I was bored and I have my exams so thought of writing a short os on my current favourite show.

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Nothing comes between me and my games. When I play, my mind is completely focused-I'm always a winner in that world. Games have the same rules for everyone, regardless of who's playing. But in the real world, things are different. You don't get a second chance; once you've lost, you're labeled a loser. It wasn't something that bothered me because, in every household, there's an Adeel and a Mustafa. I was content with my place in the world, until she entered my life.

Sharjeena, a girl with everything in control, more qualified than me, she was meant to be my brother's wife. As to why such an unfit me and her married each other, it can only be said that it happened simply due to a coincidence.

From the moment Sharjeena entered my life, things began to change in ways I couldn't understand. She was everything I wasn't-confident, accomplished, always in control. Standing beside her, I felt like a shadow, insignificant and unworthy. I wondered why fate had decided to pair us together when she clearly deserved someone like Adeel, someone who matched her in every way.

But life, much like a game, sometimes throws unexpected challenges your way. This was one challenge I never anticipated. At first, I tried to ignore her, tried to keep my distance, but she had a way of drawing me in, of making me see the world differently. She wasn't just someone who fit perfectly into my brother's life; she was someone who was starting to fit into mine.

The more I got to know her, the more I realized that she wasn't as perfect as I'd imagined. She had her fears, her insecurities. And somehow, amidst all that, she started to see something in me, something even I had never seen in myself. She didn't treat me like the failure I thought I was.

But the question remained-what could I possibly offer her? She was still leagues ahead of me in every way. And there were no guarantees that I wouldn't fail her, just like I'd failed in so many other things in life. Yet, there she was, standing beside me, making me question everything I thought I knew about myself, not about winning and losing, about what really mattered. The game had changed, and I wasn't sure of the rules anymore. All I knew was that, for the first time, I didn't want to lose. Not this time, not with her.

Sharjeena deserved a better man than someone like me. I didn't want her to give up on me, but I saw the same look in her eyes that my mother used to give me. All this happiness was never truly mine. I wasn't her choice; this marriage was built on 'majburi' (compulsion). If it weren't for the circumstances, she would have never married me

My mother disliked Sharjeena, since my father kicked out my brother for his decision to marry Rubab. My mother blamed Sharjeena, not Adeel. Because Adeel was her perfect son, if he had chosen Rubab then she must be definitely a better choice. And he was also the breadwinner of the family, the heart and soul. After our nikkah, I realised, maybe it wasn't the matter of just Sharjeena, she mistreated her just beacause she was my wife. If she had been Adeel's wife, Ammi would have served her biryani like she was serving Rubab.

"Bahu k salary se rashan nahi aata humarey ghar mai".

My mother had no problem with Rubab's wealth, her attitude, or her contribution to the household. In fact, she welcomed it. Because Rubab was Adeel's choice, and anything Adeel chose was automatically right in her eyes.

It was unfair, but it was the reality we lived in. I knew Sharjeena saw it too, saw how different things would have been if she'd married Adeel instead. But she never complained, never showed her frustration. She just... endured. And that made it worse, made me feel even more like a failure. She deserved so much more, yet here she was, stuck with me.

"Ammi ka mood, Abba ki tabiyat, bahnoi k saamne gharwalon ki izzat. Aur agar kisiki parwah nhi hai toh woh mai hu. In sab ki khatir agar meri beizzati hojaati toh kuch nhi hota haina. Atleast Mustafa ne ghar ka mohol toh chill rakha na.."

But I had never spoken, took a stand for myself, how could I stand up for her infront of my brother? When he was the one who paid for father's treatment, who carried the weight of our family's financial burdens on his shoulders. How could I, the "loser" son, dare to challenge that?

There was a part of me that wanted to fight, to prove that I wasn't just the shadow of Adeel, that I was more than what everyone saw. But that part was buried deep, buried under years of being the last choice, the one who was always hundred steps behind.

