Writer: Husny Kanwal

Novel: Meri Khurchan (My little Scrappy One)

As soon as I passed my matric exams, I began insisting to my mother that she arrange my engagement. I was deeply fond of my uncle’s eldest daughter—she studied in the same school as I did. She was in grade nine.

In our family, girls were not usually allowed to study much, which is why I was in such a hurry. I feared that someone else might propose for her before me. That was the reason I kept pestering my mother day and night.

At last, my poor mother took pity on me and went to my uncle’s house to ask for the proposal. I was confident my uncle would never refuse his sister.

I was overjoyed, as if my feet no longer touched the ground...like walking on air

When my mother returned, I was already standing at the door waiting for her.

We lived in Hyderabad, and right opposite our house was my uncle’s home. In fact, the entire street was filled with our relatives.

“What did Uncle say?” I asked impatiently, not even giving her a chance to sit.

“Wait, let me catch my breath first…” Mother replied, settling onto the sofa.

“Alright, alright, sit down comfortably. Now tell me, what did Uncle say?” I asked again, my voice full of eagerness.

My ears ached to hear the words: Uncle has agreed to Sherish’s proposal.

“He said yes,” my mother finally spoke.

At that, I raised my hands in the air with joy, exclaiming “Yes!” before lowering them again.

At that moment, I could not contain my happiness.

“But…” Mother’s expression suddenly changed, as if stopping me from celebrating.

“But what?” A wave of uneasiness ran through me. Nervously, I asked again.

“Your uncle has agreed… but for Aimen’s hand.”

The words hit me like a ton of bricks

“What? Aiman? She’s still a child!”

I was a handsome sixteen-year-old boy, and Aiman was barely six years old… just a little girl.

In her love for her brother, my mother had asked for his youngest daughter for me. My blood boiled.

My happiness shattered in an instant

“You’ve gone and asked for that scrappy little one’s hand for me? This is absurd!” I protested loudly. But my mother seemed determined to sacrifice me at the altar of her brother’s love.

Aiman was the child of my uncle’s old age. He had three grown sons and three daughters—the eldest, Sherish, was in ninth grade; the second one was in sixth grade; and then came Aiman.

As for Aiman, what could I even say? She hardly ever attended school. My uncle’s endless pampering had completely spoiled her. She spent entire days playing in the streets—careless about studies, careless even about eating.

***

It was Friday. I stood in the street with my friends, dressed in a white cotton shalwar kameez.

One of my friends was heading out on a date, all dressed up on his motorbike. I could only watch with envy as he rode away.

I was considered the most handsome boy in the entire family—the kind of boy neighborhood girls secretly admired. At school too, I was well-known for both my looks and intelligence. Many girls wanted to be friends with me, but I never gave any of them a chance, being too consumed with Sherish. A choice I now regretted deeply.

“Ah, ah…” I was just about to head home when suddenly that scrappy little one came running straight toward me, shrieking loudly.

She darted behind me, hiding in fear.

Before I could make sense of the situation, a dog lunged at me and bit hard into my leg.

Crying out in pain, I fell to the ground, struggling to push it away.

In that instant, Aiman snatched up a stone from the roadside and hurled it at the dog.

Just as it turned toward her, I screamed for help.

By the time neighbors came rushing, the dog had bitten her too.

Despite my own pain, I stumbled to her side—I cared more for her wounds than my own.

Both of us were rushed to the hospital.

On the way back, I glanced at Aiman, who was slumped against me, her head resting faintly on my shoulder as she lay weak in the car seat.

“Khurchan… why was that dog attacking you?” I asked sternly, though I knew no one else in the family would ever question her.

Because if Aiman so much as tripped over a stone in the street, the entire family—and even the neighbors—would blame the lifeless stone, never their precious princess.

I always called her “Khurchan”—the scrappy one—being the youngest in the family.

“Well… Junaid bro, I was just trying to tie a string to its tail. But the dog didn’t like it…”she replied with a disarming innocence

.

In that moment, I wanted to smash my head against the nearest wall.

She was already nine years old, yet still had no sense at all—only her height seemed to be growing.

---

One day, I was returning home from college with friends when I spotted Aiman playing in the dirt with neighborhood children.

I was obsessed with cleanliness; she, on the other hand, was chaos personified...Cleanliness was my creed; she was a storm in human form.

