Chapter 1

“Miraal! Hurry up! Pack your things before dawn—we will leave for Lahore at 7 sharp!”

“Okay, Ami!”

Yes, it’s happening. We’re moving. Again.

This time, from Islamabad back to Lahore.

Lahore—our home, our roots, the city that knows my name in the wind.

Two years ago, Ami and I left it behind for my grandparents who had fallen terribly ill.

Now... they’re gone. And life is nudging us back where we belong.

I’m also starting college—

Well, restarting it, to be honest. I had enrolled in KIPS college Islamabad but since KIPS college Lahore exists too, I’ll be transferring. New chapter, same books. Same girl, different skies.

While I was packing my stuff, I stumbled upon an old stack of photos—me with Nana and Nani. Ugh, emotional landmine. Their warm smiles hit me like a soft pillow to the face… and I mean the kind that still hurts a little. I tucked them between the pages of my journal. That’s where the memories go—pressed like flowers no one else needs to see.

Anyway, back to the chaos. I packed my clothes, skincare stuff (because a glowing face is non-negotiable), my crochet supplies, my migraine meds, and—don’t judge—three suitcases. I’m a 17-year-old girl, not a monk. A girl needs her moisturizers, memory boxes, and three versions of the same black hoodie for “aesthetic.”

I somehow managed to shove everything into our navy-blue SUV, which was already screaming for mercy. I flopped into the back-left seat, hoping the universe would reward me with a peaceful ride.

But no, guess who was already there?

Musa. My older brother. A pain in the butt, wrapped in sarcasm and smugness. He was sitting right next to me, grinning like he just won a Nobel Prize in being annoying. Why couldn’t he just sit in the front like a normal elder sibling and give me some peace? No, of course not. That would make my life too easy.

Baba was in the driver’s seat, ami beside him adjusting the AC like she’s piloting a jet, and then me—stucked with this annoying brother of mine.

I put my neck pillow on, plugged in my earphones, played my Spotify playlist (thank you, Atif Aslam and Arman Malik, for always understanding my soul), and pulled my sleeping mask down dramatically like a movie heroine. This was going to be a peaceful ride.

At least… that’s what I thought.

“Miraal can’t solve this riddle? Even a kindergartener could do it.”

I peeled off my sleeping mask so slow it was basically a death glare which I hoped scares of anyone.

“Musa, that’s the tenth riddle. I’m losing brain cells. How many more are you planning to ask? I’m sacrificing my beauty sleep for you—you better make it count.”

He just stared at me with that face. You know the one. The “I hear you, but I’ll keep ruining your life anyway” face.

Of course, riddle eleven showed up like an uninvited chachi (aunt) at a wedding.

This is the same Musa who’s three years older than me, studying in a top medical university in Lahore. He came home just to “help with the shifting,” but I think he really came back just to torment me before we moved.

It’s been two peaceful months without him. Two months of silence, no riddles, no jumping out from behind doors, no food vanishing mysteriously from the fridge.

But no.

Destiny looked at my peace and said: “Let’s spice things up.”

After a few agonizing hours, finally—an angel sent from the skies.

No, not my brother. Please. I’m talking about the legend who called Musa and got him glued to his phone. That anonymous college friend unknowingly gifted me the rarest treasure of all:

silence.

I could breathe again.

I seized the moment like a war general claiming peace. Plugged in my earphones, switched to Punjabi songs (because who doesn’t love that dhol beat?), and pulled my sleeping mask back on. Just as I started to feel the long-awaited peace blanket on me…

Boom.

A laser-sharp gaze pierced through my skin. I didn’t need eyes to know whose it was.

“Miraal, don’t you have syllabus left to cover? Why are you listening to songs and sleeping when you could be studying in this peaceful ride?”

Ah yes. My mother. The woman who thinks relaxing is a sin punishable by guilt.

“You’re already behind in studies. Cover your syllabus soon so your college transfer goes smoothly,” she continued.

I sighed dramatically. “Yeah yeah, I’ll open the books in a lit—”

“What are you doing, honey?”

