I sit down with Harmeen after handing her the cup of coffee she demanded in return of the secret information.

"Tou? Tumhe kaise pataa?"
(So? How do you know?)

I'm never a conversation starter. I feel weird, but this one's close to my heart. I need to talk about it.

Even if anyone sneakily took my phone during some wedding function, they couldn't have found out my username. My phone has a very easy password, I always log out after using social media.

"Bhai ne naa..." she takes a super long pause, "main nahin bataa sakti."
(Bhai... I can't tell you.)

"Harmeen yaar please!"

"Aap bhai se koyi sawaal nahin karein gi, promise karein."
(Promise me you won't ask bhai anything.)

"Tum kisi ko handle yaa kisi kitaab kaa naam nahin bataao gi. Kisi ko bhi nahin."

(You won't give my handle or the titles of my books to anyone. To no one.)

"Maine bhai ko bataa diya hai. Ok un ke ilaawa kisi ko nahin, Allah ki kasam."

(I've told bhai. Ok, no one apart of him. I swear to God.)

I change the track when it comes to my oath, "Tumhare bhai ne phone hack karwaaya naa mera?"

(Your brother got my phone hacked, right?)

The color flies off her face, answering it all. She holds her mouth closed, "Yeh maine tou nahin bataaya aap ko!"

(I never told you that!)

This time, with a heavy heart, I once again declare this man a psychopath.

It's so easy to fall in love for me.

I don't know why I declared that with a heavy heart.

I haven't catched feelings.

I think.

"Bhai ko nahin daantna, bhabhi. Bhai ko tou pataa bhi nahin tha Wattpad hota kyaa hai. Maine zabardasti poochha ke agar hai tou username bataaein. Aur hacking waala... mujhe nahin pataa. Unnhain jaan'na tha aap ke baare mein. Khud se kiya, kisi teesre ko information nahin di."

(Don't scold bhai, bhabhi. Bhai doesn't even know what Wattpad is. I forced him to give me your username. And about the hacking... I don't know. He wanted to know about you. He did it himself, without giving your information to any third party.)

"Yeh kab hua?"
(When did this happen?)

"The day he first met you."

He was so fast!

Before that confession from Haider replays in my mind and I feel softness towards him, I change my thoughts' route.

"Achha tou tum kal kyaa keh rahi thi. Kyaa matlab tumhaare bhai gusse mein haun tou bas ro doon?"

(Ok, so what were you telling me yesterday? Why should I cry whenever your brother is in anger?)

•°●••●•○

Once on the bed, Haider pulls me to himself.

Call it constantly justifying the pleasure validation gives me, but I swear, apart of a good heart, he has everything I've ever wanted; love, empathy, kindness, patience, etc.

And I love physical touch. I'm the most clingy person on earth and Mahnoor aapi hates me for it.

I shift my head on his chest. He uses one hand to wrap on my waist and the other to play with my hand.

I watch the henna designs he's retracing quietly as he speaks, "I can't believe someone as pretty as you exists."

I instinctively look up at him. It feels like a trap.

THAT IS SO UNREAL.

THAT IS. SO.

UNBELIEVABLE.

Calling girls pretty is common in my homeland, and people said it all the time without meaning it but this is the first time someone's saying it this way. And I think he's lying. But it feels so genuine.

I'm not saying I'm not pretty. But I'm not so pretty so as for someone to not believe I'm real.

"Tumhain pehli dafaa dekh ke maine koyi ummeed nahin lagaayi. Mohabbat ho gayi thi, yeh pataa tha abbh tumhain apna banaana hai, lekin yeh nahin pataa tha tum itni pursukoon aur khubseerat ho. Yeh complimentary tha."

(I didn't have many expectations when I saw you for the first time. I had fallen in love, I knew I was going to make you mine, but I didn't know you were so peaceful and owned such a good character. This was complimentary.)

"Nahin. Yeh manipulative behavior nahin chale ga. Tum mujhe nahin jaante. Yeh joh privacy invade kar ke, mere tweets parrh ke tum ne pataa lagaaya hai ke main insecure hoon, iss se kuchh haasil nahin ho ga. Aisi bebunyaad taarifein kar ke tum mujh se apna matlab nahin nikalwaa sakte."