Her red frock was stained with dust, layered over dark blue jeans. Her hair was tangled and full of sand, her skin flushed red and darkened by the harsh sun.

“Lucky you, Junaid—you get to look at your fiancée whenever you want,” one of my friends teased.

All my friends teased me like that.

They knew very well I couldn’t stand Aiman.

“Just look at her, though—your bride-to-be looks so beautiful today…” another chimed in, bumping his shoulder against mine with a sly grin.

I glared at them furiously, then stormed toward Aiman with my bag slung over one shoulder.

“What are you doing outside in this heat?” I scolded, yanking her up by the arm.

“I… I was just playing with my friends, Junaid bro…” she whispered timidly.

I had never noticed before how she always spoke to me politely, in a soft tone.

“These are boys! Go inside and play with the girls!” I snapped.

“But I don’t like playing dolls and dollhouse games with girls…” she quickly argued. Fearless, even in the face of my anger.

And how could she fear me? She had never learned fear.

Had I managed to truly frighten her that day, the entire family and even the neighborhood would have bowed down to me in respect.

While I was chasing dreams of an engineering degree, she was busy earning a PhD in profanity. She invented curses so creative that even dictionaries would raise their hands in defeat. It was as if she were a professor of swearing—delivering lectures so fluently that books themselves would blush into silence.

---

At Sherish’s wedding, while the other young couples of the family exchanged shy glances, I sat in shock, staring at Aiman.

At twelve years old, she still hadn’t learned how to dress properly. Sweaty, disheveled, she darted around helping everyone.

After the wedding, I doubled my protests at home.

But my mother’s response was always the same: “She’s still a child. Just wait—you’ll see, one day she’ll blossom into such beauty that every girl in the family will pale beside her. Then you’ll thank me for my choice.”

---

While other young men stole moments of romance with their fiancées, I forced mine to sit and study.

After much effort, I managed to fix a daily time for her to come to my house for tutoring.

If she ever missed a day, I myself would go to my uncle’s house to fetch her.

I refused to accept an ignorant partner. Since her parents were spoiling her with endless affection, it was up to me to make sure she studied.

---

One afternoon, I was in the kitchen making tea for my mother when Aiman burst inside like a storm. She grabbed my hand and tugged at me.

“Junaid bro, come quickly!”

“Why? What now? Whose head have you broken this time?” I asked dryly.

At fourteen, she was a walking disaster—I sometimes called her an atomic bomb. She had fought with nearly every boy in the street, leaving many with broken heads.

There was nothing remotely ladylike about her.

Her hair now cascaded down her back, usually tied in a ponytail. The sun had turned her once-fair complexion almost black.

Whenever she held my hand, the contrast of her dark skin against my snow-white one would make me ache with frustration—and once again, the thought of breaking this engagement would burn in me.

“No, no, nothing like that. It’s just… your mango tree has grown small raw mangoes. I want to pluck them. And I know if I do it without your permission, you’ll punish me with double homework all night. So here I am, being a good girl—asking permission. Now give me the big stick, quick!” she blurted all in one breath, tugging at my hand again.

“Wait! Let me give this tea to Mother first…” I sighed, trying to stay calm.

She pouted, then climbed onto the kitchen counter, swinging her legs impatiently.

“Hurry up!” she whined.

I took the tea to my mother. But as I returned, I suddenly heard her scream.

Rushing in, I found the kettle overturned, hot tea spilled all over the floor—and Aiman’s feet scalded.

“Khurchan! Why did you try to pour the tea yourself? You could have just asked me!”

I lifted her into my arms, carried her to the lounge, and set her gently on the sofa.

It felt as though my own feet had burned—I was in more pain than she was.

“You can’t even pour tea properly? Girls your age are running whole households, and you—your childishness never ends!” I scolded harshly, though in truth I was angrier at myself for leaving her alone.

As I applied ointment to her burns, I kept scolding. She listened silently, without shedding a single tear.

Any other girl would have been wailing loudly by now. But not her. She was stubborn beyond measure.

---

By then, I had started working. I had even sent my résumé to a well-known American company, certain that my skills would impress them.

In only my second week at work, my boss’s daughter approached me with an offer of friendship. She was beautiful—and I instantly agreed.

When my uncle’s son’s wedding came, I invited her as a guest.

For me, she was just a friend. But my mother and relatives interpreted it differently. They grew furious, thinking I was trying to give someone else the place that belonged to Aiman.