For once, I wanted to be the one who mattered. I wanted to be the reason someone stayed, not just the reason they endured. But I didn't know how to be that person. I didn't know if I ever could be. And that scared me more than anything else.

The next morning when I woke up, she was gone. It seems she was done with me like the rest of the world. The tea that day wasn't the same. The house felt eerily quiet without her presence, and I found myself staring at the space she would occupy, to sneak a glance of me as I did of her.

My mind raced with thoughts-had I driven her away? Had my insecurities, my inability to stand up for her, finally pushed her to leave? Or had she simply realized what I had feared all along-that I wasn't the man she deserved, that she was wasting her life by staying with me?

I felt a sharp pang of regret. I should have said something, done something to make her stay, to make her believe that I could be more, that I could change. But now, it was too late. The words I never spoke, the actions I never took-they all haunted me, taunting me with what could have been.

I tried to push the thoughts away, but they clung to me, refusing to let go. The silence of the house was suffocating, amplifying every doubt, every fear I had ever harbored. I was alone again, just like I had always been. But this time, the loneliness felt different. It felt like a punishment, a reminder of all the ways I had failed, not just in life, but in love.

The game I had been playing had changed, and I didn't know how to navigate it anymore. In the virtual world, I was always a winner, but in reality, I was just a man who had lost everything that mattered.

I was a loser. And no matter how much I wanted to change that, no matter how much I wanted to be the man she needed, I didn't know if I had it in me.

I stood up, pushing the chair back as I made my way to the door. The house felt like a prison, and I needed to escape, to clear my mind, to figure out what to do next. But as I reached for the door handle, I hesitated. What if she came back? What if she had just gone out to clear her head, just like I was about to do?

__

Mustafa stood in the doorway, his hand hovering over the handle. The silence of the house pressed down on him, suffocating in its weight. It was a silence he had known all his life but had never truly felt until now. He was about to step out, to escape the walls that seemed to close in on him, when he heard the faint click of the front door.

His heart skipped a beat.

He froze, half-turned toward the sound, every nerve in his body suddenly alert. He wasn't sure if he should feel relief or dread. For a moment, he was too scared to move, as if acknowledging her presence would break whatever fragile connection still existed between them.

The door creaked open, and there she was-Sharjeena, standing in the dim light of the hallway. She didn't look at him right away, her face slightly turned, as if she were gathering the strength to face whatever was about to unfold between them.

Mustafa's breath caught in his throat. She was still here. She hadn't left for good. But her return didn't bring the comfort he'd hoped for. Instead, it filled him with a gnawing uncertainty, an awareness that her presence wasn't a sign of reconciliation but rather of unresolved tension.

Sharjeena stepped inside, her movements deliberate, as if she was carrying a heavy burden invisible to everyone but her. She didn't offer an explanation, and Mustafa didn't ask for one. There were no questions, no demands. Just a painful, deafening silence.

Mustafa watched her, feeling like an outsider in his own life. She moved past him without a word, heading toward their bedroom. His eyes followed her, but his feet stayed rooted to the floor. He wanted to say something-anything-to bridge the gap between them, but the words wouldn't come. His throat felt tight, constricted by a mix of fear and shame.

It wasn't until she reached the doorway of their bedroom that she finally paused. Her back was to him, her silhouette framed by the dim light filtering through the window. He thought he saw her shoulders slump, just slightly, as if the weight of everything they weren't saying was finally pressing down on her too.

"You're back," he managed to say, his voice rough and unsure. It wasn't a question, just a statement-one that felt absurdly inadequate.

Sharjeena didn't turn around. "I forgot something," she replied, her tone flat, almost detached. "That's all."

Mustafa's heart sank. He didn't know what he'd been hoping for-maybe some sign that she was back for him, for them. But her words were like a cold splash of reality, reminding him that she wasn't here because she wanted to be.

He swallowed hard, searching for something to say that would break the ice between them. But nothing came to mind. The silence stretched on, growing heavier with each passing second.