My dad cut me mid-sentence.

“She’s been studying day and night for the past month to cover everything. Don’t you think she deserves a little break?”

“But….”Mom sighed like she lost a battle. “Okay… but once we settle in Lahore, I want you to focus completely.”

“Ofcourse” Dad gave me a sneaky wink through the rearview mirror, and I smiled back like thank you, O savior of all times.

Ami’s always been strict. But sometimes, I wonder if it’s discipline or low-key manipulation. I mean, she has every right, right? She raised us through thick and thin. But still.

I’m aiming to become a doctor—like Musa. Mostly because of her. She never explicitly told me to, but whenever careers came up and I’d say something like, “Ami, I want to be an architect,” she’d hit me with:

“Beta, it’s not that rewarding here. Medicine gives more respect and a secure future.”

If I mentioned journalism?

“It’s very risky.”

Art?

“Beta, people don’t take artists seriously.”

So yeah, little by little, she sculpted this idea in my head that no other career deserves respect more than being a doctor. And here I am—17, with dreams slightly adjusted to fit the image she softly painted for me.

........

I dozed off for I don’t know how many hours, but judging by the sun doing a full performance at the center of the sky, I guessed it was noon-ish… then remembered I owned a phone. Smart, Miraal. It was exactly 11:30 AM. Our first stop was at one of those typical rest services beside a patrol station — the kind that smell like oily paratha and tired travelers.

We went in for a bathroom break and lunch. After stuffing myself with my favorite spicy chicken karahi and a dramatic amount of masaledaar biryani, we began packing our tiny mess from the table. As everyone settled back into the car, I tugged at my dad’s sleeve.

“Wait Baba! I need to grab snacks for the ride. I might feel nausea from eating so heavy.”

Mom gave me that look. “Who feels nauseous after devouring karahi?”

Baba, my personal lawyer, replied, “Let her go, she knows her own stomach,” and gave me the green light. He did try to send Musa along as a security guard, but Musa started whining about how his stomach hurt — dramatic baby. Still, he was forced into tagging along.

Except, of course, he didn’t. He ditched me for the men’s area and I wandered into the snacks corner solo. While hunting for something spicy, I found my all-time fav: local alobukhara and imli juice — a combo from the heavens.

I asked the vendor for the price even though it’s tattooed in my brain: Rs.150.

But he had the audacity to say, “Rs.300 per cup.”

Excuse me?! This man was trying to rob me in broad daylight, just because this juice is rare in spots like these.

I told him playfully, “It’s supposed to be 150"

He mumbled, “Baji, it’s hard bringing this juice all the way here and keeping it fresh.”

“Then make it 200,” I said, giving him my best bargaining face.

He blinked like a confused NPC. “O baji, I might’ve thought about 280… but 200? That’s too low!”

Just as I was about to throw out an empty “I’ll report you” threat, a shadow loomed over us. I saw it stretch across the wall beside me — tall, broad, commanding. Even from the silhouette, I could tell this wasn’t your average road-travel uncle.

A deep, calm-yet-deadly voice followed.

“Bhai, what’s going on here?”

I turned.

And I froze.

“Bhai, what’s happening?”

That voice. Deep, horse,

Bold. Attractive.

I turned around.

And then I froze.

Like literally froze.

Arms stiff. Brain silent. Breathing? Optional.

No boy had ever made me feel like this before. I wasn’t sure if it was a déjà vu or a moment stolen from another lifetime, but when our eyes met...

I knew I hadn’t seen him before.

Because if I had, I would’ve never forgotten that face.

His eyes—grey.

His hair was jet black, windswept like he walked through a drama scene.

The vendor’s voice shattered my trance.

“Professor, this girl is saying I should give her the rare juice for 200—even though the price is 300.”

Wait—professor!?

The man, still looking half amused, said calmly,

“Sir, I know it’s rare in this area, but can’t you lower it to 200? 300 is a little too much.”

He didn’t sound aggressive. Just… confident.

Like someone who’s used to talking to people.

I studied him again.