The only person who should have cared—Aiman—didn’t seem to notice at all. She was lost in her own world, unaffected.

I sat in my chair, a glass of cold drink in hand, unable to take my eyes off her as she danced with her cousin.

Her cousin twirled her around, holding her finger, and Aiman laughed brightly. She looked so happy.

And there I was, transfixed—my glass emptied without me realizing.

To be continued…

#HK❤️

I was a simple, straightforward man — never fond of arguments, never fond of fights. My world was small: office, home, and silence in between.

That night, I was returning late from work. The streets were deserted, shadows stretching under the dim yellow lights. I parked my bike near the gate when suddenly a cold barrel pressed against my head.

“Hand over your wallet and phone,” the boy hissed.

For a moment, my mind froze. Life flashed before me. Then I thought: life first, everything else later. Without resistance, I began to hand over my belongings.

Before I could finish, a sudden scream pierced the silence.

I turned. The boy who held the gun now lay groaning on the ground, clutching his head. Behind him stood Aiman... My little Scrappy

— clutching a hockey stick like a warrior.

“I saw from the window he was robbing you, so I came to help,” she said breathlessly.

My heart almost stopped. “Are you out of your mind? What if he had another partner? What if he had shot you?” My anger drowned out my fear.

She said nothing. Instead, she struck the boy again, this time in his back. Everyone around us gasped in disbelief.

Her eyes blazed. “The mistake was helping you,” she spat, chewing every word, and walked away, kicking the boy once more for good measure.

That night, I stood speechless, shaken — not by the robber, but by her audacity.

---

Days passed. She stopped talking to me. I brushed it aside, thinking she’d cool down.

One morning, my aunt asked, “Junaid , will you drop Aiman to school?”

Aiman rolled her eyes. “mom, I can go alone. You always trouble him.”

But I smiled. “No trouble. It’s on my way.”

On the bike, she sat stiffly, refusing to hold me. I turned slightly and said, “Hold on, or you’ll fall.” For once, she didn’t argue. Quietly, she placed her hand on my shoulder.

A smile tugged at my lips.

---

Another day, I entered home mid-conversation on my phone. I almost dropped it when my eyes caught sight of her.

She was strutting across the lounge, wrapped in my mother’s red sari, smiling like she owned the world.

For a moment, I forgot to breathe. My heart skipped a beat, and my lips curved into a helpless smile. The person on the phone kept saying, “Hello? Hello?” but I couldn’t hear.

That day, I realized — she was no longer a child.

Where did you disappear? I’ve been saying hello for so long…” came the voice from the other end of the line.

At that moment, I had no proper answer.

Still lost in her sight, I quietly tiptoed toward my room.

I was amazed — since when had she developed such girlish hobbies? But then, a strange happiness bloomed in me… At least, late or soon, she had finally awakened some feminine instincts within herself.

---

On her sixteenth birthday, Aiman's father arranged a party. She had still not forgiven me, and asked for nothing from me. Yet, when I went shopping, I found myself buying a red sari — the same color as the one she had once draped.

But courage failed me. Instead, I hid it in my wardrobe.

At the party, cousins teased me, “Junaid, today you’ll be struck by lightning!”

I laughed it off — until she appeared.

Dressed in a white net frock, her dupatta draped gracefully, her hair loose, her lips painted a fiery red… she looked nothing short of divine. When she accidentally bumped into me, her forehead brushing my back, time stood still.

Her eyes, though still resentful, met mine.

“Happy birthday,little Scrappy

,” I whispered, holding her hand.

“Thanks,” she said curtly.

“Anything else to say?” she pressed, raising her brow.

I shook my head.

“Then let go.” She pulled her hand away, leaving me unwilling and hollow.

When Aiman was cutting the cake, my eyes ignored everything else around me and circled only around her existence.

Today, unwillingly, I had to admit — my mother’s decision had not been wrong.

“This is your gift…” I hadn’t found a chance to give it to her in the hall. So, while we were returning home, I made Aiman sit behind me on the bike. All the cousins and relatives were riding their bikes ahead and behind us, so even on the way I couldn’t find the right moment.

Then suddenly, I sped up my bike — and reaching home first with Aiman, I seized the chance. She was just about to get down and leave when I quickly caught her wrist and pressed an envelope into her hand.

That envelope held my entire month’s salary.

