Ophelia

Here for the tea and the hehe.

[whyishekinda]

✨ Welcome to WhyIsHeKinda ✨

A fanfiction blog dedicated to fictional men who make you pause and think,

“why is he kinda—”

This blog exists for unconventional attraction, emotional slow burns, morally questionable favorites, and the very human desire to be wanted.

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[whyishekinda]

Is your request open? Can I share fic ideas?

Yes anon! Requests are open. But I'll only be able to work on it after I complete all my WIPs.

And please go ahead, drop your ideas.

[whyishekinda]

Rukhsat is so Canon coz What do u mean Arjun Ramlal's character ek-bbal cheated on his wife with a much younger woman and was a shit husband to og wife, but was a very great dad to the kids😶 nothing more Canon than that😭

Umm. Art imitates life?😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️

[whyishekinda]

RUKHSAT(Husband!Major Iqbal x wife!reader)

Rukhsat (trans. Departure, farewell)

Genre: Angst, literally no fluff. I am incapable of writing Iqbal fluff.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not intended to glorify any real life people or events linked with them.

Trigger warnings: mentions of death, sickness and grief. Iqbal being the pos that he is. Cheating.

P.S. this is longgggg. Probably my longest work ever. And this is the first time I am writing angst, so please lmk your thoughts below.

For eleven years, Y/N had been the heart of the Iqbal residence. Not just the mistress of the house, not just the lady of the manor.

But the heart.

There was a difference.

Anyone could hire staff, anyone with enough money could fill a house with cooks, drivers, cleaners and caretakers.

But very few people could make those people feel like family.

Yet somehow Y/N had managed exactly that.

The kitchen staff brought her vegetables from their hometowns because they knew she loved trying new recipes. Bashir chacha, who had worked for the family longer than Y/N herself had lived there, refused to let anyone else drive her to the market. The younger maids often sat with her after dinner, chatting about weddings, children and village gossip while she folded laundry alongside them despite having absolutely no reason to.

"Begum sahiba, leave that."

"I have two hands, don't I?"

"That's not the point."

"It is exactly the point."

And every single time, the conversation ended the same way.

With the staff sighing dramatically while Y/N continued helping anyway.

She was loved in that house. Truly loved.

The guards smiled when they saw her.

The cooks saved the crispiest pakoras for her. Even the gardeners brought her flowers because they knew she liked fresh blooms in every room.

Sometimes Y/N wondered if strangers would find it strange.

How a woman could be adored by an entire household and still feel lonely.

But loneliness did not care how many people loved you, It only cared about the people who didn't.

The master bedroom sat at the far end of the second floor.

It was large, beautiful, decorated with expensive pieces and empty.

Or half empty, rather.

Every morning, Y/N woke up on one side of the bed and found the other untouched.

Some nights Iqbal came home after midnight, some nights he didn't come home at all, sometimes she woke briefly at three in the morning to find him quietly removing his watch near the dresser, other times she woke to an empty room and the realization that another night had passed without seeing her husband.

The first few years had been good, really good. He loved her, cared for her, bought her small gifts, took her out on sweet dates, had silly fights with her. Their days blurred with soft kisses and sweet gestures and nights ended up with getting tangled on each other. Life was good.

And then, Laiba was born. The pregnancy, instead of bringing them closer, put a distance between them. Y/N was constantly feeling sick during the 9 months, Iqbal was always away with work.

And by the time Laiba was born, the distance was too big for them to cross.

The next few years after her birth, had been painful.

By the sixth year, Y/N had stopped waiting up.

By the seventh, she stopped asking questions.

Now, after eleven years of marriage, she simply folded his side of the blanket every morning and continued with her day.

And yet, after all this misery she still loved him. That was perhaps the saddest part.

Not desperately, not hopefully, just quietly.

The way people continued tending plants they already knew would never bloom again.

---

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the hallway,

A moment later, Laiba burst into the room.

"Ammi!"

Fourteen years old, wild curls, one sock missing, and enough energy to power an entire city.

Y/N smiled immediately.

"There you are."

"I can't find my blue notebook."

"The one on your desk?"

"No."

"The one under your pillow?"

"No."

"The one you're holding?"

Laiba froze.

Looked down.

Then stared at the notebook in her hands.

"Oh."

Y/N laughed.

A real laugh, soft and warm.

Laiba immediately grinned.

There was something about her daughter that made even difficult days easier to survive.

Perhaps because Laiba loved so openly.

So completely.

