Morning arrived quietly at the Imrat household.

Sun rays slipped through the thin curtains and fell gently on the bed where three girls were huddled together, limbs tangled, breaths slow, and even. The room smelled faintly of sleep, warmth, and yesterday’s laundry. Outside, the world was already awake—but inside, time still lingered lazily.

A soft knock echoed against the wooden door.

Moments later, the door opened, and the beautiful lady of the house,stepped in. Years of work had etched themselves gently into her face—not harshly, but honestly. Her eyes held the calm of someone who had lived more for others than herself.

“Wake up,” she said softly. “You’ll be late for school.”

A groan followed.

From the middle of the bed, Irin Imrat, the eldest, turned her face into the pillow. “Give me five minutes, Mom,” she mumbled. “I’ll be there.”

Her mother smiled, already knowing this routine by heart, and quietly left the room.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Irin’s eyes fluttered open. She sat up suddenly, hair a mess, mind foggy.

“Why do I even need to go to school?” she grumbled, rubbing her face. “I’m twenty-three now.”

She swung her legs off the bed—and promptly tripped on her own dupatta lying on the floor.

“Okay. Okay,” she sighed, steadying herself. “I’m a teacher. I remember.”

That realization never failed to amuse her.

She washed herself quickly, the cold water chasing away the remnants of sleep, and got dressed with practised efficiency. There was no mirror admiration, no wasted time. Just motion. Habit. Responsibility.

Before leaving the room, she shook her sisters awake one by one, fixing their blankets, reminding them to hurry. She moved like someone who had memorized this choreography long ago.

In the kitchen, she poured herself a cup of tea and sat quietly, letting the warmth settle her thoughts. These few minutes were hers—the only pause before the day demanded her completely. After arranging her books and lesson plans, she kissed her mother’s cheek, waved goodbye, and stepped out into the morning.

Though she complained about school, it was never the place she disliked.

It was the early mornings after late nights.

Because truthfully—she loved teaching. She loved the way students listened when she spoke about the past, the way history came alive through her words. The classroom was one of the few places where she wasn’t just someone’s daughter or sister.

There, she was herself.

Miles away, in a world that did not know humming fans or crowded rooms, another morning began.

Inside a large apartment, sunlight reflected off glass walls and polished floors. On a wide bed lay a man sleeping on his stomach, one arm hanging loosely over the side.

At exactly 8:00 a.m., the alarm rang.

He groaned, turned it off, and sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair.

Shahzain Zafar Siddiqui.

Twenty-five years old.

He freshened up quickly, movements sharp and controlled. Today was another day at the family company, another day of responsibilities he had never argued against—but never truly chose either.

He worked there because it was expected.

Because it was his place.

But his heart belonged to something else entirely.

Trading goods was his passion. Negotiation, strategy, risk—it made him feel alive. And lately, the idea of disappearing for the weekend tugged at him strongly. Travelling alone. Quiet places. No expectations. Just movement and silence.

That was where he found peace.

As he stepped into the kitchen, he saw his mother standing by the stove.

She had grown old—slowly, gently—but age had softened her, not weakened her. Despite everything, she still insisted on doing small things for him.

“Good morning, Mom,” Shahzain said, frowning lightly. “I told you not to do all this work.”

She turned and smiled, the kind of smile that dismissed arguments without effort.

“I’m not tired,” she said warmly. “Making a cup of tea for my son isn’t work.”

He shook his head, knowing resistance was useless.

She handed him the cup. He took it, drank quietly, and after a brief exchange, headed out.

Another day awaited him.

Another role to play.

Two lives.

Two mornings.

Two entirely different worlds.

One built on endurance.

The other is on legacy.

Neither of them knew it yet—but somewhere between early alarms and unfinished thoughts, fate had already begun to write them into the same story.

And once it did—

There would be no turning back.

**Irin**

It was Saturday.

Which meant university.

The bus rattled like it always did—windows half-open, the smell of dust and morning air clinging to everything. Irin sat by the window, her head leaning lightly against the glass. From the moment she’d woken up, something had felt… off. Her body was heavy. Her head throbbed dully, like a warning she didn’t have time to listen to.

