inaya ali shah pov
Morning came with no mercy.
Sun rays pierced through my half-open eyes, forcing me awake. The first thing I felt was pain—sharp, throbbing—splitting my head apart. Crying all night had left my body weak, my eyes swollen, my chest heavy.
Only then did I realize—
I wasn't on my bed.
I had fallen asleep on the cold balcony floor.
Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself up. My legs trembled as I stood, the marble floor sending chills through my bare feet. Every muscle ached, every breath felt heavier than the last. I walked back into my room like a ghost returning to a place that no longer felt like home.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a long while, staring at nothing.
Trying to breathe.
Trying to feel normal.
After some time, I forced myself up and did a few light exercises—not because I had the strength, but because I needed control. Pain in the body was easier than pain in the heart.
Then I got ready.
I wore a soft pink kurta with white palazzo—simple, traditional. I left my hair open, letting it fall freely down my back, and applied light makeup. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to hide the evidence of a sleepless, broken night.
For a moment, I stood in front of the mirror.
I looked at my reflection and whispered silently,
Be strong. Just for today.
Then I walked downstairs.
The house was already awake.
Saad had left for college. Baba and uncle were gone to the office. The kitchen echoed with the sound of utensils—mom and aunt busy with their work. Dadi sat on the sofa, her back straight, her presence heavy.
I quietly took a seat on the opposite sofa.
The moment she noticed me—
her expression hardened.
Without a word, she stood up, anger radiating from every step, and walked away. Before leaving, she turned briefly toward my mother and said coldly,
"Bring my food to my room."
She didn't say it directly—
but the message was clear.
She didn't want to eat at the same table as me.
The words hit harder because they were unspoken.
A sharp pain spread across my chest, tight and suffocating. I tried to ignore it. I really did.
But some pain doesn't listen.
Dadi disappeared into her room.
My mother had seen everything.
She stood there silently, holding a glass of milk, her fingers tightening around it. Her eyes flickered between the door dadi had closed and me—sitting still, pretending not to be affected.
Then she walked toward me and stopped in front of me.
"Drink this," she said softly, extending the glass.
I looked up at her.
She knew.
She knew I was allergic to milk.
She knew it would make me sick.
Yet she stood there, conflicted—torn between being a mother and being a daughter-in-law in this house.
I took the glass with shaking hands.
Not because I wanted to drink it—
but because refusing would hurt her more than the milk would hurt me.
And at that moment, I realized something painful:
In this house, everyone had a place.
Except me.
The glass trembled slightly as she held it out to me.
"Drink it properly," Ammi said softly. "You didn't eat anything."
The smell hit me first.
Milk.
My breath caught.
For a split second, I wasn't in the living room anymore.
I was sixteen again.
Zoya sat on the edge of my bed, swinging her legs, holding the same glass in her hands.
"Just one sip," she had laughed. "You're so dramatic."
"I'm allergic," I had told her, rolling my eyes.
"And I love milk," she replied, grinning. "One of us has to."
Her voice echoed too clearly in my head.
My chest tightened. My throat burned.
Ammi was still talking, still unaware.
"Zoya used to drink it every morning," she said absentmindedly, almost fondly. "It keeps the body strong."
That was it.
The final crack.
My fingers went numb as I gently placed the glass back on the table.
"I'm allergic," I said.
The words came out broken—like they'd been dragged out of me.
Silence.
Ammi froze.
Her eyes flickered to the glass… then to my face. Understanding dawned slowly, cruelly. Her hand shook.
"Inaya…" her voice whispered, barely there. "I—I forgot."
Forgot.
Or remembered the wrong daughter.
Something sharp pierced my chest. I stood up abruptly, the room spinning.
"I can't do this," I said, my voice hollow. "Not today. Not again."
She rushed toward me, panic flooding her features.
"Wait—please don't go like this. At least take the driver. Inaya, don't go alone."
I didn't look at her.
If I did, I would crumble.
"I need to breathe," I said. "This house suffocates me."
Her hand brushed my arm, desperate.
"Inaya, beta—"
I pulled away.
And walked out.
The door slammed.
The sound echoed through the palace like a gunshot.
Ammi stood there, unmoving.
The glass of milk still sat on the table, untouched.
Her knees gave out.
She sank onto the sofa, covering her mouth as a sob tore out of her chest. Tears spilled freely now, soaking into her dupatta.
"What have I done?" she cried softly. "Ya Allah… I hurt her again."
Her eyes drifted toward the hallway Zoya used to run through, laughing, alive.
"I lost one daughter," she whispered, voice breaking.
"Am I losing the other too?"
No one answered.
But I didn't stop.
