Chapter Title: "Two Cups of Noon Light"
I didn't go to school today.
Not because I was sick — though I pretended to be — but because the idea of walking past Zahir Bookshop, of sitting beside someone who wasn't Sara, and of feeling Ahad's breath behind my back for six periods straight… felt too heavy. Too loud. I needed silence. Or at least, a different kind of noise.
Ali Mir's footsteps in our hallway are different. Softer. Measured. They carry the scent of someone trying not to disturb, and yet always being noticed. He'd only been living with us for two days, but it felt like he'd been part of our rhythm for years. Like a song I forgot I loved.
I found him on the rooftop.
Sprawled on the white bench under the water tank, hood up, book open, eyes closed.
"You skipped tuition?" I said, setting my mug of chai down loudly beside his elbow.
He didn't even flinch. Just opened one eye and smirked. "You skipped school. I win."
"You don't win anything.Mr Ali mir"
"Except your company." His smile widened — slow, warm, irritating. "Which is rare these days."
I sat beside him, pulling my knees to my chest. The sun wasn't burning yet, just softly tracing the cracks in the sky. The city hummed faintly below us, birds flitting from minaret to cable wires like they knew more about life than we did.
"I miss this," I murmured.
"What?"
"You. Me. Talking without a hundred people watching. You not being... seventeen and grown."
He laughed. "I can shrink if you want."
I giggled sp hard that I choked on my chai. "You idiot!"
"Careful," he said, reaching out and brushing the edge of my scarf back over my shoulder. "You're fragile."
Something flickered in his touch. I shook it off.
We'd grown up side by side during every Eid, wedding, and family trip. He was always the first to catch my lies and the last to complain when I stole his fries. Once, I cried because someone at a family gathering said we didn't look like cousins. Ali had thrown orange soda on the boy's pants and blamed the fan.
That same Ali now sat next to me with longer arms and a jawline that made most girls double take. But for me, he was still the one who'd once punched a gate for hitting my ankle.
"You remember the library in Baramulla?, in badi masi's home?" I asked.
"Where you got locked inside and cried for twenty-seven minutes until I climbed the back wall?"
"I did not cry."
"You sobbed like a broken harmonium."
"I was eight!"
"You're still dramatic."
I nudged his knee with mine. He didn't move. Just tilted his head and looked at me — really looked — the way someone looks when they think they might lose something and are afraid to blink.
It made me feel… exposed. I looked away.
"You know," he said, voice quieter now, "This house feels better when you're home. Less like a museum. More like... us."
"You mean chaos," I said, but my throat caught.
"No. I mean I breathe better when you're around."
I paused. That wasn't our usual rhythm. Ali was sarcasm, comic timing, roasts over breakfast. Not this.
Before I could answer, he added, "So you skipping school — kind of made my day."
I grinned, trying to diffuse the weight. "You're so clingy, it's scary."
He leaned closer, just enough to make the air between us dense. "Only for you."
I blinked.
For a moment, there was too much in the space between us — history, shared mangoes, secret midnight games, and something else. Something Ali had folded carefully under all the laughter. Something I wasn't ready to name.
He reached forward and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear — tender, precise. My breath hitched. His fingers lingered for a second too long.
"Ali…" I whispered.
"Hmm?"
"I'm not that little anymore."
His smile faded just a little, the mischief softening into something unreadable. "I know."
And I knew something too. That he was watching me in ways I didn't fully understand. That his quiet had more weight than anyone else's noise.
That maybe, just maybe, if I ever fell apart — it would be his arms I'd fall into first.
But not today.
Today we just sat there, the two of us, cousins tangled in childhood and something messier, sipping lukewarm chai as the city sighed beneath us.
And even though I didn't say it out loud, I hoped he never left.
The sunlight was beginning to soften, spreading golden streaks across the rooftops. Kashmir summers had this odd gentleness — warm enough to make the skin hum, but with that whisper of mountain breeze that felt like someone stroking your hair. I sat cross-legged on the rooftop, my dupatta sliding slightly off my shoulder, letting the breeze play with it.
