Malik mansion.

Zarian lay on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling  not thinking, not dreaming, just… existing. He was tired. Tired of thoughts that led nowhere, of hopes that only deepened the ache inside his chest.

But the ache had a mind of its own.

It throbbed louder with every passing second, as if it already knew something precious was about to be snatched away from him. Something he never even got the chance to dream of fully, let alone hold close.

This wasn’t the first time Zarian Malik had surrendered his desires to Allah’s will. He had always believed in leaving his matters to His decision. But this time… this time felt different. His heart wasn’t calm like before. It was restless, wild, suffocating under the weight of an unseen fear.

It wasn’t because his faith had faltered. It was because, this time, it wasn’t just a desire at stake, it was a part of his soul. A piece of him that was about to be detached… silently… mercilessly.

He could have stayed away from the wedding. He had every reason to. Every right to lock himself in and let the world move without him. Even his mother wouldn’t have insisted not when she knew what it cost him to watch.

But Zarian had made his choice. Because the one person he could never refuse, the one whose happiness still mattered more than his own  had sent him a message. A simple, innocent message.

Ayeda herself had invited him to her wedding.

And Zarian Malik… had never learned how to say no to her.

Then it was time for tahajudd, He stepped into the washroom, performed his wudhu, and walked towards his prayer mat. His movements were slow, heavy as if every step was an effort to hold himself together. The world would never see his storm… but Allah always did.

He spread the prayer mat, knelt down, offered prayer and raised his hands.

But no words came out.

For the first time in his life, Zarian didn’t know what to ask for. His lips trembled… his throat was dry.

All he could manage was a whisper a broken, choked-out whisper.

“Bas dil ka haal dekh lijiye… aaj alfaaz nahi ban rahe…”

He went into Sajda and didn’t rise back.

That’s where his soul cracked open.

Silent tears soaked the prayer mat beneath him as his heart screamed inside his chest. There were no complaints… no bargains… no ultimatums with Allah. Just an ache. Just a plea his tongue couldn’t form.

He pressed his forehead deeper into the ground as if trying to bury his pain there. He wasn’t asking for fate to change. He wasn’t asking for miracles.

He was only asking for strength to survive it.

His forehead remained pressed to the ground, his shoulders trembling, his tears soaking the prayer mat beneath him. The room was silent, but his chest  it carried a storm louder than thunder.

Then, piercing through the stillness, came the Azaan from a nearby mosque.

It was Fajr.

Only then did Zarian realise… he had been in Sajda for nearly an hour. Time had passed, unnoticed, while his heart had been busy breaking.

He slowly lifted his head, wiped his wet face with trembling hands, and stood up. Without a word, without a thought, and left for the mosque.

.

.

.

The breakfast table was crowded, yet it felt empty.

Every plate was filled, but no one had a true appetite.

Everyone tried, they tried to smile, to talk about useless things, to pretend that today was just another ordinary day.

But no one could ignore it.

Today… Zarian’s heart was going to break.

And they, his family, his people could do nothing but watch.

Maliha stirred her tea endlessly, never bringing it to her lips.

Daniyal kept tapping his spoon on the table, lost in thought.

Iqra’s every glance at her son was a silent dua, trembling in her chest.

Zubair sat with his hands clenched beneath the table, helpless in a way a father hates to be.

Zayran was sitting there and sipping his juice. 

No one said a word.

Not because they didn’t want to…

But because they knew any word could break him. And them.

Zarian knew it too.

He felt every glance, every breath that was held for his sake.

But he couldn’t face them today.

He couldn’t risk letting his voice tremble in front of them.

So, he did the only thing he could.

He stood up quietly, as if the air hadn’t just grown heavier with his every step.

He simply said, “I’m going to the office,”
even though they all knew work wasn’t the reason.

No one stopped him.

No one had the heart to.

He left… but his silence stayed.

And as the door closed behind him, the family sat there… each one of them breaking silently in their own way.

Because what hurts more than seeing a loved one shatter is knowing that you have no power to put them back together.

He drowned himself in work or at least, he tried. But time was merciless today.

It slipped through his fingers like sand, dragging him closer to the evening he had dreaded for months.

When the sun began to set, he returned home.

But no amount of walls or distance could protect him from what was waiting.

Tonight… she would be dressed as a bride.

But not his.

Zarian stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of his simple white kurta-pajama.

Nothing grand.

