Chapter Title: A White Cotton Homecoming
I was slicing tomatoes with zero grace—half-chopped, slippery circles of red landing like casualties on the kitchen board—when a sharp honk tore through the July afternoon.
My hand stilled midair.
It wasn't just any honk. It was the honk.
Only one car in the world held that stupid power to shake up my soul like this.
I didn't even finish the slice. The knife clattered. I think Mom called after me, but her voice was drowned in the rustle of my heartbeat. I was already sprinting, socks slipping on the staircase, nearly knocking over that damn vase I always hated, jumping two steps at a time. I heard Ammi's laugh behind me.
"He's making chutney now, haan?"
I didn't even turn. She knew.
I swung the door open just in time to see Aunty Naziya stepping out from the car, still adjusting the pallu of her pastel dupatta, the kind she always wore with embroidery at the edge. She looked exactly the same. Warm, gold, and glowing.
"Ahad!" she exclaimed, and before I could even greet her, I was pulled into a full aunty-hug. That bone-crushing, cheek-squashing type.
"Oh, my boy! Look at you! You've become taller again!"
I grinned, awkwardly hugging her back, eyes darting everywhere behind her. My heart was ridiculous. Skipping like it owed someone rent.
Naziya Aunty hugged me tight, her familiar rose-scented dupatta brushing my cheek as she laughed, "Tera chehra bilkul same hai… naughty eyes and all." I grinned, and she moved on almost immediately — the way only close aunties do — towards Mom.
The two women wrapped each other in a hug that spoke of years of friendship. Their voices overlapped — laughter, old nicknames, that natural rhythm only best friends carry.
Abbu joined them a second later, smiling with his hands behind his back, tossing in a light-hearted, "Aap dono toh waise hi milti hain jaise college ke zamane mein."
They all laughed. I didn't. I was already turning, already looking.
In the middle of all that warm chaos, my eyes began searching — desperate, silent, almost hungry.
And then I saw it.
No, her.
A flash of soft white cotton fabric, fluttering gently in the breeze, just as she bent down a little to help her Dadi out of the car. That dress—God. It wasn't fancy. It didn't need to be. It was light, breezy, flowing just above her knees like a little umbrella, the kind that spun when the wind blew and made you want to reach out and catch it before it flew away.
She wasn't even trying. Hair down, thick, dark waves falling halfway down her back like she'd just stepped out of a novel and into my street. No makeup. Barely a bracelet. And yet—everything about her felt like poetry you didn't know how to finish.
Her eyes—oh those damn traitor eyes—they didn't even stop at me.
I waited. Hoped.
She looked right at me—then looked away.
Deliberately.
With a smirk.
And hugged my dad instead.
That witch.
I laughed under my breath.
Typical Iman move. Ignore me like I'm the postman and act like we haven't shared breakdowns, and Bhindi ke sambhar for a lifetime.
She hugged Ammi next. Warm, tight, respectful. The kind that earned blessings and compliments. The moment was loud, full of greetings and hands and bags and laughs.
But me?
I was still stuck at the car, staring at the back of her white cotton dress as it swayed along with her every step.
"Iman beta," dad said, noticing her reaching for Dadi's arm, "it's alright, I'll help her inside myself."
Iman looked up at him with a soft smile, stepping back respectfully.
The group began to move toward the house, the murmurs of greetings and footsteps blending into a gentle hum. Naziya Aunty had already looped her arm around Ammi's, the two lost in quiet laughter, while Abbu walked slowly with Dadi by his side.
And just like that, without planning it, Iman and I were left behind—side by side, walking at our own pace.
The kind of silence that only exists between two people who know each other too well settled in between us.
I followed.
Still invisible.
The moment they stepped inside, I caught up. Slipped through the crowd like a spy, past mom and Aunty's loud conversation about the best brand of tea, and quietly came behind her.
She didn't see me.
Perfect.
I leaned in and lightly grabbed her shoulder—right where her arm met the curve of her neck.
She jumped.
"Kya?" she turned, eyes wide, pretending to be startled.
I raised an eyebrow.
"So this is what we're doing now? Ignoring your childhood best friend? No salaam, no hug, no hi?"
Her eyes narrowed playfully.
"I was going to say hi. But I didn't want to interrupt your tomato massacre."
She stuck out her tongue like a five-year-old. I wanted to pull it. Instead, I smirked.
"Oh, toh now you're spying on me too?"
"I'm not blind, Ahad."
"Then clearly you're heartless."
She chuckled, stepping aside, tucking that one rogue strand of hair behind her ear.
"I thought I'd wait until the elders weren't watching."
She nodded discreetly toward our parents chatting in the corner.
"Let them turn around first. Then maybe I'll give you your hug."
I leaned back a little, crossing my arms, smug as ever.
"I'll wait."
And I did.
Because damn it—some hugs are worth the wait.
We moved into the living room — all together like one loud, chaotic tribe. The kind that doesn't wait for an invitation, just barges in with laughter and slippers squeaking. Dad was helping Dadi settle on the big cushioned seat, still joking about how she walks faster than him despite her stick. Dadi waved him off, grinning, "You weren't this helpful when you were ten, Sultan. Always running off with your cricket bat."
Mom chuckled from behind me, nudging me softly, "Looks like you inherited that, Ahad. Cricket over chores."
"Unfair accusation," I muttered, just low enough so only Iman heard. She smirked, elbowing me slightly.
"Still true though," she whispered, barely glancing at me.
I don't know why—but even with the entire sofa set free, and Dadi calling for me to sit beside her, and Naziya aunty patting the spot next to her—my legs just moved toward Iman. Without thinking. Without even needing to think. We always sat together, didn't we? But today... I don't know. It felt like something extra. Maybe it was the way her hair looked like she'd just stepped out of a heaven. Or maybe it was just that she was here, finally, after two whole weeks of not speaking.
Mom noticed it first. "Ahad, beta, sit with Dadi!"
"She has Sultan Bhai for now," I replied smoothly, flopping down beside Iman like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Naziya aunty raised a brow. "You two haven't changed at all, have you?"
Iman laughed before I could say anything. "You say that like it's a bad thing, Ammi."
"Not bad," Dad chimed in from across the room, helping Ammi bring in the glasses of juice, "but suspiciously clingy."
"Suspiciously sweet," Mom corrected, placing a tray on the center table and ruffling Iman's hair as she passed by. "They're growing up together. Let them stay close."
I looked at Iman. She wasn't blushing, but her fingers were playing with her bracelet.
Leaning in slightly, I whispered, "See? Even Mom ships us."
"Shut up," she hissed under her breath, trying to hide her smile.
Meanwhile, Mom was talking about some new neighbour who apparently had the nerve to put their clothesline above her rose bushes. Dad pretended to be scandalized while Dadi clucked her tongue and nodded in agreement.
"I told him," Mom huffed, "either your socks come down or my roses go up in flames."
"Wow," Iman whispered beside me. "That woman scares me."
"She raised me," I whispered back. "That explains a lot."
She choked on her laughter, biting her lower lip to stifle the sound. I felt that warmth again — not the awkward kind. The home kind. Where you're not just comfortable, you're safe.
And somewhere in the middle of all the jokes, interruptions, and shared plates of snacks, I realised — this wasn't just two families being close.
This was home. Her beside me. Them all around.
Like we belonged in the same frame.