She didn't understand pretending, didn't understand social masks.

When she was happy, everyone knew.

When she was sad, everyone knew that too.

And when she loved someone, she loved them with her entire heart.

Especially her father.

The front gates opened downstairs.

Instantly, Laiba straightened.

The change was immediate.

Like a sunflower turning toward sunlight.

"Baba!"

Without another word, she ran from the room.

Y/N followed at a much slower pace.

She found them in the foyer.

Iqbal had barely stepped through the front door before Laiba collided with him.

He caught her automatically and effortlessly, like he'd done it a thousand times before. Which to be fair he has.

"You promised you'd be home yesterday."

"I know."

"You missed movie night."

"I know."

"You always know."

Iqbal actually smiled, a genuine smile.

One that almost never appeared anymore.

Not for colleagues, not for guests and specially not for Y/N.

Only for Laiba.

"What punishment am I getting this time?" he asked.

Laiba crossed her arms.

"No dessert."

"That's harsh."

"You deserve it."

"I agree."

That earned a giggle.

Within seconds, all annoyance vanished.

Just like that.

Y/N stood quietly near the staircase watching them.

And despite everything,

despite the loneliness, despite the distance, despite the marriage that seemed to be fading a little more every year, she smiled.

Because if there was one thing nobody could ever accuse Iqbal of, it was being a bad father.

He adored Laiba. Not tolerated. Not cared for. Adored.

He attended every meeting with her therapists, memorized every medication, learned every trigger, every routine, every fear.

When relatives made insensitive comments about her condition, Iqbal stopped inviting those relatives.

When teachers underestimated her, he hired better ones.

When Laiba cried, he sat beside her until she stopped.

Sometimes until sunrise if necessary.

The entire world knew Major Iqbal as a feared man.

Laiba knew him as the man who cut fruit into heart shapes because she claimed it tasted better that way.

It was almost enough to make Y/N forget how different he became around her.

Almost.

His eyes found hers briefly.

"Morning."

"Morning."

That was all.

No smile. No warmth. No kiss on the forehead. Nothing.

Just a greeting. Polite. Distant.

The kind exchanged between acquaintances. Not husband and wife.

And yet Y/N still moved automatically toward the dining room.

Still poured his tea exactly the way he liked it, still remembered he preferred less sugar and extra milk.

Because eleven years of loving someone became habit eventually, even when the love stopped being returned.

The three of them sat together for breakfast afterward.

Laiba talking enough for all three, Iqbal listening patiently, Y/N quietly refilling cups and passing plates.

From a distance, they probably looked like a happy family.

Maybe they even were.

Just not in the way families were supposed to be.

Because somewhere over the years, husband and wife had become strangers connected only by the child they both loved more than themselves.

And neither of them seemed brave enough to say it aloud.

---

The days blurred together much like all the days before it.

Life inside the Iqbal residence moved according to routines.

Laiba's tutors arrived at nine.

Lunch was served at one.

Tea appeared at four.

Dinner was prepared regardless of whether Major Iqbal actually came home to eat it.

The house ran smoothly because Y/N made sure it did.

She remembered appointments, Birthdays, medicine schedules,the gardener's daughter's wedding, the cook's son's examinations, everything.

She carried the entire household on her shoulders so naturally that most people never realized how much work went into keeping a home feeling alive.

And perhaps that was why nobody noticed the little things.

Not when Y/N paused halfway up the staircase because she suddenly felt winded, not when a dry cough occasionally interrupted conversations, not when she found herself sitting down more often after finishing chores, exhausted.

She noticed them, of course, but only vaguely, The way people noticed a new creak in the floorboards.

Something mildly irritating but nothing worth worrying about.

After all, she was thirty six. Not eighty.

So she ignored it.

The same way she ignored everything else, the loneliness, the distance, the unanswered questions, the untouched side of the bed.

Especially the untouched side of the bed.

By now, she had memorized the pattern of Iqbal's absences.

He usually returned around two or three in the morning, sometimes later, sometimes not at all.

When he did come home, he moved quietly through the bedroom. Careful and polite, like a guest trying not to disturb another guest.

Gone were the days when he used to pull her closer in his sleep.

Gone were the nights spent talking until sunrise.

Gone were the random kisses pressed against her temple while she read books in bed.

Sometimes Y/N wondered when exactly it had happened.

When had affection turned into courtesy?

When had love become obligation?

She never found an answer.

One afternoon, she was helping Bashir chacha organize some documents in Iqbal's study when she noticed his wallet lying on the desk.