But assignments didn’t wait.

She was a **third-year student**. She couldn’t afford to fail now—not over something she had already completed. It felt unjust, honestly. Campus started at **8:00 a.m.**, yet she had to leave home before sunrise just to make it on time. Two hours of travel for a few hours of lectures. Her mother complained about this university choice often. Irin usually brushed it off.

This morning, though, the burden felt heavier.

By the time she reached campus, her legs were weak, but she pushed through. She submitted the assignment—her fingers trembling slightly as she handed it over. Relief washed over her, brief and hollow.

“You don’t look okay,” Wania said, studying her face.

“I’m fine,” Irin replied automatically.

“You’re not,” Wania insisted. “Go home. Get rest.”

Irin didn’t argue. For once, her body won.

She got permission to leave, but lecture time meant no one could accompany her. So she walked alone, the campus eerily quiet, classrooms full while the paths outside stood empty.

The route to the bus stand was long. Too long. Suburban. Green, but isolated.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her head—*Why this university, Irin?*

She sighed and kept walking.

Halfway across the road, the world tilted.

Her steps faltered. Her vision blurred. Then—

**BEEP. BEEP.**

A horn blasted from her left.

She turned sharply, startled, her heart jumping to her throat. A car screeched to a stop in front of her. It didn’t touch her. Not even close.

But the shock was enough.

The ground rushed up to meet her.

And everything went black.

---

**Shahzain**

*Beep… beep.*

A veined hand slapped the alarm clock silent.

Shahzain exhaled and stared at the ceiling.

“Okay,” he muttered, sitting up. “Today, peace.”

Saturday. No meetings. No family obligations. Just him, the road, and a backpack already waiting by the door.

He showered, dressed simply, and packed light. His mother was in the living room when he came out.

“I’ll be back late,” he said, kissing her forehead.

“Drive safe,” she replied, smiling.

He got into his car, turned the music up, and let the rhythm take over as he drove. Traffic clogged the main road, horns and impatience everywhere.

“Not today,” he said to himself, turning onto an alternate route.

The scenery changed—greener, quieter. Suburbs. The kind of place time forgot.

Then—

A girl stepped into the road.

She stopped suddenly. Right in the middle.

Shahzain’s heart slammed.

He hit the horn. Once. Twice.

She turned toward him—and froze.

“Move,” he growled under his breath.

She didn’t.

He slammed the brakes.

The car screeched to a halt.

She fell.

“Oh—no. No, no.”

He jumped out instantly, breath sharp in his chest. The car hadn’t touched her. Not even a scratch.

“She fainted,” he realized, kneeling beside her.

His mind raced. *Public road. Unknown girl. Cameras? People?*

He hesitated—just for a second.

Then he clenched his jaw.

“Emergency,” he muttered. “That’s all this is.”

He gently turned her to her side.

She was burning.

“Fever,” he said quietly. “Damn it.”

Up close, her face caught his attention. Soft. Pale. Too still.

“She looks… good,” he thought before snapping himself out of it.

“Focus,” he scolded himself. “Not the time.”

Still—something about her felt… familiar.

“Have I seen you before?” he murmured, then scoffed. “Get a grip.”

Carefully, he lifted her and placed her in the car, grabbing a water bottle from his bag. He sprinkled water on her face.

Nothing.

Again.

Her eyelashes fluttered.

“Come on,” he said, voice low but steady. “Stay with me.”

Her eyes slowly opened.

---

**Irin**

Cold water hit my face.

I gasped, my eyes flying open—and panic surged instantly.

Car interior.

Leather seats.

A stranger.

I tried to sit up, but my body betrayed me. No strength. None.

“Easy,” a voice said.

Deep. Calm. Male.

I turned my head toward him—and my breath caught.

*No.*

This wasn’t possible.

“How are you feeling now?” he asked, concern evident but controlled. “You fainted. You’ve got a fever. Do you want me to take you to a hospital? Or should I call someone to pick you up?”

I stared at him.

Really looked.

Sharp jaw. Focused eyes. Familiar presence.

