"No, please don't leave me, Zubi! I'm sorry... I'm so sorry. I'll never ignore you again, I promise!" He gripped her wrist desperately, his voice thick with panic.
She looked at him, pain swimming in her grey eyes.
"Aapne apna waada tod diya, Zohaib. Humne kaha tha aap se ki agar aapne apna promise toda, toh hum kabhi aapse baat nahi karenge," she whispered.
("You broke your promise, Zohaib. I told you that if you broke it, I would never speak to you again.")
Zohaib looked at her, his heart sinking under a weight of anguish and guilt.
She had called him 'Zohaib'-not 'Zoh-Boh', the nickname she had always lovingly used.
She wrenched her wrist from his grip and began to walk away slowly disappearing into the darkness.
"Please don't go, Zubi! I won't be able to live without you!" he sobbed.
As she moved further away, the distance between them felt like an expanding abyss.
Suddenly, the scene shifted. Nine-year-old Zohaib was back in the garden of the Khan Haveli.
He saw her-running towards the road to save the kitten, the screech of tires, and the car striking his Zubi.
He woke with a violent jerk, drenched in sweat and shivering despite the air conditioning in the room.
The nightmare of that dreadful night had returned once again. It had been sixteen years since the night he lost her.
Following the accident, Zohaib had spiraled into a cycle of frequent panic attacks and depression.
His parents, already hollowed out by their own grief, lived in constant fear of losing him too.
While years of therapy had helped him manage the depression, the nightmares remained stubborn haunting him again and again.
He had learned to wear a smile for his family, but the ache in his heart hadn't dulled with time; it had only sharpened with guilt and longing.
He rubbed his face and checked his phone. It was time for Fajr. He couldn't allow himself to drown in the agony of the past.
Forcing himself up, he performed wudhu and stood for prayer. As he finished, he raised his hands for dua, his eyes welling with fresh tears.
"Yah Allah, please humein maaf kardein, boht dil dukhaya hai unka humne, bohat rulaya hai unhein, unse kiye hue waadein tod diye, unke gunehgaar hai hum, Aap jaante hai kitni maasum thi woh, azeez thi sabki, woh jaha bhi hai unhein sukoon ata kar."
("Oh Allah, please forgive me. I broke her heart; I made her cry so much. I broke my promises to her; I am her debtor. You know how innocent she was, how dear she was to everyone. Wherever she is now, please grant her eternal peace.")
Composing himself, he changed into a black t-shirt and track pants and headed to the park near Mirza Mansion for a run.
After completing his usual five laps, he sat on a bench to catch his breath. Nearby, he spotted a little girl, no more than four or five, trying to mimic her father's pushups alongside her brother.
A faint, bittersweet smile touched his lips as the sight pulled him back into the memories of the past.
Flashback
"You can't even do two pushups, Zohaib! Forget about fifteen,"
Nine-year-old Asad teased, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Eight-year-old Zohaib frowned, his pride stung. Determined to prove his best friend wrong, he dropped into position on the grass.
He was just about to push off the ground when a giggling, three-year-old Zubiya appeared, dropping down right beside him.
She watched his every move with intense focus and began to mimic him, her tiny arms wobbling as she tried to hold her weight.
Zohaib's competitive scowl instantly melted. He couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips as he watched her cute antics, eventually letting out a soft chuckle at the sheer determination etched on her small face.
Hearing him, she turned to him with a mock pout. "Aap hum par hans rahe hain?" she asked frowning.
("Are you laughing at me?")
His smile vanished instantly. He scrambled up and knelt before her, holding his ears in a gesture of exaggerated apology.
"Humaari itni jurrat, ke hum apni Zubi par hansein! Hum aap par nahi hans rahe, princess," he said with an expression of mock terror.
("How could I have the audacity to laugh at my Zubi! I wasn't laughing at you, Princess.")
Zubiya considered his words for a second, her pout transforming into a bright, toothy grin.
Forgetting the pushup competition entirely, she began animatedly narrating the story of her trip to the mall's game zone with her father.
Zohaib sat back listening attentively with a soft smile on his lips- just as he always did.
(Note:- They were just trying to imitate their fathers who where having a pushup competition, so kindly don't judge the scene, children often try to mimic whatever they see)
Flashback ends
She used to mimic him just like that- sometimes for fun, and other times just to annoy him.
But he never felt irritated; instead, he would laugh at her antics, which would make her frown, leading to him spending the next hour trying to pacify her.
He shook his head, physically trying to push the memories aside.
The memories of those happy moments always came with a sting; the reality of her absence hit harder every time he let himself remember.