“Why such anger? At least, one usually says thank you when receiving a gift…” She gave the envelope a strange look. There was something in her eyes in that fleeting moment, something I failed to read. She cast a glance full of quiet reproach in my direction, and then swiftly walked toward her house.

Her cold reaction was the last thing I had expected.

I had thought she would tear the envelope open immediately — like a child opening an Eidi envelope. Then, upon counting the money inside, her eyes would widen with surprise, and she’d let her wonder spill into words. But… Madam didn’t even bother to open it.

With my face fallen, I had barely turned away when the rest of the family’s bikes came to a stop outside my uncle’s house.

Everyone already knew that, for quite some time, there had been no communication between us.

That’s why, as soon as they arrived, all of them began questioning me with their eyes: “So… did it work out?”

But my mood had sunk miserably low. I ignored the unspoken questions rising in their gazes and turned my bike toward home.

****

As soon as she finished her matriculation exams, I expressed my desire to my mother for marriage—along with a small engagement ceremony, where I could slip a ring onto her finger with my name engraved on it.

I wanted her to know that she had been tied to my name since childhood.

I had so many dreams, the kind every bachelor boy harbors.

That year, I wanted to send her Eidi.

I felt completely at peace with my mother’s decision.

A few days after I voiced my wish, my parents went over to my uncle’s house to talk.

When I returned home from the office, I found my mother looking deeply upset.

“What happened, Mother?” I asked in worry, sitting beside her.

“Go on, rejoice! Distribute sweets! Your heart’s desire is about to come true…” My mother’s words burst forth like rain from a cloudless sky. I couldn’t make sense of why she was taunting me so bitterly.

“Father, is everything alright? What happened at Uncle’s house?” I turned toward him with anxious curiosity.

My father shook his head, speaking in a sorrowful tone:

“Aiman has flatly refused your proposal. She says she doesn’t like you at all. She wants to marry someone her own age—not an uncle like you…”

His words struck me like an atom bomb.

I had never imagined such a humiliating rejection from My little Scrappy..

“So… they broke off the engagement?” I asked hesitantly.

It seemed even my question was a crime—my mother exploded again in furious thunder.

“What’s the matter with you, Madam? Why are you venting your anger on him?” Father scolded her sharply.

“Why shouldn’t I? He’s always behaved so harshly with my niece. This was bound to happen. Now be happy—the engagement is breaking!” Mother hurled the words at me with bitter sarcasm before storming off to her room.

“Really?” I could barely form the word. My tongue felt heavy with dread.

“Your uncle hasn’t given a final answer yet… He said he won’t proceed without Aiman’s consent. He even apologized, admitting they made a mistake by engaging her at such a young age.” My father relayed my uncle’s almost-clear refusal and then walked outside.

I knew how beloved Aiman was. If she didn’t agree, the engagement would soon be broken.

Her words had left me wounded to the core. I tossed and turned in bed the entire night, unable to escape the torment.

I couldn’t share with anyone just how deeply I was suffering.

The very next morning, I received a call from my dearest friend and cousin, Shahzain. He was showering me with congratulations.

I couldn’t believe it—one call after another, all to congratulate me.

To the world, I was finally being freed from an unwanted engagement.

But within my heart, everything felt shattered, desolate.

I kept asking myself: for ten years I had longed to escape this bond, and now that it was breaking, why did I feel no joy? Why was sorrow clutching me instead?

Was it simply because Aiman was the one who broke it off? Perhaps my ego was wounded by the fact that the very girl I never even cared to glance at had dismissed me as “uncle.”

For now, my mother remained bitterly angry with me.

Never in my wildest dreams had I thought that a girl like Aiman wouldn’t find a handsome man like me appealing.

With each passing day, my inner state grew heavier with grief. And because our houses faced each other, I often crossed paths with her.

She was shamelessly bold. She never averted her eyes when she saw me—in fact, she stared at me with such audacity, as if I had stolen her money and run away.

At times, her glare made me feel like a criminal.

****

It was a Sunday. I was casually checking my emails on the laptop when suddenly my eyes fell on a reply from a famous American company.

It was the same company I had applied to a few years back.

At that time, I desperately needed that job—not because of financial reasons, but because of the constant torment of that deadly bond which pierced straight into my soul.

The engagement hadn’t officially broken yet, but for me, there was no hope of survival left.

I quickly got all my documents ready and left for America.

One day, I was sitting alone in a restaurant, having dinner, when I received a call from Dad.