(No. This manipulative behavior won't do. You don't know me. Invading my privacy and reading my tweets to find out I'm insecure, it's not going to get you anywhere. These baseless compliments won't get your work done.)

I'm so proud of what I just said instead of slipping in love.

"Be-bunyaad?" (Baseless?) "Mujhe kyaa faaeda ho rahaa hai iss se?" (What am I achieving by all this?)

"Abbhi nahin ho rahaa. Baad mein ho ga."
(Nothing right now, but later you will.)

"And I'd do so much drama for that? A wedding, writing crores in the mahr, convincing my parents to lie that Sultana beghum saw you and liked you, all this patience... Is that just how smart you are? I thought you thought I was heartless. Could I not just take that 'benefit' out of you without your will? I'm used to violence. It would have been much more comfortable for me. Do you not understand this peaceful atmosphere is the proof of my love to you?"

"Yes I do think you'd do all that because I think you are a psychopath."

He looks at me and the distance between us, reminding me how I'm resting my head on his shoulder. I instantly shift away and change my statement.

"I mean, it's called infatuation."

And ok, that's still flattering. I didn't know I was pretty enough to have a guy fall for me for even an hour.

My confidence in my physical appearance boosts up when I realise he's right. As of right now, he is in love with me. Although I'm very Sawera with understanding looks and I did not at all understand why he made that face in the morning.

He ignores my remark and kisses the lateral of my wrist.

I look at it to see his name hidden with mehendi designs all around.

"Tum ne joh baba se kahaa woh sach tha?" I ask. (Was whatever you said to baba true?)

"Kyaa?"
(What?)

"Woh sab?"
(All of that?)

"Woh sab kyaa, Alaya?" he strokes my wrist up and down. It's relaxing. (All of what, Alaya?)

Somewhere deep down Haider's... it's just so hard to even think of it. No, he's not a good man.

He doesn't need the dowry because what baba was giving him is nothing compared to what he already has, but it was still nice of him to not let my father suffer.

And he's right, he could have married me against my parents' will. Heck, he could have even killed my parents and forced me to marry him.

The whole village is afraid of him. Not a single person publicly uttered a word about the incident of that day. Even if he killed someone (quite logically me, if Allah hadn't melted his heart for me) no one would raise their voice.

And that does scare me. With the amount of domestic violence cases I've read of on the internet, I can't trust any Pakistani guy.

I don't want to be the next Noor Mukaddam.

But the way he used the word baba to call my father. Something I started saying in my early teens when my father expressed how he had always preferred that term, and when I realised it was much softer, more heartwarming.

In a way I was jealous of how openly he could conversate with him. That was me a few years back.

But more than jealousy I've felt guilt throughout the whole day. It felt like, that calm and composed behavior of Haider towards my parents was a favor on me.

I end the misery of the whole day by getting up for a second, softly closing his eyes with one hand and pecking him.

I pull the blanket up before lying on my stomach, facing the other side.

Why did I do that?

Why did I do that?

"What was that?" He remains stunned.

"Alaya, that was so good."

I think of our conversation from the afternoon.

"Once more, please, once more. I know you can put your ego aside and do this, go for it." He roots for me.

I close my eyes.

"Alaya you're so... unpredictable." He pulls me towards him, "That tasted so good."

Facing him, I rest my temple on the pillow.

Yesterday right now he was warning me to not test his patience.

Yesterday was so hectic.

Today I wanted to see how long I could fast for, because today's breakfast and a bunch of tomatoes is all I've had, but I'm realising when they find out it will probably be because I fainted.

I don't even want their water.

Do I ask if I can get a job?

But getting a job and a pay will take so much time. How will I live without water?

"Do you not find your religion wrong?" I ask, "I mean, it's not islamically right to disclose your intimate relationship with your wife. But this is how you do the walimah? Disclosing that the marriage is done?"

I start by the apparent situation, then lead to the base of my problem with him. "And it's not just that. Your religion contradicts itself a lot. Islam means believing in Allah, The Prophet and Their values. Yet you value Hazrat Ali more."

"I do believe in Allah and The Prophet."