With a heavy sigh, he turned and began the walk back home.
---------------------------------------
Today was the day he was set to leave for London with his brothers.
Zohaib had already completed his Master's in International Business, along with several specialized certifications, and was currently training under his father to eventually take over the family empire.
His younger twin brothers were moving to London for their higher studies, and their parents were naturally anxious about leaving them unsupervised in a foreign country.
Zohaib had volunteered to move with them temporarily.
He knew better than anyone that those two were the kind of people you couldn't leave alone for even a day.
He remembered the day when their parents were abroad for an event and he had been away on a field trip; the twins had nearly set the house on fire while trying their hand at cooking.
They had been grounded for weeks and banned from the kitchen indefinitely.
He chuckled at the memory.
He was fiercely protective of his brothers and loved them deeply, though he would never admit it to their faces.
After returning home and getting ready for the day, he headed downstairs.
As he stepped into the dining room, he found his family already gathered.
"Assalamualaikum," he greeted them.
"Walaikum Assalam," they replied in unison.
"Zohaib beta, aapki packing ho gayi?" his mother asked, her eyes searching his face for any signs of another sleepless night.
("Zohaib son, is your packing done?")
"Jee, Ammi. In do bandaron ki ho gayi?" he asked, tilting his head toward the twins.
("Yes, Mother. Is the packing for these two monkeys done?")
Offended by the comparison, Zaim exclaimed with a dramatic pout,
"Khuda ka khauf karein, Bhaijaan! Hum bandar nahi hain; hum toh aapke maasum se bhai hain."
(Fear God, brother! We aren't monkeys; we are your innocent brothers.)
Zamir nodded vigorously, backing his twin's claim.
Watching the bickering, Wahaj Mirza chuckled from his seat beside his wife.
"Beta, aapke Bhaijaan aapke 'hunar' se acchi tarah waaqif hain. Aur apne aap ko 'maasum' keh kar 'maasum' lafz ki insult na karein," he teased. "Yeh baat yahi khatam karein aur aaram se apna nashta karein."
("Son, your brother is well aware of your 'talents' and don't insult the word 'innocent' by calling yourselves that. End this conversation here and finish your breakfast peacefully.")
Defeated by their father's logic, the twins returned to their plates, still pouting.
"Baba, I have some urgent work to finish. I'll be back soon," Zohaib informed his father.
Wahaj didn't ask where he was going; he had a strong intuition about his son's destination.
They finished the rest of their meal surrounded by the comforting hum of light-hearted conversation.
---------------------------------------
The black SUV came to a silent halt outside the graveyard gates. Zohaib stepped out, his fingers tightening around a bouquet of fresh tulips.
He navigated the familiar, quiet rows until he reached his destination.
Standing before the grave, the air felt heavy, as if the earth itself held its breath. Slowly, he knelt and laid the flowers down.
"I am sorry for everything, Zubi,"
he whispered, his voice fracturing as tears traced paths down his cheeks.
"For the pain I caused, and for failing to save you. If I hadn't ignored you... maybe you'd still be here. You would have been the light in our gloomy lives."
He looked at the vibrant petals.
A sad, distant smile touched his lips as he remembered her obsession with flowers.
Zubi had never been a difficult child; she didn't crave grand gestures or demand expensive things.
She would dance with joy over a handful of wildflowers plucked from the backyard.
Her father had even built her a private garden there, a sanctuary where she spent hours sketching every bloom in her sketchbook.
"I have to leave for London today," he said, his voice regaining a fragile steadiness.
"I'll be gone for a while, but I promise I'll come back to you. I only hope you can forgive me."
With a leaden heart, he forced himself to stand.
As he exited the graveyard, the old watchman offered him a look of quiet pity.
He had watched this young man return time and again, always carrying flowers with him.
Zohaib pulled a few notes from his wallet and gently pressed them into the man's hand.
In return, the watchman placed a weathered hand on Zohaib's head, offering a silent prayer for peace.
Zohaib managed a faint, grateful smile before retreating into his car, driving away from the quiet and back towards a world that felt far too empty.
---------------------------------------
The moment Zohaib stepped into the living room, a flying cushion collided squarely with his face.
The impact startled him, sending him stumbling back as he fought to keep his balance.
Regaining his footing, he surveyed the wreckage of the room before fixing a lethal glare on the source of the chaos.
The two culprits froze mid-motion. "Bhaijaan... aap kab aaye?" Zaim stuttered, his bravado vanishing instantly.
("Brother, when did you get here?")
"Right when you were busy turning our living room into a disaster zone," Zohaib replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Sorry, Bhaijaan! It's all Zaim's fault!" his twin blurted out, pointing an accusing finger.