Definitely not old. Maybe early to mid-twenties. Sharp jawline.His eyes—grey at first glance, but... were those hints of green? Or was it blue peeking through?

And a face so annoyingly handsome that I wanted to argue with it.

“If you say so… Baji… I’ll give you the juice for 200 rupees.”

Wait—WHAT?

“You weren’t going to lower the price unless this Mr. Kora Billa*showed up?!” I blurted.

*slang word used for people having iris colour other than black or dark brown in Pakistan

He laughed—LAUGHED—and said,

“Hey! I just helped you, and now I’m Kora Billa?”

I narrowed my eyes. “What do I call you then? I don’t even know your name. And how did you hack the vendor’s mind like that?”

He opened his mouth to respond, possibly with another flirt-laced defense, but—

“Miraal!”

Ugh. Musa. The official reminder of reality.

I glanced at the time.

Half an hour!?

I told Baba I’d only take a minute!

“I’m SO dead,” I muttered. I grabbed my snacks and juice from the vendor and threw the money like it was a bribe, and spun around—only to find Mr. Kora Billa still watching me.

Why did it feel like… he was dazed?

“Anyway—thanks for your help, stranger. I’ll be off now.”

As I took Musa’s hand, he reported

“You know Amma is going to roast you alive for taking this long on a nausea snack run, right?”

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder, Captain Obvious.”

As we walked past the stranger, I heard it—

A chuckle. Deep and unbothered.

And for some strange reason…

My stomach did a full somersault.

<-----------------------\>

After getting an earful from my mom, I slumped back into my seat, tugged on my neck pillow, slipped on my sleeping mask, and plugged in my headphones—my classic “I need to disappear” kit. My goal was simple: get some peaceful sleep. But no. Mr. Kora Billa just hijacked my peace and flew off with it.

I kept thinking about him the whole ride. Musa must’ve sensed my sudden mood shift—he didn’t bug me like usual. Should I appreciate his intuition… or just thank Allah for this rare silence?

Still, I couldn’t stop replaying what happened. I realized he didn’t even mind me calling him Kora Billa. Most guys would’ve been offended—but he didn’t flinch. Maybe I went a bit overboard? I shouldn’t have done that.

Then again... you don’t see a face like that more than once in a lifetime. Honestly, if he ever appears in front of me again—even in a crowd—I’ll recognize him in one breath. His face? Etched in my brain like a tattoo from fate.

I just... I don’t know. I hope I see him again. Somewhere. Somehow. Maybe in Lahore.

"After finally reaching our old home in Lahore, we spent hours shifting furniture and unpacking everything. Once it was all done, I collapsed onto my bed like I’d never known rest before—as if this mattress was the only place in the world I could breathe again.”

I sigh, reach into my tote and pull out the small black notebook hidden between my migraine medicines and spare socks. The cover says “Headache Log”—and in a way, it is.

But not the kind ami thinks.

I flick through pages of dull entries until I find a clean one. And then, without thinking, I write:

---

9:24 am — Ride to Lahore from Islamabad

I met a guy unexpectedly.And it felt like it was work of Fate. He had grey eyes that looked like they’d swallowed a storm. But when I looked longer,Green? Blue? I don’t know. I don’t even know his name.

I don't know why but I kept looking in his eyes even though I avoided it. Maybe finding something in those deep eyes? Maybe they were attractive that's why?

I called him Kora Billa. He smiled like it didn’t hurt.

What kind of man lets a stranger mock him and still lowers the price of juice just to side with her?

No. What kind of man looks at you like he’s dazed?

At a stranger at that.

I wish I asked his name. But would that have made forgetting easier? Or harder?

Ya Allah… why do I feel like I will meet him again?

.....

“"Miraal! Wake up!"

A banging sound echoed in my head. I ignored it—since I was busy completing my lovely dream again which was disturbed by this party pooper. Whatever party pooper was ruining it clearly didn’t believe in sleep rights.

Suddenly I felt... silence.

Ahh, bliss. Peace.

SPLASH.

“ARGHHHHHHH!! What in the actual *BEEP* was that?!”