I raise my head to look at him, "But Allah as the only God."

"Allah as the only God," he agrees.

"What does Ya Ali madad mean then? Why would you ask Ali for help if you believe in Allah? Is that not shirk?"

"Alaya, I married you for my happiness. Not for your values. Don't teach me."

I rest my forehead back on his chest, "I complete half your deen, how is us not being on the same page indifferent to you?"

He strokes my hair.

"I haven't had water since yesterday."

"Why? What's wrong? The taste of water?"

"No. Are you not ashamed-"

"-Alaya, you've not had anything since the breakfast this morning?"

I raise my head to look at him, "No. I'm not going to eat from your haram earnings-"

"-Are you nuts?" he sits up, "what? Haram- That's. The haram is on me. The sins are on me. Do you think the whole world works with honesty? Your father has a business. How do you not have enough sense? You think all his clients are pious? Do you think every penny he gains comes from a halal source? Get up."

"No. But he's... he earned and provided for us with a clean heart."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"What do you mean? The money you're bringing home is haram. And haram is haram. If I know where it's coming from I cannot eat it."

He hits his head, "Go search it up, jaana. It doesn't work that way. I'll wait for you downstairs," he leaves.

??

After a tiny-miny research I thank Allah miyaan and gulp down a glass of water before going downstairs.

I see Haider ordering a whole menu to the chef while the chef washes his hands.

Haider ruined his sleep. Despite him being energetic and fast as Haider's instructing him, his red eyes explain it all.

"Sir, aap jaa sakte hain. Thank you jaagne ke liye." I smile to the chef but he doesn't spare me a glance. He looks up at Haider.

(Sir, you can leave. Thank you for waking up.)

Haider looks at me and I wait for him to let the chef leave.

"Tumhain kuchh banaana aata hai?" He asks after dismissing the chef.

(You know how to cook?)

"Nahin. Tum banaao ge. Itne saal ghar se dour rahe ho. MIT mein parrhe ho. Hostels mein rahe ho. Kuchh toh sikha ho ga." More than testing him, I flaunt how much I know about him.

(No. You'll cook. You've lived away from home for so many years, studied in MIT, lived in hostels. You must have learnt something.)

Keep your friends close, and your enemies? Closer.

He smiles at that. "Toh. Kyaa khaana chaahein gi humaari beghum?"

(So, what would my wife like to eat?)

"Aalu ka paratha."

"Alaya. Mujhe achha khaana banaana nahin aata. Tumhain bhook lagi ho gi, we'd rather not waste time here."

(Alaya. I'm not a good cook. You must be starving, we'd rather not waste time here.)

"YouTube naama aik cheez hai. Uss pe suna hai sikhaane waale bohot hain. Abbh tum seekhna naa chaaho... toh baat alag hai."

(There's this thing called YouTube. There are many teachers there. Now, if you don't want to learn then that's a different thing.)

He gives me a glare, probably expecting me to take the demand back, but eventually takes his phone out.

I sit on a corner of the island's countertop and bite on a tomato.

"Yeh toh bohot lambi list hai ingredients ki. Aadhe se zyaada naam toh itne ansune lag rahe hain."

(That's a long list of ingredients. More than half of the names sound unfamiliar.)

"Rehne do phir." I jump down the countertop. (Let it be then.)

RAUK LO MUJHE.

"Kuchh aur keh do."
(Say something else.)

"Nahin, mujhe nahin khaana." (No, I don't want to eat.) I feign to turn and go waiting for him to stop me and the slow but smart man thankfully does.

"Alaya kuchh aur, zyaada asaan keh do. Main toh bread loaves khaata tha. Mujhe kyaa pataa tha itne nakhre utthaane parrein ge. Pataa hota toh seekh leta."

(Alaya, something else, easier than that. I used to eat bread loaves. Who knew I'd have to bear such tantrums. If I knew, I'd learn it.)

Bread loaves make me miss home so much. I instantly crave for a bocadillo. I finish three tomatoes while he cooks for me.

I turn my wrist to look at his name.

He looks around the kitchen for something. Everytime he faces me I move my eyes to my hands.

He catches me watching him once but I keep disimmulating.

dis-dis.

