Chapter: The Return
The sky had softened into a tender dusk by the time we reached home. I had barely taken off my dupatta when I heard the rustle of suitcases being dragged across the marble floor and the unmistakable sound of laughter—familiar, annoyingly comforting laughter.
"Oh, they're already here," Amma said brightly, pushing open the gate faster than necessary, as though she'd been racing someone all this while.
I was too busy trying to adjust my neckline again—third time in twenty minutes—to notice anything else. I wasn't sure if it was the kurta or the clutter in my head that was making everything feel tight. The air still carried a strange weight from Ahad's words.
"Stay."
I shook it off and stepped in.
"Assalamualaikum!" a chorus of voices greeted from the drawing room.
"Walaikumassalam!" Amma responded as if the Queen had just returned. She was beaming.
And then I saw him—Ali.
Hair messier than usual. Button-down shirt half tucked, half rebellious. Eyes that always looked like they were laughing at something I hadn't figured out yet.
"Imz." His smile stretched wider. "Still taller than me?"
I blinked. "Still trying to grow a moustache?"
He laughed, arms open wide.
I skipped the hug. Of course.
Khala stood, her gold dupatta slightly slipping as she hugged Amma. "Naziya, thank you so much for letting us come this suddenly. His abba had to attend that doctor friend's wedding in Bangalore, so it's just us this time."
Amma smiled, "Sister, don't embarrass me. This is your home too."
"I'll stay for a week," Khala declared like she was negotiating a treaty. "Ali, too. In fact, he's starting tuitions nearby from Monday. Better from here. No distractions."
"No distractions?" I raised an eyebrow. "Have you seen your son?"
Ali gasped dramatically. "I am a scholar now, okay? Discipline, routine, maths tuition. No time for girls."
"I'm not a girl, I'm the girl," I shot back, smirking. "Which means you're still distracted."
He clutched his chest. "She remembers!"
Amma rolled her eyes but smiled, clearly entertained.
And then, from behind us, came the warmest voice in the universe.
"Ali mera sher! Aa zara, let me see that handsome face!" Dadi.
Ali rushed to her like a Bollywood hero meeting his blind grandmother. She cupped his face, kissed his forehead and tapped his cheeks in approval.
"You've grown, but your heart's still the same—full of mischief."
"You trained me well, Dadi," he winked.
She waved a dismissive hand. "Iman, don't just stand there like a board. Show him your room. Don't bore him by making him sit with old women gossiping."
"Dadi!" I protested.
"She's right," Ali said, already dragging his suitcase toward the hallway. "Come on. I'm crashing in your room. You're going to listen to me complain about life, remember?"
"You have a life?" I deadpanned, following him.
Dadi shouted after us, "Close the windows before sunset! And Iman, give him something to eat, not just your tantrums!"
"She loves me more than you," Ali whispered while climbing the stairs.
"She's old. Her memory's fading," I whispered back.
As we reached the landing, I realised his duffel bag was still zipped wrong, like always.
"You pack like a toddler."
"And you unpack like a storm," he retorted.
"Still haven't learned to match your socks?"
"I thought mismatched was in fashion," he replied, nudging my arm with his elbow.
We reached the door of my room.
Just as I turned the knob, he stopped me.
"Wait."
I looked up, startled. "What?"
He didn't answer. Instead, his fingers wrapped gently around my wrist, pulling me softly but surely into his arms.
"I think," he murmured close to my ear, "you forgot to hug me."
My breath caught. But only for a moment.
"You think too much," I smirked, recovering, and then wrapped my arms around him in an exaggerated hug, lifting him slightly.
He laughed. "Okay okay, not that hard!"
"Just making up for all the lost years."
When I finally let go, he was still smiling—but something about it felt softer, like he was keeping a secret folded in his chest.
I didn't notice. I was already walking in, talking about how messy the room was and warning him not to open my closet unless he wanted to be attacked by scarves and regret.
"You always say that like it's a threat," he said, sitting on the edge of my bed.
I flopped beside him. "That is a threat."
He just kept smiling, watching me. Eyes lingering a little too long.
And I… I was still busy unpacking the day in my mind.
Still stuck somewhere between Ahad's eyes and Ali's hug.
Ali had kicked his shoes off and was sitting cross-legged, flipping through the notes on her desk with far too much interest for someone who never cared about Physics in the first place.
"Don't mess up my papers!" she warned, tossing a hair tie at him.
Ali caught it in mid-air, dramatically. "Saving your future, thank you very much," he said, "You'd lose half your brain if I didn't rescue it from this disaster of a desk."
"I don't need your rescue. I have a proper tuition teacher. Unlike some people who just shifted cities to avoid a math test," she shot back.
He grinned, lounging back against her pillow. "Tuition is just a cover, jaaneman. Real reason? Free food and uninterrupted Iman time."
"Excuse me?" she blinked, laughing.
Ali smirked but said nothing. Just leaned back more confidently, arms behind his head like a prince who had conquered the best corner of the palace.
From downstairs, her grandmother's voice echoed up, "Beta Iman, Ali ko zyada bore mat karna! Woh mehmaan hai!"
"Yeah, did you hear that?" Ali chimed in. "Don't bore me."
She gave him a flat look. "Then don't act like a mehmaan. You've literally stolen my pillow."
"It smells like you. You think I'd give this up?"
Her ears burned. "You're so weird."
"Thanks."
The room quieted for a moment. The fan hummed. The dusk was painting shadows on the walls. Iman stood up to grab her notebook, and as she turned back, she caught Ali just... watching her.
That soft smile again.
Not the annoying cousin kind. Not the teasing buddy kind.
It was something else.
"Why are you staring?" she blinked.
Ali shook his head quickly. "Nothing. Just remembered something. When we were kids… remember that time you cried because I stole your sketchbook?"
"You tore a page!"
"I drew hearts on it!" he protested.
"And then wrote 'Iman Khan Weds Ali Mir on it like a maniac."
He laughed so hard, he nearly toppled off the bed. "I had vision!"
"You had crayons," she scoffed.
He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. "Some part of me never grew up."
"Clearly."
Then silence again. Softer this time. The kind that comes when two people don't know what to say next, but don't want to ruin the quiet either.
"I'm glad I came here," Ali said, voice lower now. "Your room's always felt like a memory."
She paused. A little smile played on her lips. "That's poetic. Gross. But poetic."
He looked at her.
And without thinking, gently pulled the pillow he'd been hugging and flung it at her.
"OW—" she yelled, catching it mid-air. "You want war?!"
"Bring it, warrior queen!"
The next few minutes were a chaotic mess of flying pillows, laughter, and Iman yelling for him to stop mussing her braid.
Just then, her mom knocked.
"Dinner's ready, you two! Stop yelling before the neighbors think we've locked a goat upstairs!"
Iman opened the door. Her braid was half undone. Ali stood behind her, smug.
"Coming!" she shouted.
Then turned to him. "Fix your collar. You look like a ruffled rooster."
He stepped closer, leaned in with that familiar smirk. "Ruffled? You hugged me pretty tightly earlier."
She froze. "You started that hug."
"And you finished it well."
Her heart did a tiny double skip. But she rolled her eyes and pushed past him.
"Coming, rooster," she muttered under her breath.
He followed, eyes trailing behind her.
Not just playful now.
A little wistful.
A little serious.
Like a boy who knew something she didn't. And was waiting, patiently, for her to one day see it too.