"He finished every single one of my Ferrero Rochers without even asking!"
Zaim's jaw dropped at the betrayal.
"Bhaijaan, I didn't know they were his! I was hungry, I saw the chocolates and I ate them. Humein maaf kardein!"
he pleaded, quickly pulling his best puppy face.
Zohaib closed his eyes, drawing a long, heavy breath as he fought down the rising tide of irritation.
He wasn't in the mood for their antics, but this headache was a sharp reminder of the life he still had to manage.
He turned to the twins, his expression cold and final.
"I want this living room spotless within the next thirty minutes," he warned. "Warna humse bura koi nahi hoga."
(Or you will find out exactly how bad I can be.)
Without waiting for their protests, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room.
Hearing his warning, the twins scrambled into action, knowing their brother wasn't joking- and that no one would be able to shield them from his wrath if a single cushion remained out of place.
---------------------------------------
Zohaib retreated to his room, moving with mechanical precision as he double-checked his luggage.
He crossed to the walk-in closet and opened a drawer in a corner dresser.
Inside lay a collection of humble treasures: a few frayed friendship bands, colorful hair clips, stickers, and a small, worn photo album.
A fragile smile touched his lips.
Even when his room was renovated, No one was allowed to touch these things.
With trembling hands, he opened the album.
The first photo was a memory frozen in time: a young Zohaib pecking baby Zubiya's cheek on the day of her Aqeeqah.
It was the very first time he had seen her; his father had captured the moment, preserving that instant of pure, untainted welcome.
He flipped the page to her first birthday-there she was, grinning at him with chocolate cake smeared across her chubby cheeks.
He went through those photos.
At the very end of the album, written in his own messy, childish handwriting, was a single sentence:
"Zubi's first word- 'Zoh'."
A tear escaped his eye. Everyone had placed bets back then; the family had debated for hours whether she would say Mumma or Baba first.
He let out a breathless chuckle as the memory pulled him back in time.
Flashback
Six-month-old Zubiya and Zuhair were sprawled on a playmat in the living room, a sea of bright toys surrounding them.
Zohaib, having just returned from his Nani's house, burst into the Khan Haveli, sprinting past Wahaj and Humera as they laughed at his boundless energy.
He skidded to a halt beside the mat. Zubi, who had been occupied with mercilessly tugging the ear of a stuffed bunny, looked up.
The moment she saw him, her face lit up. She reached out with "grabby hands," demanding to be held. Zohaib beamed, carefully scooping her into his arms.
She squealed with delight, patting his cheeks before uttering a clear, unmistakable "Zoh!"
Zohaib froze.
The entire room fell silent.
Her brothers looked at them with envy, they wanted their names to be her first word, though no one was truly surprised given the baby's obvious adoration for him.
After recovering from the initial shock,
Wahaj broke the silence, nudging Mehraj with a teasing grin.
"Look at that, Mehraj. Your daughter's very first word was my son's name. Toh kya rishta pakka samjhu?"
(So, should I consider the alliance fixed?)
Mehraj shot him a mock glare, but Zohaib didn't notice the teasing.
He was happy in the world of his own, playing with Zubi.
Flashback ends
Zohaib wiped the tears from his face. The silence of the room felt heavier now.
He carefully tucked the album into his bag; he knew he couldn't survive the months in London without a piece of her to carry with him.
After ensuring his luggage was finally ready, he sat at his desk and opened his laptop.
He submerged himself in work, using the glowing screen to keep the shadows of the past at bay.
---------------------------------------
The night air felt heavy as the Mirza family arrived at the airport.
Humera fought her tears, her heart heavy with the impending silence of a house without her sons.
Beside her stood Wahaj; he didn't speak, but his hand on her shoulder was a steady anchor in her sea of maternal worry.
She hated the distance that was about to stretch between them, yet she understood that their growth required this departure.
"Apna aur inn bandaron ka khayal rakhna, Zohaib beta,"
she whispered, her voice trembling as she gestured towards his younger brothers.
("Take care of yourself and these monkeys, Zohaib.")
Zohaib pulled his mother into a firm, reassuring hug.
"Ji Ammi, aap befikar rahein. Aap apna aur Baba ka khoob khayal rakhiyega."
("Yes Mother, don't worry. You take care of yourself and Dad.")
After final, lingering embraces and whispered prayers for their safety, the Mirza brothers turned towards the terminal.
They walked tow
ards a new horizon, entirely unaware of whether London would be a sanctuary or a storm.
Will it heal old wounds or create new ones?
___________________________
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