Chapter: Between Walls and Words
(Iman's POV)
"Iman, show Ali his room," Ammi called as she cleared the last of the dinner plates, still smiling at whatever he'd whispered about the dum aloo.
"Sure," I said, trying not to sigh.
Not because I minded.
Because I didn't want to mind not minding.
"Come on, poetic boy," I muttered, leading him up the stairs.
"You always this polite to guests?" he asked, following behind me like a shadow with opinions.
"Only the ones who call me 'Twitchy' during dinner."
"It was endearing," he replied, almost offended. "And accurate."
I stopped outside the second room on the right.
"This is yours."
He stepped in.
His voice fell softer. "Next to yours?"
My eyebrows lifted. "Congratulations, Sherlock. Want a medal?"
He walked to the window, pulled the curtains halfway open. The moonlight spilled in and caught on his cheekbones, like it was on his side tonight.
"You've got a nice view," he said.
I folded my arms.
"You want a checklist of things to compliment while you're at it?"
"Already making one," he said, mock serious. "Point one: sarcastic. Point two: bossy. Point three: secretly thoughtful."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You brought me kheer before dinner. That was sweet."
I rolled my eyes. "It was for everyone."
"But you brought it to me."
I hated how he said it. So gentle. So annoyingly amused. Like he was enjoying every twitch of my eyebrows.
Ali Mir was exactly one year older than me. Same as Ahad. But where Ahad radiated chaos and quiet storms, Ali was like a walking page of poetry — folded neatly, aged at the corners, a little smug about being reread.
He walked around the room, pretending to inspect the bookshelf.
"Is this yours?" he asked, pulling out an old Faiz collection.
"No. It's Baba's. Yours is empty."
"Like my soul?"
"Like your wardrobe," I shot back.
He turned and grinned. That lazy, tilted smile that said he was either plotting to steal your favorite book or your time.
I didn't sit. But I didn't leave either.
He reached the door, and leaned against it — blocking my way out without really blocking anything.
"So, Iman," he said, almost too casually.
"Hmm?"
"Tell me something."
"What?"
"Why do I get the feeling you're trying not to like me?"
I froze for exactly one breath. Then two.
"That's because I'm succeeding," I replied coolly.
But he was already smiling, already reading between my syllables like they were underlined in red ink.
"Liar," he said softly.
"You don't know me well enough to say that."
"Don't need to. You don't argue this much with people you're indifferent to."
"Oh, please."
The air crackled.
Somewhere between his teasing smirk and my smart mouth, something had shifted.
His voice dropped a note. "Iman."
I looked at him, arms still crossed but something... unspoken hanging in the air.
Before either of us could say something reckless, my phone rang.
Ahad.
Of course.
My thumb hovered for a second too long before I answered.
"Hello?"
His voice came through, annoyed and accusing in the same breath.
"Wow. No message. No update. No Iman."
I grinned.
Ali tilted his head, clearly reading the name on my screen.
"I was busy."
"With what? Entertaining that Mir boy?" he asked, tone sharp in that familiar Ahad-way — like he was trying to sound bored but cared too much to manage it.
I laughed. Light. Carefree.
Not because it was funny. Because he called.
And the sound of his voice had already filled something in my chest.
"We were having dinner. Normal human things. Try it sometime."
"Did you save my portion at least?" Ahad asked.
"Nope. I ate yours too."
"Unbelievable. I starve and you flirt with poetic guests."
I turned, facing away from Ali to hide the smile. "Jealous, much?"
"Of him? Please."
Ali, still leaning at the door, cleared his throat loudly and said, "Iman, tell Ahad I liked the kheer. Thank him for me."
Ahad paused.
I cursed.
"You're with him right now?"
I tried to say something—
Ali stepped forward. "You didn't tell him we were bonding over Faiz Ahmed Faiz?"
My eyes went wide. "Ali—"
"Who's Faiz?" Ahad growled.
I smacked Ali's arm.
He winced dramatically. "Violent. Definitely not a flirt."
"You are impossible," I muttered at him, then turned back to the phone.
"Ahad, ignore him."
But of course he didn't.
"Sounds like he's having a great time," Ahad said.
"I'm about to suffocate him with a pillow," I said.
"That's romantic."
Ali gave me an exaggerated pout. "Told you. She likes me."
"Do you want to die?" I whispered.
"Only if you're the last face I see," he replied cheerfully.
Ahad said nothing for a second. Then-"Anyway. I called because you were gone. For hours.I missed you"
My voice softened. "I know. I missed you too."
Silence.
Then a sigh. "That's all I wanted to hear. Call me later?"
I nodded. "I will."
"Stay safe, Twitch Queen."
Him too
The phone clicked off.
I turned to Ali, who was pretending to admire a painting on the wall like he hadn't just set my blood pressure on fire.
"You are unbearable."
"You smiled."
"I did not."
"You did. Right after he said he missed you. It was... soft."
I looked at him.
Really looked.
And for the first time, I saw it — that subtle shift in his face. Not jealousy. Not mockery.
Recognition.
He knew.
He knew that whatever he felt building between us — soft sparks, warm laughs, long glances — it would always crash against the one truth I didn't say aloud.
Ahad.
My best friend.
My storm.
The boy I always answered the phone for, no matter who I was with.
Ali took a step back.
Still smiling. Still calm.
But I saw it. The quiet acknowledgement.
"Thanks for the room," he said, voice steady.
"Thanks for the drama," I replied, pushing past him.
As I closed the door, he called out—
"I'll try harder tomorrow."
I didn't turn back.
But I smiled.