Nothing unusual about that.

He forgot things everywhere.

Keys, files, wallets, his reading glasses.

The entire household had become accustomed to finding and returning his belongings.

Without thinking much of it, Y/N picked up the wallet.

She intended to hand it to Bashir chacha.

Nothing more, but then it slipped open.

And a photograph slid halfway out.

For a moment, she almost ignored it.

Then she froze, a woman smiled back at her. Young, probably in her mid twenties or younger, beautiful...with auburn hair and greenish hazel eyes.

The photograph was tucked neatly behind another picture. Laiba's picture.

Y/N stared at it for a long moment, something cold settled into her stomach.

Years ago, there had been another photograph there.

Her photograph.

A small passport sized picture taken shortly after their wedding.

She remembered because Iqbal used to joke about it constantly.

Said he needed proof his wife existed, and he wasn't dreaming whenever he traveled.

She remembered laughing.

Remembered stealing the wallet and hiding it for an entire day just to annoy him,

back then, he had searched the entire house for it.

Now her picture was gone.

In its place sat another woman.

Y/N carefully slid the photograph back exactly where she found it.

Then closed the wallet and placed it precisely where it had been.

And continued sorting papers.

Her hands never trembled, not once.

Years of being Major Iqbal's wife had taught her many things, one of them was how to remain composed even when her heart was breaking.

The photograph stayed with her though.

She thought about it while watering plants.

While helping Laiba with homework.

While supervising dinner.

While folding laundry.

A friend, perhaps? A colleague?

A relative?

She repeated those possibilities so many times they almost sounded believable.

Almost.

But somewhere deep inside, she already knew, women always do.

The evidence merely arrived later.

After that, the signs became impossible to ignore.

Phone calls taken outside, messages answered with faint smiles, longer absences, new clothes, new cologne.

Tiny things that would mean nothing individually.

Together, however...

Together they painted a picture Y/N desperately wished she couldn't see.

Still, she said nothing.

Perhaps because she was afraid of the answer.

Or perhaps because she already had it.

The actual confirmation arrived three weeks later.

Ironically, on the most ordinary day imaginable.

Y/N had gone grocery shopping not because she needed to, the staff could have done it.

But she enjoyed choosing produce herself.

Always had.

The market was crowded that afternoon.

Vendors shouting, children running between stalls, cars honking impatiently from nearby roads.

Y/N stood near a fruit seller, comparing mangoes, when movement across the street caught her attention.

She almost looked away, but then her gaze stopped on a familiar figure.

Iqbal.

The world seemed to pause.

He stood outside a café, dressed casually.

Smiling, actually smiling. She hasn't seen him smile like that in years...

The young woman from the photograph stood beside him.

And then leaned down and kissed her.

Not a friendly gesture, not something that could be misunderstood.

A kiss shared by people who belonged to one another.

For several seconds, Y/N couldn't move.

Couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

She just stood there, frozen with the fruits still in her hand.

Eleven years of marriage unraveling in front of her eyes.

The strange thing was that she didn't cry. She dropped the fruit on the vendor's cart,

turned around and walked back to the car.

And told Bashir chacha she wanted to go home.

The entire drive passed in silence.

When they arrived, she walked straight upstairs, ignored concerned greetings, ignored questions, ignored everything.

The bedroom door clicked shut behind her.

Finally. Alone. The room felt suffocating.

The same room where she had spent eleven years loving him.

Waiting for him, missing him, excusing him, defending him in silence.

The same room where she had convinced herself distance didn't necessarily mean betrayal.

A laugh escaped her. Small. Broken.

Then suddenly it became difficult to breathe.

Her chest tightened painfully.

The room tilted, she tried reaching the bed.

Didn't make it.

The last thing Y/N remembered was the carpet rushing toward her.

Then darkness swallowed everything.

And downstairs, life inside the Iqbal residence continued exactly as it always had.

Completely unaware that something inside its heart had finally cracked.

---

When Y/N opened her eyes again, sunlight was spilling through the curtains.

For a brief, disoriented moment, she couldn't remember why she was lying on the floor.

Then she remembered the photograph, the café, the kiss, Iqbal's hand resting against another woman's face with a familiarity that had once belonged to her.

The memory returned all at once.

Y/N closed her eyes again.

The pain surprised her, not because it existed but because of how much of it remained.

After all these years of distance, after all these years of sleeping alone and eating alone and raising their daughter while her husband slowly drifted further and further away, she had genuinely believed there wasn't enough left between them to hurt anymore.

