotten. She didn’t know he was standing there thinking of her, fighting a war between his heart and his memories.

For both of them — the night was sleepless, heavy, yet full of something neither of them dared to name.

---------

The winter wind of December carried a chill sharp enough to turn breaths into mist. Lights shimmered across the vast villa, its marble pillars wrapped with garlands of jasmine and fairy lights, reflecting like tiny stars. The sound of laughter, clinking glasses, and distant music filled the evening air as guests arrived for the grand wedding of Zohaib and Nayab's son.

Maliha stepped out of the car, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders. The cold bit at her cheeks, painting them pink, but her expression stayed calm unreadable. Beside her, Mr. and Mrs. Isham exchanged warm smiles with the welcoming hosts.

Inside, the hall was glowing, golden chandeliers, soft music, and the familiar scent of roses.

“You came!” a cheerful voice broke through the crowd.

A girl, barely twenty-three, almost leaped in front of Haseeb, startling him.

“I was this close to killing you if you were late!” she laughed, flicking her hair dramatically.

Haseeb exhaled sharply, placing a hand over his chest. “For God’s sake, Halay, do you ever greet people like a normal human being?”

Mr. and Mrs. Isham chuckled softly while Maliha smiled faintly at the exchange.

“Khala!” Halay turned excitedly, hugging Mrs. Sana Isham tightly before moving to greet Mr. Isham. But her bright expression dimmed the moment her eyes landed on Maliha.

“You came too?” The question slipped out before she could stop it, her voice losing its cheer.

Maliha met her gaze calmly, her chin lifted just slightly. “Am I not invited to attend my cousin’s wedding?” she asked gently, stepping forward to hug her.

It was a polite embrace — warm on the outside, cold underneath. Halay's smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, and Maliha felt it — the discomfort, the unspoken tension that still lingered between them.

As they pulled away, Haseeb’s eyes flickered between the two women, sensing the quiet storm beneath the polite greetings.

The music rose again in the background, and the crowd swallowed them — laughter echoing through the grand hall while the chill of the December night pressed against the glass windows, as if reminding Maliha that warmth was still something she had to find.

---
Author's Note.

Assalam-u-Alaikum dear readers,
How are you all? 💛

I know I’m a bit late this time — something came up in the family, and I couldn’t find the time to post. I hope you all understand.

Insha’Allah, you’ll continue to get updates every weekend. But if sometimes the update gets delayed, it probably means I’m caught up with home stuff. I’ll always try my best to update as soon as possible.

Don’t forget to leave your love through comments and votes — it truly keeps me going!

Much love,
Your Author 🌸