Nine

What do you think? Was it easy for me to spend two months without seeing you?

It was a breath-stopping moment, our eyes locked as if the world had paused. My chest felt tight, like my heart had forgotten how to beat. For a fleeting moment, I forgot that living required me to exhale, but I couldn't. Something held my breath hostage, trapped in my throat, like an invisible fist gripping and tying it shut. My mind screamed, "Girl, release that breath, or you'll die!" But I couldn't look away from him. My eyes refused to obey, clinging to his as if breaking the connection would shatter something fragile within me.

For a while, Muazzam kept visiting, and our bond grew stronger—two souls who shared every detail of their week with each other. Each time he came, I braced myself, determined not to let my emotions take over. I reminded myself, "Mehar Jan, no matter what happens, you must hold your feelings back. Don't ruin this connection you've built with him. He trusts you now, feels safe around you. Don't let your emotions spoil it."

It was excruciating, like holding burning coal in my palm, but I swallowed the bitter pill of patience. I reasoned with myself: "At least one of us should be happy in this relationship. If not me, then let it be him."

I made him believe, through my actions, that I no longer harbored any feelings for him. It was the only way to make him feel safe and to protect the new bond we had formed. And that's exactly what happened—he foolishly believed that my heart had gone hollow, that I felt nothing for him anymore.

I did this because I often sensed his unease, his nervousness, as though he feared I might get too close and disrupt the fragile balance. It seemed to me that he was scared of any emotional responsibility, hesitant to be entangled in something he wasn't ready to face.

As his childhood cousin, I knew him inside out. That's why I felt it was necessary to assure him—to show him, subtly, that he wasn't being trapped, that he could relax in my presence. But inside, I was quietly battling my emotions, suppressing the very feelings that once defined my existence.

But our families wouldn't let us exist peacefully in any way, especially Muazzam's sister and my sister. They both started creating stories in their minds, imagining things that weren't there. My mother, however, knew me well and trusted me completely. She understood that when Muazzam came over, it was always in the presence of our parents. We would all sit together, talk openly, and then go our separate ways. There was never anything secretive or inappropriate happening.

Yet, my sister and his sister, being absent during these moments, couldn't help but come up with their own assumptions. Their imaginations ran wild, leading to unnecessary drama. Once, his sister said something bitter to me—something so harsh that my mind seems to have erased the memory, probably to protect me from reliving the pain.

And as for my sister, she wasn't far behind.

One night, when Muazzam came over, it was getting late—almost 1:00 am. He was about to leave when my sister and her husband arrived. We all knew something was bound to happen. Naturally, they were surprised to find him at our house so late, especially since it was just him and me still awake. My mother was about to go to sleep, and my father had already gone to bed.

After a while, we all sat down again. My brother-in-law invited Muazzam to stay and chat for a bit longer. But during that conversation, my sister made a sharp comment. While we were talking, she casually mentioned how frequently Muazzam had been coming over to our house lately.

I knew that Muazzam is Muazzam—he takes things seriously and tends to overthink. So, he took that comment personally.

However, after that night, he stopped coming. And we are like this: if he doesn't come, I won't call him either. If he doesn't tell me, I won't ask.

There's always just a silence between us, which we both understand in our own way. But the beauty of our relationship is that even when we're apart, we never pick up from where we left off. There's always a new beginning, one that's better and more beautiful than before.

Time passed, yet it felt like it wasn't moving at all. Every weekend, I waited for him, knowing deep down that he wouldn't come. Still, my eyes remained fixed on the path, hoping—just maybe—he would appear. But he didn't. His pride mattered more than us meeting again.

Even though I knew he wouldn't come unless I reached out first, I still waited, unwilling to take that step. I missed sitting with him, talking for hours, sharing our thoughts. But I stayed silent.

And then, Ramadan arrived—the holy month of fasting, where we strengthen our faith and strive to become better Muslims. During this sacred time, Allah (SWT) locks away the devils, giving us a chance to prove who we truly are without their whispers. Yet, in these moments, we come to realize that the real struggle isn't just with external forces—it's with our own nafs (inner self), the desires and temptations that were never in our control to begin with.

So, during Ramadan, we come face to face with our true selves. When the devil is locked away, who is left to manipulate us? It's our nafs—our inner desires and weaknesses—that become our greatest enemy. Allah (SWT) says that controlling one's nafs is the highest form of struggle, known as Jihad bil Nafs.

The days passed in the rhythm of fasting, prayers, preparations, Taraweeh, and work. Time moved quickly, yet in my heart, another month slipped by without seeing him, without hearing his voice, without sitting across from him like before.

After 30 days of fasting, Allah (SWT) rewards us with Eid-ul-Adha—a celebration of sacrifice, gratitude, and joy. The festival lasts three days, filled with happiness, family gatherings, and traditions. We wear new clothes, visit relatives, and collect Eidi—a token of love in the form of money.

On the morning of Eid, the men of our family, as tradition, visited the elders' houses after Namaz to offer Salam and share blessings. He came too. But I was too busy—cleaning the house, helping my brothers get ready—so I missed seeing him.

The first day of Eid passed quickly in the chaos of happiness. The house buzzed with laughter, guests coming and going, and the excitement of celebrations. I was exhausted from running around, managing everything, and soaking in the festive energy. With all the commotion, I didn't get the chance to visit Muazzam's house for greetings, so I decided to leave it for the next day.

On the second day, I got ready. It was 2022—I remember it perfectly.

I wore a mint moss-shaded green shirt paired with cream trousers. A long dupatta draped over one shoulder, adding a graceful touch, while a skin-colored hijab neatly covered my head. It was a simple yet elegant outfit—perfect for the summer.

I also had lots of rings on my fingers—back then, I was obsessed with wearing multiple rings. I wore two rings on each finger, making it a total of ten rings on both hands. It might have seemed a bit unusual, but I absolutely loved that trend at the time.

He was dressed in sepia—a warm shade of brown—wearing a traditional Pakistani kurta shalwar. He looked good. When I arrived at their house, he wasn't the first person I met. First, my aunt came to greet me, then his sister, and then his younger brother. I hugged them all and made my way to my uncle's room to greet him.

After that, I finally saw him from afar. Our eyes met, and we exchanged a simple Salam. He subtly looked at me from head to toe, and, of course, I looked at him too—both of us stealing glances while maintaining our distance.

We usually don't compliment each other—it rarely happens, so we don't even notice. Just looking at each other to our heart's content is enough for us.

Fulfilling desires only with the eyes, while staying distant.

That was a memorable day for me, and I think for him too. Since childhood, everyone had forced us to take pictures together, even when we didn't want to. But this time, it was different. This time, it was our choice.

In those gestures of laughter, in the comfort of being around him, I found the courage to ask the question that had been weighing on me.

We had gotten tired and sat across from each other at the table, eye to eye. I looked straight into his gaze and finally asked, "Why did you stop coming?"

For a moment, time seemed to freeze. He held my gaze, as if searching for something in my eyes. Then, gently, he answered, "What do you think? Was it easy for me to spend two months without seeing you?"