After the usual greetings, he said, “Son, Junaid… your uncle came over today…”

The moment he said that, my heart started racing. To be honest, I got really scared.

“W-why…?” I barely managed to utter those words.

“Well…”

Dad’s hesitation made me even more anxious.

“Actually… they want to end the engagement. They don’t want to force Aiman into this marriage. They think it’s better if everything ends amicably, with everyone’s consent, so that family ties don’t get ruined.”

Were those just words—or a bomb exploding? For a moment, I felt like darkness had swallowed everything around me. My mind went blank.

I knew my parents had already given their consent. I was only being formally informed.

Seriously? This is my life… and no one even asked me?

My mother played a cruel joke with my dreams. First, she got me engaged to a six-year-old girl, making me wait ten long years for her to blossom from a bud into a rose. And now, when she had finally become that rose… she thought I looked too old for her.

I didn’t even hear what Dad said after that. I just left the restaurant and went back to my apartment.

In the washroom, I don’t know why, but like a madman, I kept washing my face over and over. Every time I looked into the mirror, I examined myself with the same scrutiny as little Scrappy. Did I really look that old? Old enough for her to call me “uncle” and reject me for marriage?

I remained in deep shock for a whole week.

During that time, I stayed confined to my room, lying lifeless on the bed—unaware of day or night.

I wasn’t even sure about my own feelings anymore.

I had no idea when she had crept into the depths of my heart… when my dislike had turned into affection.

So many calls came from my family and relatives during this period, but I didn’t pick up a single one. Even my uncle called a couple of times.

Time is the greatest healer.

For an entire year, I cut off contact with everyone—even my parents. I was furious at my mother.

-----**

“I always thought you’d be happy once the engagement was broken… Weren’t you the one who used to insist to me again and again about ending it?”

I always read Dad’s emails, though I never replied. This time, he wrote that Mom had been very sick lately… and deeply saddened. He requested that I speak to her just once on the phone.

Hearing about her illness made my heart restless. For the first time, I dialed her number myself.

And her very first question plunged me into the deepest pit of shame.

At that moment, I wondered: why exactly was I angry with her? After all, sooner or later, I had gotten what I wanted. The only difference was… that delay had changed my desire entirely.

It wasn’t Mom who wanted to break the engagement. It was me.

Then why was I punishing her with my anger?

How could she have known about the transformation of my emotions?

“Do you know, Aiman…”

Before she could finish speaking about little Scrappy,I flared up in anger. I had run so far away because of her, and even here, I didn’t want to hear her name.

“Mom, please… don’t ever bring up that little Scrappy with me again.” I said firmly and ended the call.

I never found out what Mom had wanted to say about little Scrappy

And honestly, I didn’t even want to know.

Mom insisted on getting a new cellphone just to be able to video call me. Poor Dad, such a simple man—neither he nor Mom knew how to use these touchscreen phones or make video calls.

-------

One day, I was sitting in my office when suddenly a video call came from my uncle’s number.

For some reason, the very first thought that crossed my mind was of little Scrappy,

Without thinking twice, I accepted the call.

The moment it connected, my mother’s face appeared on the screen. My gaze froze right there. After one year and four months, I was seeing my mother again. It felt as if my restless heart had finally found peace.

My eyes welled up. I could feel my emotions scattering all over inside me.

I had never thought of myself as an emotional man. But in that moment… all I wanted was to break down and weep.

With great difficulty, I held myself together.

On the other end, my mother burst into tears the moment she saw me, crying uncontrollably.

After a while, my eyes wandered to the room behind her—it was little Scrappy's room.

I instantly understood… she was the one who had dialed the call for my mother.

****-----*****

Today, on the call, my mother told me that if there was any girl I had in mind, I should tell her. She would happily take a proposal for me.

Since then, I have been standing silently by the window, lost in thought… realizing something for the first time: just how honest I truly am.

After that unwanted engagement, I had never so much as lifted my eyes toward another woman—let alone kept anyone “in mind.”

I burned with jealousy, I suffered with envy… but my gaze always remained fixed only on little Scrappy.

And now… what could I possibly tell my mother?

If only she had said those words to me twelve years ago… I wouldn’t be in such agony today.

After a few months had passed, my mother started showing me pictures of girls…

But none of them made sense to me.

Eventually, out of exhaustion, she finally asked me what kind of girl I liked.