Sharjeena finally moved, disappearing into the bedroom. Mustafa stood there, staring at the empty space where she had just been, feeling more lost than ever. The fear that had gripped him earlier was back, stronger this time, because now he understood that her return didn't mean they were okay. It only meant that they were still caught in the same painful limbo, too scared to move forward but too broken to go back.

Minutes passed, each one dragging on longer than the last. He could hear her moving around in the bedroom, the sound of drawers opening and closing. He wanted to go to her, to ask her what she was thinking, what she was feeling. But the fear of her answer held him back.

Finally, she emerged, a small bag in her hand. Her eyes flicked to him for the briefest of moments before she quickly looked away, her expression unreadable. Mustafa felt a pang of desperation as she walked past him again, heading back toward the front door.

"Sharjeena," he called out, his voice softer than he intended. She stopped, her hand on the doorknob, but she didn't turn around.

"Is this... is this it?" he asked, hating how weak he sounded, but unable to stop himself. "Are you leaving?"

She hesitated, her fingers tightening on the knob. For a moment, Mustafa thought she might say something, that she might finally open up, give him some clue as to what she was thinking. But when she spoke, her voice was distant, as if she were speaking to someone far away.

"I'm not leaving," she said quietly. "But I'm not staying, either."

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. He didn't know what they meant, and that terrified him. He took a step toward her, but she opened the door before he could get any closer.

"I just need some time," she added, almost as an afterthought. "Away from this house and your family."

And with that, she was gone again, leaving Mustafa standing in the middle of the room, the emptiness swallowing him whole. The door closed with a soft thud, and the silence returned, heavier than before.

Mustafa stared at the door for a long time, his mind racing. She wasn't leaving, but she wasn't staying either. What did that even mean? What was he supposed to do now?

Mustafa sank into the nearest chair, feeling the cold tea in his veins, the emptiness in his heart. He was a man who didn't know how to win in the real world, a man who had lost everything that mattered. And he didn't know if he had it in him to fight for what he wanted, not when he wasn't even sure what that was anymore.

The house felt colder, lonelier, and for the first time, Mustafa realized that he wasn't just losing Sharjeena-he was losing himself.

___

She eventually returned.

Mustafa found himself tiptoeing around the house, unsure of how to approach her, unsure of how to navigate the invisible walls that had sprung up between them. He kept hoping for things to return to normal, but normal seemed like a distant memory, something that had slipped away quietly without him even noticing.

Sharjeena, on the other hand, had become a ghost in her own home. She moved through the days with a cold efficiency, her focus solely on her work and responsibilities. It was as if she had drawn a line between them, a line Mustafa was too afraid to cross. She never complained, never raised her voice, but it was the silence between them that spoke the loudest, a silence filled with all the words they weren't saying.

One evening, Mustafa found her in the kitchen, meticulously preparing dinner. He watched her from the doorway, the way her hands moved with a precision that was both graceful and detached. The sight filled him with a strange mix of admiration and resentment-admiration for her strength, her ability to keep everything together, and resentment for the same reasons. She seemed so composed, so unaffected, while he was drowning in his own doubts.

He couldn't take it anymore. The silence, the distance-it was driving him mad. He needed to know what she was thinking, needed to understand where they stood, even if the truth hurt.

"Sharjeena," he began, his voice uncertain, breaking the quiet hum of the kitchen. She didn't look up from the vegetables she was chopping, but he pressed on. "Can we talk? About... about us?"

She paused for a moment, her knife hovering over the cutting board, but then she resumed her work as if nothing had happened. "What is there to talk about, Mustafa?" she asked, her tone flat, devoid of emotion. "We're here, aren't we? Going through the motions."

Her words stung, even though she hadn't meant them to be cruel. Mustafa felt a surge of frustration. How could she be so calm, so indifferent? Didn't she care at all?

"Going through the motions?" he echoed, his voice rising slightly. "Is that all this is to you? Just... just routine?"