I grabbed my car keys and walked out of the palace, the morning air cold against my burning skin. I slid into my car and slammed the door shut, cutting off her voice—cutting off everything.
The engine roared to life.
As I drove away, my vision blurred, the road stretching endlessly ahead. My mother's words echoed faintly in my mind, but I drowned them out with speed.
Because staying would have killed me slower—
and leaving at least gave me the illusion of survival.
Outside, I drove.
Too fast.
The road blurred as my hands tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles white. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, drowning out everything else.
Zoya's face flashed before my eyes.
Her smile.
Her scream.
That moment.
"Stop," I whispered to myself, breath uneven. "Stop thinking."
But my mind betrayed me.
The accident replayed again and again—merciless, unforgiving.
My vision burned with unshed tears.
"I didn't push you," I choked out to the empty car. "You slipped. You know that… please tell them you know that."
The car swerved slightly.
I slammed the brakes suddenly.
The tires screeched loudly against the road as the car came to a violent halt.
My body lurched forward.
I screamed.
A raw, broken sound as I hit the steering wheel again—once, twice—until my hands hurt and my chest felt like it was being ripped open.
"Why didn't you hold my hand?" I cried.
"Why did you let go?"
My forehead dropped onto the wheel.
Tears fell freely now, soaking into my sleeves.
I stayed there—shaking, gasping, unraveling.
Because no matter how far I drove—
the past was always faster.
Zeeshan khan pov
The office felt wrong.
Too quiet.
Too still.
Zeeshan sat behind his desk, files open, pen poised—but nothing moved. The words blurred in front of his eyes. His chest felt… hollow.
He checked the time again.
She should have been home by now.
A strange restlessness crept in, tightening his jaw. He stood abruptly, pushing his chair back. The sudden movement startled his secretary outside, but he didn't notice.
Something was missing.
No—someone.
He walked to the glass wall of his office, staring down at the city. His reflection stared back—controlled, sharp, untouched.
And yet his hand drifted to his chest unconsciously.
"Inaya…" he muttered under his breath, annoyed at himself.
Why now?
Why today?
An image flashed in his mind—her standing alone in the garden last night, shoulders stiff, eyes empty. The way she walked away without looking back.
His fingers curled slowly.
"I shouldn't care," he said to himself.
But his heartbeat betrayed him—beating faster, harder.
For the first time that morning, Zeeshan felt it clearly:
Her absence wasn't peace.
It was noise.
Armaan meer pov
Across the city, Armaan's pen snapped mid-signature.
Ink bled across the paper.
He didn't swear. Didn't react.
He simply froze.
His chest tightened sharply, breath hitching as if someone had pressed a hand right over his heart.
"No," he whispered instinctively.
He stood up so fast his chair toppled backward with a loud crash.
The room felt suddenly smaller.
He walked to the window, eyes scanning the road below, jaw clenched hard. His phone was already in his hand—unlocked, thumb hovering over her name though he never dared to save it properly.
Inaya.
He didn't call.
He never crossed that line.
But his body knew before his mind did—
she wasn't okay.
The image came uninvited:
Her gripping the balcony railing.
Her breath uneven.
Her eyes wet, breaking.
Armaan's hand tightened around the phone until his knuckles turned white.
"Why do you hurt alone?" he whispered, voice low, dangerous.
"Why does no one ever catch you when you fall?"
His decision formed quietly.
And decisively.
inaya ali shah pov
The car slowed near a quiet stretch of road—far from the palace, far from people who looked at her like a ghost.
Her vision blurred.
The world tilted.
She pulled over clumsily, barely managing to park before her hands slipped from the steering wheel.
Her chest burned.
Her breaths came out shallow, sharp—each one harder than the last.
"In… out," she whispered to herself, gripping the dashboard. "Just breathe."
But the pain didn't listen.
The palace.
Her father's silence.
Her grandmother turning away.
The glass of milk.
Zoya.
Zoya.
Her vision darkened at the edges.
"Inaya Ali Shah," she murmured weakly, pressing her forehead against the steering wheel, "you're strong… you don't break."
But strength had limits.
Her door opened with trembling hands.
She stepped out—and the ground shifted beneath her feet.
The sky spun.
Her knees buckled.
And just like that—
Inaya collapsed on the side of the road, pink fabric pooling around her like spilled petals, hair falling loose as her body finally gave in to the weight it had carried for too long.
A passing breeze brushed her face.
She didn't feel it.
At the same moment—
Zeeshan's chest tightened sharply, breath catching for no reason he could explain.
Armaan grabbed his car keys, heart pounding, already moving.
And Inaya lay unconscious beneath the open sky—
Unaware that two very different men felt the exact same thing at once:
Something precious was slipping out of reach.