Laila...

He had heard that name twice now. Zayn was driving her home, as she eyed him, "I think Miss Laila you are too wrapped up in your grief to understand the implications of what you said."

"No... I know what I said. I have said that to you after a lot of thinking. You knew my father", her eyes were downcast as she said that, the wind blowing in as she sat there like a wounded bird.

So much pain, reflected in her eyes. They were numb, scared and terrified. 

"Please I don't want to lose my mother as well..."

He stopped the car infront of her house, "Don’t beg," his eyes went to the building, "Give me some time to think about it".

She nodded and exited the car, her gaze lingering on him as he tried to erase the look from his eyes. It burnt him. Her tears, sadness, it was like a moth to his flame.

The lonely boy in him felt guilty. Because he found another lonely soul. And didn't console her.

It was hard to.

Because Laila’s late father knew what kind of person he was a drunkard, womaniser, this marriage would be a bargain. But Zayn needed a wife, a simple, sweet lady like Laila...

His eyes went to the streets and somehow he found himself parked near the love palace again.

The scene begins with a tension thick enough to cut with a knife, as Zayn navigates between two Lailas and his inner turmoil.

---

Zayn’s car idled at the curb near the Love Palace, the neon lights casting a dull, hazy glow on his windshield. He hadn’t meant to drive there- it was like his subconscious had taken over. Sitting still, he stared at the faint reflections of the streetlights on the hood of his car before stepping out.

The familiar aroma of jasmine and incense greeted him as he entered. And there she was, sitting in the corner of the dimly lit room. She wore a flowing black kurta with delicate embroidery and a sheer blue dupatta loosely draped over her head.

She was sitting in the corner, her head slightly tilted as she stared out the window. The light from the streetlamps outside bathed her in a soft, golden glow, but her expression remained unreadable. She was holding a photograph tightly to her chest, her fingers curled around it as if she were trying to hold onto something precious- something that might slip away at any moment.

Zayn didn’t ask who the picture was of. He never did. He had learned long ago not to inquire, for she never shared those details. But in that moment, he felt a pang of curiosity that he quickly suppressed. It wasn’t for him to know.

She didn’t look at him when he entered, didn’t even acknowledge his presence. Her silence was deafening, and yet, it was the kind of silence that Zayn understood all too well. The kohl around her eyes was smudged, as though she’d been crying, though she masked it well with a poised smile.

“Kya hua? Itni jaldi meri yaad aagayi?” she teased, though her tone carried a hint of vulnerability she couldn’t quite hide.

Zayn stood silently for a moment, taking in her figure- the delicate fingers resting on her lap, the steady rise and fall of her chest, the soft yet challenging gaze. Her presence pulled him in, as it always did.

“She wants to marry me,” he said bluntly, his voice low but steady.

Her eyebrows arched slightly as she turned toward him. “Who?”

“Laila…” he paused. “She’s my secretary’s daughter.”

Her reaction was swift- her body stiffened, her kohl-lined eyes narrowing with curiosity, perhaps even hurt. “Laila…” she repeated, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Naam accha hai. Is that why you named me Laila?”

Zayn looked at her, bewildered. “Tumhara naam Laila nahi hai?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

The woman let out a soft, bitter laugh as she stood, the dupatta slipping slightly off her shoulder. “Laila bas ek hai, Zayn. Jo tumhare dil mein basti thi. Jiska naam tum roz pukarte they. Mera naam tumne kabhi poocha hi nahi.”

Her words stung more than Zayn cared to admit. For years, he had called her Laila, believing it was her name, but it wasn’t. She had never corrected him, choosing instead to live in the illusion he’d created- a role in his fractured reality.

“Toh yaha kyun aaye ho?” she asked, her voice softening, though her eyes still held that piercing gaze.

Zayn sat down on the edge of the bed, running his hand through his hair in frustration. “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “She doesn’t know anything about me. About this place. About how I drink. She doesn’t know the man I really am.” He chuckled dryly. “Marrying her would be a bargain- something sweet, simple. What everyone expects.”

She moved closer, her anklets jingling softly as she approached him.

Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but clear. “So, this is it, then. Our last meeting.”

Zayn’s heart skipped a beat. “What are you talking about?”

She didn’t respond immediately. Her gaze remained fixed on the photograph, her thumb gently brushing over the edges of the picture. There was something in her posture, something in the way she held herself, that made him realize- without her having to say a word- that this wasn’t just some casual farewell.

She slowly looked up at him then, her eyes meeting his with a quiet, knowing sadness. “You always thought I kept you sane, didn’t you?” Her voice trembled slightly, though she didn’t let it break. “But you... you were the one who helped me. More than you’ll ever know.”

Zayn’s breath caught in his throat, but before he could say anything, she turned her gaze back to the photo, her fingers once again caressing the image. She didn’t speak for a while, and in the silence, Zayn felt his heart tighten in ways he couldn’t explain.

Her words didn’t make sense to him, not fully. But somehow, he knew they were more than just fleeting thoughts- more than some passing remark. They were a message, one he would only understand much later.

“I wish you could remember...” Her voice was barely above a whisper now, but the weight of it pressed down on him. “But then again, maybe it’s better this way. Maybe we were never meant to understand each other.”

Zayn stood there, frozen, as the room felt colder despite the warmth of the lamps around them. The distance between them seemed to stretch farther than it ever had before.

She stood then, slowly, as though every movement took an enormous effort. The picture was still clutched to her chest, her expression distant and lost. Without looking at him, she made her way to the door, the sound of her footsteps barely audible.

When she reached the threshold, she paused. “I won’t wait for you anymore.” It wasn’t a declaration of anger, but a simple statement of fact. She didn’t beg him to stay, didn’t plead for him to change his mind. She simply spoke the truth as it was, in her own quiet way.

Zayn didn’t move, couldn’t move. His mind was still reeling from her words, from the weight of what she had just revealed to him. She turned the doorknob, stepping out into the night without another glance in his direction.

And just like that, she was gone.