"Dissimulating isn't a word, is it?"

"Dissimulation?"

"It is a word?"

"It's what you're doing right now. Yes."

○•°●○•●

After around an hour and fifteen minutes, he shows me the not so perfect but edible paratha. He's a quick learner, he did it without wasting flour.

"Taste kar ke bataao tumhaara miyaan kitna achha cook hai."

(Taste it and tell if your husband is a good cook or not.)

"Pack kar do."
(Pack it.)

He looks at it, "Pack kar doon? Tum abbhi nahin khaao gi?" (Pack it? You won't eat it now?)

"Main itni dair raat nahin khaati." I lie.
(I don't eat so late at night.)

"Alaya tum ne subhah se kuchh nahin khaaya, aise kaise abbhi nahin khaao gi?"

(Alaya you haven't had anything since morning, why would you not eat now?)

"Mama baba joh naashta laae hain uss mein fruits bhi the. I'm full."

(The breakfast mama baba brought had fruits in it. I'm full.)

"Fruits se kyaa full? Alaya, yeh passand nahin aaya toh kuchh aur banaa doon ga. Tum ne subhah bhi aadhi puri li, isse taste tou kar ke dekho."

(How are you full? If you don't like this then I can make you something else. You only took half a puri in the morning, just taste this.)

I shake my head. "Unhealthy. Neend bohot aa rahi hai aur sone se pehle kuchh nahin khaana chaahiye. Mujhe nahin khaana."

(Unhealthy. I'm very sleepy and one shouldn't eat before sleeping. I'm not eating.)

"Then what was this for? I put so much effort in it."

"I wanted to test your love. All that lecture on how you've done so much for me. Wanted to really see it with my eyes."

He puts the plate on the shelf and holds his head.

"Tsk-tsk, tsk-tsk, tsk. Regret marrying me? Pursukoon, khubseerat. You've got a wrong definition of me, sir. I'm tiring, needy, everything you don't want."

He's about to throw the paratha in the dustbin when I get down and stop him. "Maine kahaa pack kar do."
(I said - pack it.)

"Nahin. Subhah tak baasi ho jaae gi."
(No. It'll go stale by morning.)

"Tum pack karo. Saath mein dahi bhi pack karna." (Just pack it. Pack some yogurt with it.)

He's dying for some sleep but does it anyway.

And when I tell him to drive he doesn't defy.

Sitting in a car, on the front seat with a man.

I've given him so many of my firsts. So many that I had saved my whole lifetime for my other half.

"I'm never going to forgive you," I silently utter.

I make him stop the car after a while and he gets out to get me out.

"Nikaalo khaane ka dabba." I make him hand it to a beggar. "Utthaao naa unnhain! Subhah tak baasi ho jaae gi." I repeat his words. "Dustbin mein ddaalne se behtar hai kisi ke kaam aa jaae."

(Take out the lunchbox. Wake him up! It'll go stale by morning. Putting it to use is better than putting it into the dustbin.)

He looks at me, "You really had me stay up so late for this? To make food for a beggar?"

I roll my eyes.

"What if he's already eaten? What if he wants to sleep?"

I cross my arms, "Read bismillah, wake him up, give him the paratha."

"Oh, bhai. Jaago. Kismat jaag gayi hai aap ki." (Wake up. Your luck is in.)

The more I try to understand Haider, the more I end up hating him.

Allah miyaan, I'm not an "I'll fix him" type, why did you give me this job?

I'm walking to the car while he's busy there taunting a random beggar when he harshly holds my arm, "Tum raat ke iss waqt iss shehar mein aik kadam bhi mujh se dour nahin chal sakti."

(At this time of the night, you can't walk in this city even a step away from me.)

I snort at the irony, "Kyun? Shehar ke halaat kharaab hain?" (Why? Is the city so unsafe?)

By smiling at my grin, he makes me conscious of how I laughed.

"Ho gayaa ho toh chalein?"
(Can we leave if you're done?)

"Jaanam, I'm here because of you. Don't act like I'm enjoying it. You're the one on whose demands we are here."

I roll my eyes and we sit in the car.

●●○°•°○●●

I wake up in the middle of the night after hearing a light snoring.