Her question left me completely puzzled. Every time I asked myself what kind of girl I wanted, the figure of little Scrappy would appear before my eyes.

She wasn’t some stunning fairy… she was just a dusky, simple girl. But my heart betrayed me. I had never thought it would happen like this…

I told my mother clearly:

“I want a girl who always keeps her hair tied in a ponytail… who only wears shalwar kameez on festive occasions… who is skilled in fighting… who, if someone abuses her once, can reply back with ten… that fearless… unmatched in shameless boldness… even if she doesn’t know a thing about the kitchen… tall height… even dark skin would do… someone who believes more in making others cry than crying herself. That’s all my demands are…”

I don’t know why my mother thought I was joking—while I was actually dead serious about what I wanted.

---

I tried my best to keep myself busy with work. Even at home, I would bring office work, keeping myself occupied until late at night.

Sleep was rare for me.

Whenever I lay down, exhausted, a thought would haunt me:little Scrappy must be 19 now. Surely, my uncle must have engaged her to some boy her age… maybe even married her off already.

And that’s where my thoughts would break down. I would feel I wouldn’t be able to take another breath under the weight of grief… so I would jump out of bed and rush to the window.

At times, I would argue with myself, furious at my own heart. Why? Why did my heart betray me in the matter of this girl called Scrappy? Why did it create so many problems for me?

My years of relentless hard work finally paid off when I became the Manager of the Engineering Department.

It was the first real joy I had received in years. Along with my promotion, I was given a luxury apartment and a car in America.

I begged my parents to come live with me. I was tired of being alone. But neither my father nor my mother agreed to leave our country and relatives behind.

---

Four years later…

Five new engineers were hired in my office—two girls and three boys.

During the recruitment process, I had been in Germany with my boss for a hotel project.

When I returned, they handed me the list of new hires in my department.

But I was too busy to even check it. Later, when I had an hour before the day ended, I thought: Why not go meet my new members directly?

I left my office with that plan…

But suddenly, my boss called, and I postponed the meeting for the next day.

---

“Good morning, sir.”

Today was the introductory meeting with new and old members. I entered the meeting room with my boss and, as always, sat right beside him with my usual commanding presence.

As I opened my laptop, the new members began introducing themselves one by one.

I half-listened, half-worked…

Then suddenly, a familiar voice struck my ears.

I couldn’t believe my hearing. My head shot up, and I turned towards the direction of that feminine voice.

Without thinking, I blurted out in shock:

“little Scrappy!”

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

It was Aiman. Yes. This wasn’t a dream… but reality—a reality I never imagined, not even in my wildest dreams.

Aiman—my little Scrappy—was sitting before me with such composure, as a member of my very own department, in one of America’s top companies.

Of course, no one there understood what little Scrappy meant. But Aiman’s glare—like she would swallow me whole—was enough.

“What??” my boss looked at me in confusion.

I quickly shook my head in denial.

Throughout the meeting, I kept staring at her, still trying to convince myself she was really here.

She wore a white shirt with pants, hair tied back in her usual ponytail, a watch on one wrist, a pen in the other, her face calm and serious.

With just the lightest touch of makeup, she looked breathtaking—even in her simplicity.

I couldn’t explain it, but my heart was overflowing with happiness. A wide smile spread across my face.

I waited impatiently for the meeting to end.

---

" Assalamu Alaikum”

With my eyes, I signaled for her to stay behind. As soon as the room emptied, I rushed towards her and greeted her warmly.

I was so happy seeing her again that I forgot… she had once rejected me—harshly, humiliatingly.

“Wa alaikum as-salam.”

Her response carried no warmth. Not even a flicker of surprise at seeing me.

“Yes? Do you need something from me?” she asked flatly, glancing at her watch with clear boredom.

Did she really feel nothing seeing me after so many years?

A storm of questions raged in my mind: How did she get here? Was she married? How did her family allow her to come to America? Did she continue her studies?

But her indifference crushed all courage in me to ask.

“No…” I muttered, biting my lips. I turned back to pick up my laptop, which I had left behind in my eagerness.

As I reached for it, I heard the sound of the door shutting.

She had left… just like she had left me years ago—alone.

I sat there, broken, wondering why she was treating me like a stranger.

After all, apart from the engagement, we had shared a bond once.

When she didn’t even know about our engagement, we still used to talk… why not now?

I felt my heart shattering into pieces.