Sharjeena finally set the knife down and looked at him, her expression unreadable. "What do you want me to say?" she asked, her eyes searching his. "That everything's fine? That we're perfectly happy? Would that make you feel better?"

Mustafa shook his head, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "No, that's not what I want. I just... I want to understand. We've been living like strangers, Sharjeena. You barely talk to me anymore. Ab baat karne ke qaabil nhi kya?"

Her gaze hardened, and he could see a flicker of something-anger, perhaps-behind her composed exterior. "Baat karne ko kya hai Mustafa?" she repeated, but this time her voice held a sharper edge.

He took a step back, stung by the harshness of her tone. He hadn't expected this, hadn't expected her to lash out. It was as if all the frustration and resentment she had been holding back was finally spilling over, and he didn't know how to handle it.

"So that's it?" he asked, his voice quieter now, tinged with desperation. "Haar maanli tumne?"

Sharjeena's expression softened for just a moment, a brief glimpse of the vulnerability she had been hiding. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that same detached calm. "I haven't given up, Mustafa," she said quietly. "I'm just... tired. Tired of trying to make something work that was never meant to be."

Mustafa felt the ground shift beneath him, felt the fragile hope he'd been clinging to start to crumble. "We can still fix this," he insisted, even though he wasn't sure he believed it himself. "We just need to... to try harder. To talk to each other, to-"

"To what, Mustafa?" Sharjeena interrupted, her voice rising now. "To pretend that we're something we're not? That we're happy, that we're in love, that this marriage is anything but a mistake?"

The words hung in the air, harsh and cutting. Mustafa stared at her, his chest tightening with a mix of anger and pain. How could she say that? How could she just dismiss everything they had, everything they were trying to build, as a mistake?

"This marriage wasn't a mistake," he shot back, his voice trembling with emotion. "We're just... we're just having a rough time, that's all. We can get through this, Sharjeena. We can-"

"Can we, Mustafa?" she snapped, her composure finally breaking. "Look at us! We can't even have a simple conversation, we are polar opposites, I feel like I have to nag you for the smallest things. How are we supposed to get through anything when we can't even stand to be in the same room?"

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just stood there, the air between them thick with unresolved tension. Mustafa wanted to reach out to her, to bridge the gap, but he didn't know how. Every time he tried, it felt like she was pulling further away, and it terrified him.

Sharjeena turned away, her back to him, and Mustafa felt the sting of rejection. "I need to finish dinner," she said, her voice cold once again, shutting him out. "We can talk later."

But he knew there wouldn't be a later, not tonight. The conversation was over, and with it, any hope he had of breaking through to her. Mustafa stood there for a moment, feeling helpless, before turning and leaving the kitchen.

As he walked away, he felt the weight of her words bearing down on him. She was right-there was a chasm between them, one that seemed to grow wider with each passing day. And no matter how hard he tried, he didn't know how to bridge it.

Mustafa retreated to the living room, sinking into the sofa with a heavy sigh. He ran his hands over his face, feeling the frustration and helplessness building up inside him. He knew they couldn't go on like this, but he didn't know how to fix it. Every attempt to reach out to her seemed to push her further away, and it was tearing him apart.

In the silence of the living room, Mustafa was left alone with his thoughts, the realization slowly dawning on him: they were in trouble, real trouble. And if they didn't find a way to communicate, to understand each other, their marriage might not survive.

__

The house was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. It was late-too late for anyone else to be awake. But sleep had evaded Sharjeena for days now, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts that refused to settle. She sat at her small writing desk, the dim light of the lamp casting a warm, golden glow over the pages of her journal. This journal had been her silent confidant for years, holding all the words she couldn't say out loud.

Sharjeena uncapped her pen and stared at the blank page before her, the emptiness of it mirroring the void she felt inside. She hesitated, her heart heavy with the weight of unspoken feelings, but then she took a deep breath and began to write.