My heart skipped—once, painfully.

*Him.*

Not love. I wouldn’t dare call it that.

Just… the man who once existed only in my thoughts.

Is this fate?

Or is my fever finally making me hallucinate?

Either way—

Something had begun.

And neither of us knew yet how deeply this moment would mark us.

The memory never announced itself.

It simply surfaced—quiet, persistent—like an old scar aching before a storm.

Three years ago.

Irin could still see it clearly.

She had been sitting in the university courtyard with Wania, legs tucked beneath her, bag resting against her side. It was one of those in-between hours when lectures felt distant and life felt light. Wania had been scrolling through her phone, laughing, narrating stories as her thumb moved.

“My cousins are impossible,” Wania had said, rolling her eyes. “Always travelling. Always grumpy. Always acting like the world owes them space.”

Then the scrolling stopped.

A group photo filled the screen.

And Irin’s world tilted—just slightly, but enough.

There he was.

Standing in front of a rugged jeep, desert stretching endlessly behind him. Sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with sand, eyes narrowed against the sun. There was a smile on his face—not wide, not careless—but real. One hand rested casually on his cousin’s shoulder, a quiet ownership in the gesture.

Shahzain.

Her heart didn’t simply skip.

It malfunctioned.

Violently. Rhythmically. As if it had forgotten its own rules.

It was foolish. Naive. The kind of impulse Irin spent her life suppressing. She was not the girl who acted on feelings. She was the girl who controlled them.

And yet—

That night, hidden behind a fake profile with no face and no name, she sent him a message.

Not for his money.

Not for his status.

For the soul she thought she saw in that photograph.

For three nights, she hovered over the send button. She typed *hi*—then deleted it. Typed again. Deleted again. Fear and excitement wrestling inside her chest.

Then, one evening, she sent it.

And this time—

He replied.

Instantly.

Her breath had caught in her throat.

The conversation unfolded slowly. Cautiously. He didn’t give much away. His words were brief and measured. When she asked about him, he answered faintly. Half-truths, maybe. Enough to keep the wall standing.

Then came the line that shattered her illusion.

*Who are you? I don’t talk to shadows.*

Her hands shook as she stared at the screen.

Still—she sent it.

A selfie. No filters. No poses. Just her sitting in the university library, books behind her, eyes wide and hopeful in a way she would later resent herself for.

The *Seen* appeared almost instantly.

And then—

Nothing.

No reply.

No explanation.

Just silence.

A cold, digital wall.

She understood later what he must have thought—that she was just another girl. Another background character. Maybe one of Wania’s many middle-class acquaintances trying to find a way into the Siddiqui circle.

He hadn’t been cruel.

He had been indifferent.

And that hurt far more.

Months passed.

At a Siddiqui family dinner, she attended as Wania’s guest, Irin saw him again—this time in flesh and bone. Her heart pounded as she hid behind a glass of Sherbet, terrified he would recognize her. Terrified, he would expose her foolishness.

He walked past her.

So close his shoulder nearly brushed hers.

He didn’t even blink.

He looked straight through her—as if she were made of glass.

Later, when Irin finally confessed everything, Wania had listened quietly. Then she leaned closer and whispered words Irin would never forget.

“He likes someone else, Irin. And our family… they don’t look at girls like you for marriage. You’re the help. The background character. I’m not discriminating you—but I’ve seen enough. Even my love faced so many difficulties. You’re a girl. It’ll be harder for you.”

Irin had nodded.

She locked that secret away in a lead box inside her chest.

A year later, she watched Wania’s extravagant wedding from the sidelines—diamonds flashing like stars, gold weighing down the bride’s neck. Wealth was so heavy it felt unreal. She saw Shahzain there too—commanding the room effortlessly.

And that was when it fully sank in.

He was a fantasy.

It is a dark, beautiful myth.

She was a teacher.

Their worlds were never meant to touch.

Or so she believed.

Until fate pulled her into his car—burning with fever, eyes heavy—and made him look at her twice.

The digital ghost was no longer hiding behind a screen.

And the past…

Had finally caught up with the present.