From the next day, I treated her just like I treated all other junior female staff.

Her desk was right within view of my office. Sometimes I thought I caught her looking at me, but I never returned the glance.

---

One day, I stepped into the elevator—and there she was.

No one else was inside. Just the two of us.

I stood beside her, leaving a little space.

In one glance, I noticed everything: she wore a white shirt, black pant coat. Coincidentally, I wore the same. A black watch on her right wrist—just like mine.

She was already tall, and with heels, she nearly reached my ear level.

At that moment, for the first time, I felt she was standing opposite me—as if challenging me as an equal.

Not as if—she was. And I had simply been late in realizing it.

But why? Why did she need to stand equal to me?

I was lost in confusion.

She, arrogant as ever, stood silently like a stone.

Her attitude carried no softness, no hint of recognition—she treated me as though I was nobody.

When the elevator stopped, we walked out together. I noticed she matched her steps exactly with mine.

And suddenly, childhood memories of my little scrappy surfaced.

I asked myself: Is this the same girl who once walked beside me?

I stopped, letting her move ahead.

Because my heart said: This isn’t my little scrappy

My little scrappy was never like this. She was wild, reckless—more of a goon in a girl’s disguise. She used to irritate me endlessly.

And yet, now, I smile remembering her…

Her memories are all I have.

---

Then came Ramadan.

On the very first day, she took leave, saying she was unwell.

My heart grew restless.

I felt she might need me… but then feared she would never even let me into her apartment.

Yet hearts never listen. Ignoring every argument from my mind, mine kept chanting: Go to her. Maybe she needs you. You’re the only one she has in this foreign land.

So, defeated by my own heart, I arrived at her apartment with iftar items.

After knocking a few times, the door opened.

I was nervous about her reaction…

“Junaid… you?”

For the first time, she didn’t add the word bro after my name. That alone left me shocked.

And her voice—it carried softness, not the usual boredom or irritation.

“Uh… I… I…” I couldn’t believe myself. I, who never stammered while sealing billion-dollar deals, was suddenly stumbling over words before her.

“Come inside. It’s almost time for iftar.”

She invited me in, and I nodded quickly.

“This is for you.” I handed her the bag of groceries.

“You shouldn’t have…” she said politely, taking it into the kitchen.

I sat silently in the lounge, watching her set the table.

“How are you feeling now?” I asked gently, concern clear in my voice.

“By Allah’s grace, much better. You know, I can never go out on the first fast. I feel the fast too intensely… that’s why I took leave today.”

She smiled as she said it.

I hadn’t seen her smile in years.

Her smile gave me courage. I got up and went closer.

“Let me set the iftar. You sit.” I pulled a chair for her.

“That’s a good idea,” she laughed lightly and sat down.

For a moment, it felt like I was seeing my old little scrappy again.

I shook my head, smiling, and walked into the kitchen.

“Sorry…” I said as I placed the juice jug on the table, looking into her eyes with regret.

I was always haunted by the guilt of that night—when I shouted at her, when I should’ve apologized. Maybe if I had cared for her feelings, she would never have left me.

I never admitted it openly, but deep inside, I knew—I had never treated her right.

I took out my frustrations on her because of an unwanted engagement… when in truth, she didn’t even know about it.

I just wanted to apologize—even if it changed nothing.

At my apology, she stared at me, stunned.

Silence fell between us.

“For what?” she finally asked, confusion plain on her face.

“For a lot of things… but especially for that last anger, the one that ended all our conversations.”

I stopped mid-sentence. For the first time in my life, I saw tears glistening in her eyes.

She quickly lowered her face and wiped them away.

I was shocked. I had yelled at her countless times before, yet not once had she cried.

This girl, unmatched in defiance, was now crying after hearing my apology.

“Sorry… but I will never forgive you.” Her tone was firm.

“Why??” I protested immediately.

“Because I want to live in your memories… even if as guilt. If I forgive you today, you’ll be free.”

Her words left me utterly confused.

Why would she want me to always remember her?

She had always been a little crazy, but now I was convinced she was completely insane. Why would she want to remain in the memories of a man she once rejected—breaking off a ten-year-old engagement?

I wanted to ask more, but then she said something that froze me completely:

“My wedding is on the fourth day of Eid… with my uncle’s son, Danish.”

In that instant, her image before my eyes blurred.

My eyes overflowed with tears…