“You weren’t waking up, so I had to splash water on you.”

“Have you completely lost your mind, Musa?!” I thought at that moment If he were my younger brother, I swear I’d have given him a fist to his face by now.”

“Lucky me I’m not, then,” he grinned. “I can read your face, you know.”

“Not my problem,” I hissed, wiping water off my face like I’d just come out of a monsoon.

“If you don’t want to be slapped by Ammi next, get up already—you’re super late for your first day at college.”

And with that, he strutted out of the room like he’d done the world’s greatest public service.

Fortunately, I managed to get dressed in fifteen minutes—somehow—and now I’m heading downstairs for breakfast.

If my calculations are correct (and may Allah bless them), it’s just 7:30 a.m., college starts at 8:00, the ride is barely five minutes, and even if I walk, it’ll take ten to fifteen tops. I’ll give myself a comfy fifteen minutes for breakfast.

Which means… no scolding from Ami today? InshaAllah. Manifesting peace. 🕊️✨

As I reach the dining table, I see everyone already gathered for breakfast. Baba spots me and beams, “Come, beta, sit beside me.”

Then, without hesitation, he shoves Musa off the chair next to him.

“Hey! I’m also your son, you know?” Musa protests, clearly used to this kind of betrayal.

“But not as sweet as her,” Baba replies with zero remorse.

Musa doesn’t argue further at this statement—just flops onto the chair beside the one he was dethroned from. Defeated. Tragic. Iconic.

Then, boom, Ami comes with her classic morning jab:

“Do you even realize how late you are? You should learn from Musa—he wakes up at dawn, prays, and even goes for a jog!”

Urgh. Of course.

Musa, the golden boy.

First, because he’s “so disciplined” with his routine.

Second, because he’s a medical student.

And me? Apparently just the “Nausea excuse” girl from yesterday.

Next chapter :

"I was in a hurry for class and ran with full speed as I entered the hall way I bumped into—"

---

Miraal’s POV

Baba dropped me off at the college gate in his navy SUV, leaving behind the scent of his cologne and a fluttering in my chest. Maybe Ami was right—I should’ve come earlier. Now I’m wandering unfamiliar corridors, clutching my tote bag like a lifeline, asking strangers for directions like a lost tourist.

It’s 8:05 a.m.

My vintage watch ticks louder than my thoughts.

As I turn a corner, I crash into someone tall.

“Ouch!” I mutter.

“Sorry, I didn’t see anyone coming—”

“It’s okay, aou—” My words stop mid-breath.

We both pause.

I want to hurry and go but before I can go,

he clears his throat. “Are you a newcomer? Transfer student?”

I nod slowly. “How do you know that?”

“Well…” he hesitates. “A professor sent me. Said a transfer student might show up... running. So I should show her the way.”

I narrow my eyes. Then I laugh. And he weakly laughs too.

“Haha—okay, that’s oddly specific. Why would a professor know I’d be late?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Uhh, I mean… he saw you running and guessed you were the rumored transfer. So...Yeah.”

I stare at him. He starts sweating.

Dude, relax. I’m not the FBI.

“Rumored?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah. The faculty gets notified about transfers. Word spreads.”

“Hmm.” I raise a brow. “You’re awfully nervous. It was just a question.”

“Haha—yeah. It’s actually my first day too. As the assistant to the professor who asked me to guide you.”

“Mmhmm.” I don't believe him, but I let it go.

“You just need to go straight, then take two lefts. Your lecture hall’s right there.”

“Ohhh.” My tone softens. “Well, thanks. Best of luck on your... assistantship.”

“Sorry for holding you up!”

I wave and dash off, muttering,

“Weird dude…”

---

Assistant’s POV

“Did she understand the directions, Ahmed?”

“Yes, sir,” I reply.

Professor Azlan’s voice crackles through my Bluetooth earpiece.

I exhale.

Barely escaped that one.

Sir Azlan’s plans always put me on edge—he makes the moves, I clean up the mess.

Azlan Qadeer Rajput. College biology professor by day.

Secret boss of one of Pakistan’s top covert agencies by night.