Apparently she had been wrong.

The floor beneath her felt cold.

Her neck ached from sleeping in an awkward position and her chest still felt strangely tight.

As though someone had wrapped invisible rope around her lungs, she ignored that part.

Focused instead on getting up.

The house would be awake by now.

People would be looking for her, Laiba would definitely be looking for her.

That thought alone forced Y/N to stand,

the moment she opened the bedroom door, she found Ruksana pacing anxiously outside.

"Allah!" the help nearly shouted. "Begum sahiba!"

Y/N blinked.

"What happened?"

"What happened?!" Ruksana repeated. "You locked yourself inside your room all day yesterday!"

Yesterday.

The realization hit immediately.

An entire day had passed.

Ruksana's expression softened with concern.

"You didn't answer anybody."

Y/N attempted a smile.

"I wasn't feeling well."

That much, at least, wasn't a lie, the explanation seemed sufficient for everyone else too.

By evening, the household had accepted that Begum Sahiba had simply been under the weather.

Only Laiba remained unconvinced.

She followed Y/N around the house like an anxious shadow.

"Are you sick?"

"No."

"You look sick."

"I just need rest."

"You hate resting."

That earned the smallest laugh.

"Maybe I'm growing wiser with age."

Laiba narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

Then promptly attached herself to Y/N's side for the rest of the day.

As though proximity alone could prevent anything bad from happening to her ammi.

The guilt nearly crushed Y/N.

Because all she could think about was the café, the woman, the kiss and the fact that Laiba still adored the man responsible.

That night, Y/N sat alone in the dark long after everyone else had gone to sleep.

Including Iqbal.

He had returned home unusually early.

Asked whether she felt better, accepted her short answer and moved on.

That should have angered her.

Instead, she found herself staring at him while he slept, perhaps for the first time in years.

The faint lines near his eyes, the streaks of silver beginning to appear in his hair, the familiar face she had once known better than her own.

The face belonging to the man she had ever loved.

One question repeated endlessly inside her mind.

Why? Why her? Why now? Why after eleven years?

The urge to wake him was overwhelming, to demand answers, to throw the photograph onto his chest, to ask whether he had ever loved her at all.

The words sat at the back of her throat, burning and ready.

Then she heard soft footsteps in the hallway,the bedroom door opened slightly.

Laiba peeked inside, hslf asleep and hair messy, holding her stuffed rabbit.

Without a word, she shuffled toward the bed before climbing between them, like she had done during thunderstorms since childhood.

Laiba immediately curled against Y/N's side, safe and comfortable.

And just like that the confrontation died in Y/N's mind.

Because all Y/N could see was her daughter. Their daughter.

The one beautiful thing they had managed to create together.

How could she risk destroying that?

What would happen if the marriage ended?

Would courts become involved?

Would custody battles begin?

Would Laiba be forced to choose?

The thought alone made her feel sick.

No.

No matter how badly her heart hurt, she couldn't do that to her daughter.

Not Laiba. Never Laiba.

So she swallowed the questions, every single one of them nd buried them somewhere deep inside herself.

---

Meanwhile, the coughing worsened.

A little more each week.

Sometimes Y/N woke at night struggling to catch her breath, sometimes climbing stairs left her strangely exhausted, sometimes her chest felt heavy for reasons she couldn't explain.

She blamed stress, the weather, poor sleep, even Iqbal.

Until one morning, rhe day began normally enough, she was flowing along the daily chores. Breakfast, laundry, laiba's tutors.

Then she stood up from the living room sofa and the world suddenly tilted hard.

The room spun, a sharp wave of dizziness swept through her.

For one terrifying moment, her lungs seemed to forget how to work, she grabbed the edge of a nearby table before anyone noticed, the feeling passed after several seconds. Just enough for her to hide it.

"Ammi?"

Laiba looked up from her colouring book.

"You okay?"

Y/N smiled, the same smile mothers had been using to lie to their children for generations.

"Just stood up too fast."

Laiba accepted the explanation immediately.

Y/N hated herself a little for being relieved.

That evening, after ensuring Laiba was occupied with her evening tutors and the household had settled into its usual rhythm, she quietly asked Bashir chacha to drop her at a clinic.

"Should I inform Major sahab?"

"No."

The answer came faster than intended.

Bashir chacha looked surprised, Y/N softened immediately.

"It's probably nothing."

And she genuinely believed that, at least at first.

