I greeted guest after guest with a polite smile, my lips moving automatically while my eyes kept flicking down to my phone.
I was waiting. For his message.
Atif had said this morning he'd be "a little busy." Typical. Tomorrow was our wedding—our nikkah—and Mr. Workaholic was still buried in his office.
I sighed, staring at the screen as another aunty hugged me and whispered something about how lucky I was. I barely heard her.
Finally, I sent him a photo of my henna-stained hands. His initial—A—stood proudly in the center of my palm, surrounded by floral patterns that spiraled up to my wrists.
Look what I got drawn for you. I typed quickly. They say the darker the mehndi, the deeper the love. Everyone's teasing me about how much my husband must adore me.
And they were. Every few minutes, someone would touch my hand and say something like:
"Your stain is so deep, mashAllah!"
"Your husband-to-be must really love you."
"He must be crazy about you—look at this color!"
Their words made me blush. And not just because of the henna.
I genuinely liked Atif. He was everything a girl could want—mature, kind, quietly ambitious. And while I'd grown up with my fair share of admirers, I never let anyone get too close. Atif was different. He never made me feel like I was being pursued for my looks or my father's money. He made me feel... seen.
Even though he wasn't from a wealthy background, he was building something for himself. I admired that more than anything.
My phone buzzed.
Noorain, I liked your mehndi. I want to apologize—I can't talk today. I hope you understand. I'll see you tomorrow at the venue.
I froze.
No smile. No heart emoji. No I love you.
He used my full name—Noorain. He never did that before. It felt cold. Distant. Like a stranger had borrowed his phone to text me.
My thumbs hovered over the screen. Then I typed:
Hmm.
I waited.
A moment later: Seen.
And then... nothing.
My chest tightened. I pressed the phone to my lap, forcing myself to breathe. He's just stressed. Weddings are overwhelming. Maybe he's nervous, I convinced myself.
Sanobar's voice pulled me from my spiral. "Noor, your wedding dress and accessories are all set. Shella Madam and Qareena Madam are looking over everything."
I nodded and got up. My mood was already bruised, but I tried to push it down. I straightened my dupatta and walked downstairs.
In the living room, Mama, Shella Aunty, and a few of my other aunts were talking excitedly about the lehenga, the jewelry, the imported orchids arriving in the morning. It all sounded distant—like background noise in a movie I wasn't really watching.
It felt too crowded, so I slipped away upstairs.
The terrace was always my escape—quiet, open, peaceful. I opened the door to the rooftop and stepped out, letting the night air cool my skin.
Just then, I heard footsteps behind me.
I turned.
Orhan.
His hair was still damp from a shower. He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, paired with slate-grey trousers. He looked... effortless. Like someone who never had to try.
Of course.
I stared a moment too long. When he caught me looking, he said, "Qareena Aunty told me to come up here. I wanted some air."
"Oh," I said, and nothing more.
"You always used to hide up here."
"I still do."
"Still have that telescope?" he asked, pointing toward it.
"Yeah, it still works. Sanya, Amir, you, and I used to fight over it," I said, the memory flickering to life—our childhood, our games.
He stepped forward and looked through it.
"I remember," he said quietly. "You always said you'd find Mars before anyone else."
"And you always tried to blind me with the sun," I replied with a small smile.
He chuckled.
It caught me off guard.
We sat on the two swings near the edge of the terrace—the kind you had to push with your feet to keep moving. I felt the cool metal beneath my palms.
"So," he said after a beat. "Big day tomorrow."
I nodded. "Yeah."
He glanced sideways at me. "Nervous?"
"No. Just... ready."
After a pause, he asked, "How's Atif?"
I looked at him, surprised. Why did he care?
"He's good," I said shortly.
He nodded. "Is he... like you imagined? Angelic? Perfect?"
I smiled, looking up at the stars. "If I'm honest, yes. I can't name a single bad thing about him."
"Yeah, but people aren't always what they seem, you know? For someone like you, who judges too quickly, even a simple human flaw might look angelic," he said—his words stung, like a subtle accusation.
"Excuse me? Where is this even coming from?"
"No reason," he said. "Just talking."
"Atif is everything a guy should be. He's perfect," I said proudly.
"Nobody's perfect. And if you can't see their flaws, it means they're hiding them. Sometimes what they hide can be... really ugly."
I felt a flash of anger. Was he calling my fiancé fake? Two-faced? That's what it sounded like.
"Orhan, you don't care whether someone lives or dies—so don't act like you've turned into some kind of well-wisher."
"Not everyone cares the way you want them to."
"What does that even mean?" I snapped.
He smiled faintly. "Maybe it's something you'll understand later."
That irritated me.
Always cryptic. Always too clever for his own good.
"Spare me the riddles, Orhan. I'm getting married tomorrow. I don't have time for your games."
"I know," he said quietly.
I stood up. "Good night."
⸻
It was almost midnight. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
What did Orhan mean?
I pushed the thought away and tried to focus on tomorrow. My wedding. My new life.
I was more excited to begin that life with Atif than anything else.
He lived in a modest three-room apartment with his mother, but Baba had gifted us a mansion. At first, Atif had refused. But after a few conversations—almost magically—he accepted.
We had decorated that mansion together. Every curtain, every cushion bore my touch. It felt like mine. Like ours.
His mother would be living with us too. The three of us—a happy, little family.
I closed my eyes, letting myself drift into sleep, wrapped in dreams of the life waiting for me after tomorrow.
But somewhere, deep inside, a small, quiet unease pulsed like a heartbeat.