Nothing extraordinary.

Just plain... like his heart today.

The only detail that stood out was the fine threadwork around his collar and neckline a small elegance his mother insisted on.

He let out a slow, heavy breath.

Today wasn’t about him… but it felt like every breath was.

He stepped out of his room, his face unreadable, and entered the living room where his family was already gathered waiting for him.

Their chatter paused the moment he entered.

Maliha and Daniyal had earlier refused to attend the nikkah.

But when they heard Zarian had decided to go, they couldn’t leave him alone.

They dressed, not for the event, but for him ready to stand beside him, silently, like anchors.

Iqra’s eyes softened the moment she saw her son.

Her heart screamed to stop him, to drag him back, to shield him from this moment.

But she knew… she knew this wasn’t something she could protect him from.

This was a battle he had chosen to fight on his knees, not his feet.

Zubair stood quietly, his hands folded, masking his helplessness with a father’s stoicism

but every glance he exchanged with Iqra spoke volumes of the ache they shared.

But amidst the quiet heaviness, something felt out of place

Zayran.

Unlike the others, he was overdressed.

He wore a plain kurta-pajama, yes but over it was a heavy, cream sherwani, embroidered with intricate work.

Too formal.

Too deliberate.

Daniyal noticed it first, and a sly, teasing smile crept on his face.

“What’s this, Zayran bhai? Dressed like it’s your wedding today? Or are you planning to make the girls at the function faint?”

His tone was playful, but even Daniyal knew  today wasn’t the day for jokes.

Still, humour was his shield, and teasing Zayran was the easiest distraction.

Zayran simply shrugged, adjusting his sleeves with indifference.

But that was his way. His armour was silence.

Maliha, catching on, added with a teasing grin,

“Or is Faris bhai also coming? Should we prepare for double drooling?”

The mention of Faris made everyone chuckle lightly, a brief, welcome break from the tension.

Faris and Zayran were inseparable brothers by bond, if not by blood.

If Zayran wasn’t home or at the office, he was with Faris. That was a given.

Zarian watched the exchange quietly, a small almost forced smile appearing on his lips.

For a moment, it felt like any other day.

For a moment, they were just siblings teasing each other.

But only for a moment.

Soon after, they all gathered themselves and moved towards the door.

The destination was set.

The Khan Mansion awaited.

The nikkah was at home

yet it felt like they were walking towards a battlefield,

with smiles for shields,

and silence for swords.

.

.

.

The Maliks stepped into the Khan Mansion.

Ibrahim Khan was the first to greet them his tone warm, his embrace genuine.

The mansion glowed in celebration  lights draped every pillar, flowers adorned every corner.

But amidst this grandeur, it wasn’t the beauty that caught Zarian’s breath…

It was that one space in the center of the hall.

A flower partition.

Elegant. Fragile.

Yet, to Zarian, it looked like a barrier  the thin line between dreams and reality.

Between what was his heart’s desire… and what was never meant to be his.

Ayeda and Samad were not there yet.

But their absence did little to ease the ache in Zarian’s chest.

He didn’t need to see them to feel the loss.

That flower partition meant to bless a union  felt like it was quietly severing a bond he had never even confessed.

The family mingled. Voices hummed around him.

But Zarian stood still, every muscle tense, as if bracing for an invisible storm.

Then Aliyah left to bring Ayeda.

Moments later she returned.

And with her, the storm arrived.

Everything blurred.

The hall, the people, the lights  it all faded.

Only she remained.

Ayeda.

Dressed in a simple white shirt and gharara, golden zari embroidered softly on its edges.

A scarf delicately pinned over her head, layered with another sheer dupatta cascading down her shoulders.

She wasn’t adorned with heavy jewels or elaborate makeup

Yet Zarian felt like the entire world was bowing to her presence.

But it wasn’t her outfit that stole his breath.

It was her eyes.

Those hazel eyes.

The very eyes that had once unknowingly claimed his heart.

Today, rimmed with kohl  shimmering, yet distant.

Unaware, his lips moved — a breathless whisper escaping him,

“Mashallah…”

He quickly bit down on his lip, grounding himself,

forcing his gaze away.

His heart screamed to look at her again.

One last time.

But Zarian clenched his fists by his sides.

Not today.

Today, the heart doesn’t get to win.
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.
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The hall fell into a reverent silence as the Qazi took his seat in the middle of the flower partition. The elders of the Khan family sat close, faces composed but eyes reflecting a thousand emotions.