He's really tired.

Mhmf. Empathy is my weakness. I shut my mind convincing myself he deserves none.

●•●•°●•○

"Haider jaldi karo naa, phir main akeli chali gayi toh tumhaari ammi puchhein gi saath mein kyun nahin aaye."

(Haider make it quick, if I go alone then your ammi will ask why we didn't come together.)

"Sultana beghum," he corrects me, "Aur woh kuchh nahin poochhein gi." (And she won't ask anything.)

"Kyun?"

"Chalo chalo chalo chalo." He finishes setting his hair.

Did he ignore me on purpose?

We sit on the dining table and he serves me before himself. I stare at him, unable to believe how crazy infatuation can make a man.

We'll enjoy it as long as we can, Alaya. This is the closest you're going to get to love.

I have never in real life seen love, but for some reason I've always loved the idea of love. Maybe because the whole world of art revolves around it. And how could everything revolve around something that doesn't exist?

He doesn't serve himself. He discards his plate.

Him. Haider. A pakistani man.

It all sounds like a dream, except it's too embarrassing.

I see his father watching him.

Stop looking at people, Alaya.

Embarrassment is an enemy emotion.

"Haider, main khud kar loon gi." I mutter when he rolls a piece of bread and pushes it to me. (Haider, I can do it on my own.)

"Hm?" He asks in a normal tone of voice instead of muttering back and I roll my eyes at my own self.

I should have let him. At least we wouldn't be the center of attention.

I take the fork and get myself to eat. I notice him watching me and look at his family to see his father keeping an eye on him. He sees me and moves his eyes down towards a magazine as he sips his cup.

I find Haider gawking at me and I want to leave from here in anger but it'll only make the scene bigger.

"Khaao." I remind Haider and he nods before slowly starting. (Eat.)

I silently eat and leave.

●•°○●•●•

I sit on the bay window's seat and look at the garden downstairs.

The sunlight's too harsh.

I look at the henna covering my hand and arms.

The color of it looks beautiful in the sunlight.

"Kuchh zyaada hi gehra rang nahin hai mehendi ka?" Saliha baji laughed.

(Isn't the henna too dark?)

"Toh?" Alishba asked and I rolled my eyes.

(So?)

Chaar shaadiyaan guzar gayi hain iss ko abbhi tak yeh nahin samajh mein aaya.

(Four weddings had gone by and she'd still not gotten this.)

Phirse dialogue repeat karwaaye gi.

(She'll make her repeat the dialogue.)

"Jitna mehendi ka rang gehra aaye, utni hi gehri shohor ki mohabbat bhi hoti hai."

(The darker the henna, the deeper the husband's love.)

"Hm, mehendi ka rang toh bohot kam din rehta hai. Matlab bas kuchh din ki hi hogi mohabbat?" I asked.

(Hm, henna lasts for a very short time, is it going to be the same with love?)

"Khudanaakhaasta, Alaya. Kyaa keh rahi ho?" Ishrat baji took a flip.

(God forbid, Alaya. What are you saying?)

It's the first time in my life that I've had henna on my feet. And I never thought it would look so pretty.

He opens the door of the washroom to find me in the room.

"Who put henna on your hands?" He asks.

"Do you like the smell?" I ask, instead of answering him.

"Not a favorite, but it's not that bad."

"A family member, why?"

"Give her my special thanks, I love the spot where she hid my name. Your wrists are really cute. That bone is beautiful."

I look at my wrist, where he kissed.

He takes my hand and pulls me up to kiss the hair above my temple and look at me in the eyes.

His thick eyelashes remind me of his culture.

"Can you take your shirt off?"

He gives me a mischievous look and quickly does so.

I circle behind him to look at his back.

My chest feels heavier. I go and lie on the bed.

My quick coping mechanism.

My knees feel weak everytime.

I'm too lighthearted for all of this.

"What? The scars?"

My head feels relaxed on the soft mattress and I try not to focus on the Muharram images that run through my head.

My mind imagines a lot without my permission.

"Why do you do this?" My voice comes out very low.

I hate it.

I hate him.

"Haider what's that... You're highly insensitive. You don't even feel your own pain, how did I expect you- to."