I’ve been his assistant for seven years—since he was 18.

He’s cold. Distant. Brilliant.

And until now, immune to charm.

But ever since that brief moment at the service station… he’s been different.

He noticed her. Remembered her. Ordered background checks and surveillance.

This isn’t curiosity. It’s something else.

Obsession? Or something deeper?

I just hope she recognizes him.

Because if she doesn’t… I have a hunch that all of this might break him.

---

Miraal’s POV

Following the directions, I finally arrive at the lecture hall.

My eyes scan the room—and then I see her.

Emaan.

My best friend from before. From Lahore. Before I shifted to Islamabad

She’s chatting with a guy, her face animated.

Classic Emaan. I know every expression. I sneak up behind her and tap her shoulder.

“Hey!”

She turns—and gasps. “MIRAAL!?”

I smile, arms open for a hug.

She offers a handshake instead. Odd.

Still, I go in for the hug. She allows it. Barely.Because I can feel her pushing me subtly.

Weird.

I place my pink tote on a desk and start to sit when she says,

“Miraal… I’m sorry. I promised this seat to another girl.”

“Oh... okay.”

It stings. I don’t show it.

I walk away, pretending not to feel the cold in her voice.

“Hello, beautiful! Wanna sit with me?”

Ew. Instant ick.

Before I can reply, another guy jumps in.

“She’s sitting with me, actually.”

What is this, a desi Bachelor audition?

I ignore both and find a row with three empty seats near the front. Peace at last.

As I start pulling out my biology book, I feel a quiet presence. I look at the entrance and there is a girl standing.

Scanning all room and finally decides to come sit near me.

A girl with red hair and porcelain skin. She looks like she stepped out of a painting—calm, poised, untouchable.

I smile. “Assalam-o-Alaikum!”

“Walaikum salam,” she replies gently.

Her voice is so soft. Almost like music.

“Are you new? Transfer student?” I ask

“Yes. I came before you though” she replied.

She says nothing more. Quiet, but not cold. I like that.

We sit in companionable silence—until I break it.

“So… who’s this Sir Azlan everyone’s whispering about?”

I’d overheard girls literally squealing in the hallway.

She blinks at me with a look "seriously? You don't know?".

Still she replies “Biology professor.”

“Oh? Isn’t he our class teacher too?”

“Yes.”

Her answers are short, but I sense more behind them.

“But why does everyone act like he’s a K-drama lead?”

She tilts her head. “Because he kind of is.”

“Really?” I lean in. “Let me guess. 30s, tall, mysterious, never married?”

“He’s 24.”

“WHAT?”

My brain short-circuits.

“A professor at 24? Of biochemistry?”

“Yup. Every girl has a crush on him. But he’s untouchable.”

“Untouchable?” I scoff. “Men like that are usually the biggest womanizers.”

She shrugs. “Not this one. He’s... different.”

“How so?”

“He’s cold. Brutally honest. Doesn’t blink before shattering hearts.”

“Yikes.” I wince. “Emotionally bulletproof?”

“Exactly. Atleast ten girls confess every week. He rejects them all.”

I love the way she is opening up with me and how our Convo is going with flow.

“What’s his full name?”

I asked him his full name because if she knows it maybe she is one of those girls who are crushing over him.

“Professor Azlan Qadeer Rajput.”

Rajput.

Power practically echoes from the name.

“He’s rich too,” she adds. “From one of the top ten richest families in Pakistan.”

My jaw drops.

“How have I never heard of him?!”

She smiles faintly. “I wondered the same thing when you first asked.”

So the reason she knows his full name is because he is a famous and known person.

I check the time. 8:30 a.m.

“The class was supposed to start at 8. Where is he?”

She frowns. “He’s never late. Not even by a second. This is… strange.”

Then—

Silence.

The kind that ripples through a crowd like a signal.

I look toward the stage.

And I freeze.

No. No way.

This isn’t happening.

---

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I can’t believe my eyes. My heart isn’t racing—it’s sprinting.

There he is.

Grey eyes. Stormy yet calm eyes.