Zarian sat on the far end of the hall, his fists clenched tightly in his lap, knuckles white. His breath was slow… deliberate… like he was trying to prepare himself for the blade that was about to fall.

“Samad Khan, aapko apni qabuliyat ka izhaar karna hai,” the Qazi announced, voice calm and heavy with ritual.

The moment felt unreal. Distant. But not to Zarian. To him, it was loud. Every word echoed inside him, louder than the celebratory murmurs around.

“Samad Ibrahim Khan, kya aapko Ayeda Iqbal Khan qubool hai?” the Qazi asked.

A deep pause. Zarian’s breath caught in his throat.

“Qubool hai,” Samad’s voice replied.

It felt like someone had twisted a knife slowly inside Zarian’s chest.

The Qazi repeated the question. “Samad Ibrahim Khan, kya aapko Ayeda Iqbal Khan qubool hai?”

“Qubool hai.”

The second strike was worse. His nails dug into his palm, almost piercing skin.

And for the third time, the Qazi’s voice rang out, “Samad Khan, kya aapko Ayeda Iqbal Khan qubool hai?”

“Qubool hai.”

Zarian’s body stiffened. The hall seemed to blur, sounds becoming muffled as if his soul was being suffocated. His eyes, though refusing to look, were drawn back to Ayeda  sitting with her hands on her lap, head slightly bowed, face glowing yet distant.

Now, it was Ayeda’s turn.

“Ayeda Iqbal Khan, kya aapko Samad Ibrahim Khan qubool hai?”

The air felt heavier. His ears strained for her voice.

“Qubool hai.”

His heart skipped a beat. A sharp, stabbing sensation burst through his chest.

The Qazi repeated, “Ayeda Iqbal Khan, kya aapko Samad  ibrahim Khan qubool hai?”

“Qubool hai.”

Zarian’s throat went dry. His breathing turned shallow, rapid. His body felt hot and cold all at once.

For the third and final time, the Qazi said, “Ayeda Iqbal Khan, kya aapko Samad Ibrahim Khan qubool hai?”

Silence.

And then

“Qubool hai.”

That was it.

His vision blackened at the edges. His breaths became ragged, sharp, uneven. It felt like his lungs had given up. He could feel his body swaying, an unbearable weight pressing on his chest.

Then suddenly,

“Zarian! Beta! Look at me!”

Someone was shaking him. A voice  familiar, desperate.

It was his mother.

He blinked. The bright lights dimmed. The suffocating air lifted.

He was still standing in the Khan Mansion but the hall was normal again. No Qazi, no nikkah. Just guests bustling around, laughter in the air, and his family watching him with worried eyes.

It was a dream.

A dream so real… it left his soul bruised.

“I’m fine, ammi…” he managed, his voice hoarse. “Just need some air.”

He turned and walked out into the garden, the cold breeze hitting his burning skin. But even the wind couldn’t ease the storm inside.

He had dreamt of losing her.

And for the first time, he feared dreams could come true.

He looked up at the sky, a bitter smile curling at his lips, and whispered softly

“Meri aakhri umeed bhi khatam ho gayi...
Faisla ho chuka hai mere liye.
Woh... mere naseeb mein nahi.”

His eyes glistened, the weight in his chest tightening as he spoke again

“Mujhe aapke faislon par kabhi shaq nahi tha...
Par ab mujh mein himmat nahi rahi.
Main nahi dekh sakta unhein kisi aur ka hote hue.”

He turned his gaze towards the door where the nikkah was about to take place, his heart twisting, and then looked back up at the vast sky, the only witness to his surrender.

“Phir bhi... woh meri har dua mein shaamil rahengi.
Unki khushi … meri dua ban chuki hai.
Ishq joh kar baitha hoon main unse.”

A fragile chuckle escaped him, laced with helplessness.

“Unse ishq itna gehra ho chuka hai…
Ke ab har sajde mein unka zikr lazmi hai.
Warna lagta hai… jaise rooh ne sajda toh kiya…
Par dua adhoori reh gayi.”

Then he turned towards the gate and kept walking , leaving apart of his soul, a broken smile and a heart that whispered only prayers for her happiness.

Usne ISHQ ki woh inteha kardi..
Jahan mohabbat aksar apna daam tood deti hai..

~INTEHA-E-ISHQ

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