The morning breeze was still lingering on the rooftop, carrying the faint scent of wet earth from last night's light rain. Ali and I were still sprawled out near the parapet, our conversation drifting from school memories to that time we both fell off bicycles—at different times, but both in front of an audience.
I was in the middle of telling him how our form teacher had changed the seating arrangement at school—my new desk partner being a boy named Umar—when a sharp but affectionate voice floated up from below.
"Ali, Iman! Nashta taiyar hai!" my mother, Mrs. Naziya, called out.
Ali groaned like a child caught in the middle of play, but I stood, brushing dust off my long, soft cotton kurta. It was a light sky-blue with tiny white threadwork, paired with a matching churidar and a soft white scarf resting loosely on my shoulders. The summer sun made the fabric glow faintly.
"Come on," I said, tugging his arm lightly. "Before Mama sends a search party."
We clattered down the stairs, the cool cement under our feet a contrast to the heat of the rooftop. At the last step, we nearly collided with Ali's mother—my masi—who was carrying a tray of glasses. She had been staying with us for a week, and her presence always brought this comfortable hum of warmth to the house.
"Oh, look who decided to come down," Masi teased, her eyes glinting.
I grinned and went to hug her. "We were just… discussing history."
"History?" Ali muttered behind me. "That's what you call gossip now?"
We reached the dining table where Dadi—our grandmother—was already seated, her delicate fingers tapping the edge of the tablecloth as she smiled at us.
"Aray, mere chando," she said in that syrupy tone that melted any resistance, "come, come. Sit beside me, Ali. I haven't had my morning dose of your stories yet."
Ali's smile softened. "Only if you promise not to laugh at them."
"Laugh?" Dadi chuckled. "Beta, I laugh because they make my heart happy, not because I'm making fun of you."
I sat opposite them as Mama and Masi returned from the kitchen, balancing plates of steaming parathas, bowls of fresh curd, and a small dish of mango pickle that caught the morning light like amber.
Ali quickly stood to help, taking the heavier dish from Mama's hands and setting it down carefully. It wasn't just politeness—he had that quiet habit of noticing when something needed doing.
Once everything was set, the five of us began to eat, breaking into small conversations between bites.
It was Masi who, mid-way through tearing her paratha, suddenly said, "You know, I saw Ahad the other day, walking with that little boy from the next lane. So calm, so polite. MashaAllah, what a young man he's grown into."
I looked up, chewing.
"Hmm, bilkul," Mama agreed, pouring tea into Dadi's cup. "His way of talking—so measured. There's a rare kind of maturity in him."
"And that protectiveness," Masi added with a grin. "Whoever marries him will never have to worry about a thing."
Dadi chuckled, nodding. "Yes, true. But," she added, her eyes twinkling as she turned to Ali, "Ali ki biwi toh sab se zyada naseeb wali hogi. Uska dil itna bara hai."
I laughed at that, imagining Ali's wife one day having to keep up with his non-stop commentary during cricket matches. But Ali didn't blush or protest—he only smiled, his gaze warm, as if holding back something unspoken.
"Well," Ali said, turning the attention back, "you remember, na, Dadi? When we were kids and came here for vacations, and Iman would insist on going to that play zone near the market? Ahad would be with us, and he wouldn't let anyone bother her. Even if some random boys were just standing nearby, he'd position himself right next to her like a bodyguard."
Dadi laughed, clapping her hands softly. "Haan, bilkul yaad hai. And you'd try to keep up, but you were too busy winning at arcade games."
Ali grinned. "Guilty. But Iman always got the safer side of the ride home because of him."
I shook my head, smiling at the memory but not dwelling on it. "That's because Ahad is dramatic. He thinks the whole world is out to trip me."
The table filled with gentle laughter. Even the clink of spoons felt like part of the conversation.
Then, out of nowhere, Mama spoke up between sips of tea, "By the way, in Dadi's room, on her bed—there's an old album of yours. I found it while tidying up. Go have a look after breakfast."
The second she finished the sentence, Ali and I locked eyes.
"Last to reach is a rotten egg!" I shouted, jumping up.
"Not a chance!" Ali was already on his feet.
We ran, skidding slightly on the hallway rug, the sound of everyone's laughter trailing behind us like sunshine.