---

August 27th

I don't know where to start, but I need to write this down. I feel like I'm drowning, and no one can see it. Every day, I wake up next to a man I don't understand, a man who doesn't understand me. And I wonder-how did we get here? How did I become this person, living this life that feels so far from what I imagined?

Mustafa... he tries, I think. But it's like we're speaking different languages, like there's a wall between us that neither of us knows how to break down. I can see the frustration in his eyes, the confusion, and it hurts. It hurts because I know he wants to fix things, but I don't know if we can.

I don't know if I want to.

Is that horrible? To feel so... indifferent? I never wanted to be the kind of woman who just gave up. But sometimes, I think that maybe this was a mistake. Not because Mustafa is a bad man-he's not. He's kind and gentle, and he has a good heart. But we're just... wrong for each other. And I don't know how to fix that.

---

Sharjeena paused, her pen hovering over the page as tears welled up in her eyes. She blinked them away, refusing to let herself cry. Not now. Not again.

---

I feel so alone, even when we're together. I can see the hurt in his eyes, and it breaks my heart. But I can't seem to find the words to tell him what I'm feeling. How do I tell him that I'm scared? That I don't know if I'm strong enough to keep fighting for this marriage when it feels like I'm the only one fighting?

And then there's Ammi... She never liked me, and I'm starting to see why. Because I'm not Rubab, who fits so seamlessly into their family, who Adeel loves with all his heart. And sometimes, I wonder if Mustafa feels the same-that he married the wrong woman. Maybe he would have been happier with someone else, someone who didn't feel like a stranger in his home. Someone who wasn't forced upon him because of circumstances.

Every time I see Rubab and Adeel, I'm reminded of what I lack, of what we lack. They're so in sync, so sure of each other. And here I am, floundering, trying to figure out if there's anything left to save between Mustafa and me.

Ammi doesn't make it any easier. She blames me for everything that's wrong-for Adeel leaving, for Mustafa's unhappiness, for the tension in this house. I hear her words, sharp and cutting, and I can't help but believe them. Maybe she's right. Maybe I'm the problem. Maybe I'm the reason Mustafa is so unhappy.

---

Sharjeena's hand trembled as she wrote, the emotions she had been bottling up finally spilling out onto the page. She could feel the tears threatening to fall again, but she forced herself to keep going. She needed this-needed to let it all out, even if it was just in the pages of her journal.

---

I feel like I'm losing myself in this marriage, like I'm disappearing bit by bit. I used to be so sure of who I was, so confident. But now, I don't know anymore. I don't know who I am or what I want. I don't even know if I'm capable of making this work.

And that terrifies me.

What if Mustafa wakes up one day and realizes that he deserves better? What if he already knows that? What if he's just staying with me out of some misguided sense of duty or obligation? I don't want to be someone's burden, someone's mistake. But that's what it feels like. It feels like we're just going through the motions, pretending that everything is okay when it's not. It's not okay. And I don't know how to make it okay.

---

She stopped writing, her hand falling limply to her side as she stared at the words on the page. They were messy, raw, but they were the truth. And seeing them laid out in front of her made the reality of her situation impossible to ignore.

Sharjeena closed the journal, her heart heavy. She didn't know what to do next, didn't know how to fix what was broken.

She stood up, tucking the journal away in its usual place, hidden from view. As she did, she glanced toward the bedroom where Mustafa was likely asleep, oblivious to the turmoil she was going through. And she felt a pang of guilt-guilt for the things she hadn't said, for the distance she had allowed to grow between them.

But that guilt was mixed with something else, something darker. Resentment. Resentment that she was the one carrying the weight of their marriage, resentment that she felt so alone in a relationship that was supposed to be a partnership.

As Sharjeena turned off the lamp and slipped into bed, she knew that she couldn't go on like this much longer. Something had to change. But she wasn't sure if she had the strength to make that change herself, or if it would come from somewhere-or someone-else. All she knew was that the silence between them was becoming unbearable, and if they didn't find a way to break it, they would both be lost.