Ali emerged from the narrow stairwell, two steaming cups of kahwa in hand. His white sky Shirt was rolled neatly at the sleeves, revealing forearms tanned from cricket and summer sun. Loose linen trousers swayed around his ankles. "Don't spill," I warned as he walked over with that irritatingly calm expression he wore whenever he knew I was watching him.
He set the cups down between us, sitting closer than necessary. "You act like I've never climbed a rooftop before," he said, a grin playing on his lips.
I sipped my kahwa, pretending to study the skyline instead of him."
The thing about Ali was… he had this way of settling in, like furniture that's been there all your life. Two days in the house, and it already felt like he'd always been here — which was both comforting and irritating in equal measure.
The breeze caught the edge of my dupatta again, lifting it almost into his lap. He caught it without thinking, his fingers brushing against mine as he handed it back. I snatched it away, scowling to cover the way my stomach did that annoying flip.
"You've always been like this," he said, leaning back on his hands. "Too proud to say thank you."
I raised an eyebrow. "And you've always been like this — thinking every little thing you do deserves one."
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Maybe it does. After all, I've been looking out for you since—"
"Since when?" I cut in.
He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "Since forever."
I wanted to laugh it off, but there was something in the way he said it — a weight, a truth — that made me glance away. I fixed my eyes on the hazy mountains instead, feeling his gaze like sunlight on my cheek.
We fell into an easy silence, sipping kahwa. Somewhere below, a vendor's bell rang, and the faint smell of roasted corn drifted up. The warm breeze tangled with my hair, lifting strands into my eyes. Ali reached over without asking, tucking them gently behind my ear.
I froze. It wasn't the first time he'd done that — we'd grown up in the same house during countless summers, after all — but it felt different now. My pulse was annoyingly loud in my ears.
"You still do that little frown when you're thinking too much," he said softly. "You've had it since you were twelve."
"Observant, aren't you?" I muttered.
"Only with you."
The kahwa was suddenly too hot in my hands. I set it down and stood, pacing toward the far edge of the roof. The view stretched over a patchwork of tin and brick rooftops, dotted with drying clothes and cooing pigeons. Behind me, I could feel him following — not hurried, just steady.
"You're still avoiding answering me," he said when he stopped beside me.
"I'm not avoiding anything," I lied, crossing my arms.
His shoulder brushed mine as he leaned forward, resting his arms on the parapet wall. "You used to run to me first whenever something happened. Now you barely tell me anything."
"That's because you disappeared for three summers," I said before I could stop myself.
He glanced sideways at me. "And you missed me."
I scoffed, but my cheeks betrayed me with heat. "Don't flatter yourself."
His hand slid over mine on the warm cement wall, not gripping, just… there. The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. Below us, the sun dipped lower, painting everything in orange and gold.
"Iman," he said finally, his voice quiet but steady. "Some things don't change. Not the mountains, not the summers… and not the way I—"
"Ali!" I turned sharply, cutting him off as I suddenly remembered me and ali when we were bareky 5 and 6,I trying hard to win our race in childhood and Ali,who would always fall down at the last moment so that i could win the race."Do you want to race to the water tank?"
His brow arched, amused, but he didn't push. "You'll lose."
"Dream on."
We darted across the roof, bare feet slapping against the warm surface. I was faster for the first few steps, but his longer strides caught up easily. Just as I reached for the tank's edge, his hand closed around my wrist — warm, steady, and just a little too tight to be purely playful.
"Caught you," he said, breathing hard, eyes holding mine in a way that made the world feel suddenly smaller.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. Then he let go, stepping back with that same infuriating grin. "Still proud"
I rolled my eyes, pretending my pulse wasn't still racing. "And you're still impossible."
He leaned against the tank, watching me with that unreadable mix of affection and something I didn't dare name. The sun dipped behind the mountains, shadows cooling the rooftop, but I swear the warmth between us didn't fade at all.