Shaan didn't believe in coincidences.
But he did believe in control.
And the fact that he had not known Maihreen would be at the dinner irritated him more than he wanted to admit.
The next morning, his mother knocked on his bedroom door before he left for work.
"You didn't even talk properly last night," she said.
"I talked enough."
She sighed. "She is your cousin, Shaan."
He paused.
"Excuse me?"
"Maihreen. Your aunt's daughter. You met her when you were children. You used to play together every summer."
For a brief second, something flickered in his memory. A courtyard. Sunlight. A small girl with two braids running behind him because he had taken her kite.
"That was years ago," he said flatly.
"Yes. Years ago. And now she's grown up. She and her mother moved back after her father passed away."
His mother's voice softened on the last sentence.
He adjusted his watch, avoiding her eyes. "You could have told me."
"I wanted you to come without assumptions."
He gave a small, humorless smile. "You think I would assume something?"
She didn't answer. And that silence annoyed him more than any words could have.
All day at work, Shaan found himself distracted.
Cousin.
The word felt strange.
He remembered a little girl who used to cry easily. Who once told him he was "mean" because he wouldn't share his cricket bat.
That girl couldn't possibly be the same woman who stood calmly on the balcony last night and looked straight through him.
By evening, he convinced himself he didn't care.
But when his mother casually mentioned that Maihreen and her mother were coming over again for tea, he didn't object.
He told himself it was just politeness.
The house was quieter this time.
No loud relatives. No crowded rooms.
Just soft conversation from the living room.
Shaan walked in wearing a simple black shirt, sleeves slightly rolled up. Composed. Controlled.
Maihreen was sitting beside his mother, listening more than speaking.
When she noticed him, she stood up politely.
"Salaam."
He nodded. "Wa-alaikum-salaam."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"You didn't recognize me yesterday," she said gently.
"I was told you were a guest."
"I suppose I was," she replied, a faint smile touching her lips. "It's been almost fifteen years."
He studied her more carefully now.
"You used to cry a lot," he said.
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "You used to bully a lot."
He almost smirked.
"I didn't bully. I just didn't tolerate weakness."
She held his gaze. "You still don't."
There it was again.
That quiet way she said things without attacking him, yet somehow exposing him.
"I've changed," he said coolly.
"Yes," she agreed softly. "Everyone does."
Something about her tone made it sound like she wasn't sure if it was for the better.
They moved to the dining table as tea was served.
His mother and khala began discussing old family memories.
"You remember," his khala laughed, "how Shaan once pushed Maihreen into the pool because she said he was arrogant?"
Shaan frowned. "I did not push her."
Maihreen looked down at her tea, hiding a small smile. "You did."
He stared at her. "You cried for an hour."
"I was eight."
"And dramatic."
She finally looked at him properly, her eyes steady. "And you were thirteen. Old enough to know better."
For a second, the room felt smaller.
The old Shaan would have laughed it off.
The current Shaan felt… exposed.
Why did she remember the details?
Why did it matter?
Later that evening, after their mothers moved to the kitchen, silence settled between them again.
"You don't talk much," he said.
"I do. Just not unnecessarily."
"Interesting."
"And you?" she asked quietly. "Do you ever talk honestly?"
His jaw tightened.
"I'm always honest."
She tilted her head slightly. "With others, maybe. I was asking about yourself."
There it was again.
That calm intrusion into spaces he didn't allow anyone to enter.
"You think you know me because we played together as children?" he said, tone sharpening.
"No," she replied. "I think I knew you before you decided you had to be strong all the time."
The words hit deeper than he expected.
He stood up abruptly. "People grow up, Maihreen. They stop being naive."
"And some grow up," she said softly, "and forget who they were meant to be."
He turned toward her.
For a moment, the air between them felt charged. Not romantic. Not soft.
Challenging.
"Don't mistake silence for weakness," he warned quietly.
"I don't," she said. "I just don't mistake ego for strength either."
The sentence lingered between them long after it was spoken.
From the kitchen, their mothers' laughter echoed faintly.
Inside the living room, something invisible had shifted.
For the first time in years, Shaan felt like someone wasn't impressed by him.
And strangely, instead of pushing her away completely, a part of him wanted to understand why.
That night, as he stood alone in his apartment again, childhood memories returned without permission.
The kite.The pool.The girl who once told him, "You always act like you're better than everyone."
He had laughed then.
He wasn't laughing now.
Because maybe… she had seen it even before he did.
And for the first time, the question unsettled him:
Had he become arrogant…
Or had he always been?