her wedding

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…

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