"You're too sensitive. Stop thinking so much for others." He lies on top of me.

"Leave," I want to yell but it only comes out as a meek cry.

Is he fucking stupid?

I can't believe someone can be obsessed with me.

Me?

Alaya Hamid Aswad?

"Don't stare at me on the breakfast table. And don't serve me food, I can do that on my own."

He rests his face in my neck, "And too shy."

●○•●•°●•○

Once I'm sat on the bed, he tells me to close my eyes.

He takes my hand in his and puts a heavy hand chain on it.

I open my eyes to look at it as he adorns every finger with a ring.

"Munh dikhai." He ties it down at my wrist.

It's not the most beautiful I've seen, but it is a good looking hand chain. There's rings for every finger and they fit me very well, but it's still too extravagant.

"You weren't in a good mood the first night."

I raise it up, "You didn't consult anyone, did you?"

He shakes his head. His facial expression shows he's already expecting a negative comment from me.

"It's too heavy," I put a hand on his arm, "I have an advice for your next marriage: keep the jewelry light and minimal. That's how girls like it nowadays."

"There's no munh dikhai for temporary marriages."

"Oh, then take this back." I'm taking it off my hand when he stops me.

"You're so funny, Alaya." he says in a serious mood.

"I know, Haider."

A moment of silence passes by.

"No?" he asks.

"No what?"

"You aren't going to kiss me out of nowhere like yesterday?"

I bite my lip to ignore the heat rising up my cheeks.

"Whipping ke baad kitne waqt tak dard rehta hai qamar pe?" I ask as I raise my hand to look at the jewelry, that is if anything hurts this heartless man at all, "Uss ke baad gym karte ho?"

(For how long does your back hurt after the whipping day? Do you do gym after that?)

He raises his brows.

We hear a knock on the door.

"Harmeen?"

Haider moves to the other piece of the room as Harmeen walks in after closing the door.

I lie down, "You are the only bearable human being in this house." I say.

"Bhai, do you hear that?"

He nods, "What are you here for, this late at night?"

"Nothing. I wanted to talk to bhabhi. We've become best friends," she turns to me, "I've never had a best friend before."

"You haven't?" I ask.

"You have?"

"I have. I still do, but she's not desi so she doesn't understand me but we have fun together and that's all you can get out of Pakistan." I lean in and whisper, "But she's such a good judge, better than Pakistani mums. She was never friends with my first crush and always warned me against being friends with him."

She also warned me against your bhai but look at me and my habit of never listening to her.

Harmeen gasps, excited to get gossip but glares at me and gestures me to not talk about it right now.

"Bhai, mujhe lagta hai aaj ke liye hum kamre exchange kar sakte hain." (Bhai, I think we can exchange our rooms for the night.)

Allah miyaan thank youu, I always wanted a desi friend. Maybe I'm trusting her too much, but life's temporary anyway.

"Ji nahin, tang nahin karo, niklo yahaan se."
(Not at all. Don't trouble us. Get out of here.)

"Bhabhi," Harmeen demands,

"Rehne do Haider ko, hum tumhaare kamre mein chalte hain."

(Let Haider be, we can go to your room.)

Harmeen sticks her tongue out at her bhai and leaves the room while I take my phone and retainers.

I'm walking out when Haider pins me to the wall, "Jaana, I heard that."

"What-? Oh... I was... just... it was just this high school-"

"I don't want to know. I don't want you to talk or think about any other man. It's the first and last warning."

I want to bite my nail but I shake the thought and hand him my hand, "Yeh, khol dein." (Open this.)

In spite of the anger, he does it. And it seems to be calming for him.

"I'll wear it for the Walimah," I touch the topic again.

"There's no walimah, Alaya." He hands me the hand chain.

"There will be, Haider. Don't claim to love me if you can't do this."

"The food in the walimah will be haram-"

"-No, first of all. Shut up. As if you care about that. And second, what you are saying is a cultural thing. It's not even a Shia belief."

"We'll see."

"We'll see when? When the whole week is over? It needs to be held the day after tomorrow."

He leaves to the washroom.

Did he roll his eyes? Why did I feel like he rolled his eyes?