The first doctor ordered tests, the tests led to more tests, blood work, scans, sppointments.

Weeks passed that way.

Y/N attended every appointment alone now, making excuses to Bashir chacha who insisted on dropping her off to whereever she was going every Thursday evening.

Y/N made an excuse everytime.

Each visit to the clinic chipped away at her certainty that everything was fine.

Until finally, one rainy afternoon she sat across from a pulmonologist whose expression told her the truth before he ever spoke.

People wore that expression when delivering bad news and the words that followed felt strangely distant.

Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis, scarring of the lungs. Progressive. Irreversible.

Terminal.

Only management, only time, and only waiting until death eventually took her.

The doctor's voice continued, telling her about possible treatment options, lifestyle changes, expected progression.

Y/N heard very little after that.

The room suddenly felt too small.

Too quiet. Too unreal.

Because moments ago she had been worried about a cheating husband.

Now she was being told she was dying.

And somehow,

the betrayal no longer felt like the worst thing that had happened to her.

When she finally stepped inside the Iqbal residence, dinner preparations were already underway.

Voices drifted from the kitchen, the smell of spices filled the air.

Laiba's laughter echoed somewhere upstairs.

Y/N paused briefly near the front door.

Then carefully wiped her face, straightened her dupatta, locked the medical reports inside her handbag.

And walked inside smiling.

Nobody noticed anything unusual and for the first time in her life, Y/N carried something entirely alone.

By the time she lay down that night, one truth had become painfully clear.

She had spent years mourning a marriage.

Years mourning a husband who no longer loved her.

But standing face to face with death had a way of rearranging priorities.

Suddenly, she found she no longer cared about being chosen, no longer cared about being loved, no longer cared about winning her husband back.

All that mattered now was one thing.

Laiba.

Whatever time she had left,

every second of it would belong to her light, her daughter.

---

For the first few weeks after her diagnosis, nothing appeared different.

At least not from the outside.

The house still woke to the smell of tea and fresh rotis, the staff still came to her with problems that somehow only Begum Sahiba could solve, Laiba still forgot where she left her notebooks, and Iqbal still came and went like a visitor instead of a husband.

Life carried on and nobody knew of Y/N's life leaving with each breath she took.

That was the remarkable thing, nobody knew, not Laiba, not the staff, not her friends, not even Iqbal.

The knowledge belonged solely to her.

And perhaps that was why she found herself becoming oddly calm.

The affair no longer haunted her the way it once had.

It still hurt sometimes terribly, there were nights when she stared at the ceiling and remembered the image of Iqbal kissing another woman, there were mornings when she caught herself wondering whether he had ever loved that woman the way he once loved her.

But those thoughts never lasted very long anymore because there was always a more pressing one waiting.

Laiba.

Everything came back to Laiba, every fear, every prayer, every plan.

Who would remind her to take breaks when she became obsessed with astronomy?

Who would know that thunderstorms overwhelmed her?

Who would understand that certain fabrics made her uncomfortable?

Who would sit beside her through meltdowns?

Who would love her enough?

The question followed Y/N everywhere.

And eventually, without realizing it, she began preparing.

The first thing to go was her jewelry.

Not all at once, gradually one piece at a time.

One afternoon, she was helping Ruksana fold clothes when the younger woman paused.

"These are beautiful, begum sahiba."

Y/N glanced up.

Ruksana was admiring an old pair of gold jhumkas that were a wedding gift from her mother.

She hadn't worn them in years.

Without hesitation, Y/N removed them from the box.

"Take them."

Ruksana blinked.

"What?"

"Take them."

The help immediately looked horrified.

"No, absolutely not."

"They'll look better on you."

"Begum sahiba!"

"I'm serious."

The argument continued for nearly ten minutes. And In the end, Ruksana left the room carrying the earrings and looking deeply uncomfortable about it.

Y/N watched her go with a small smile.

The smile faded almost immediately, not because she regretted giving them away.

Because she remembered why she was doing it.

After that, it became a habit.

A shawl to one person, a handbag to another, books she had collected over years, designer scarves, expnsive perfumes, inported tea sets, decorations.

Anything and everything.

God help the poor soul who casually mentioned liking something.

Because there was a frighteningly high chance they would leave the house carrying it.

"Bhabhi, your bracelet is gorgeous."

"Keep it."

"No, no, I was only saying—"

"Then say thank you."

People laughed, people protested, people eventually accepted it.

Nobody questioned it for very long because generosity had always been part of Y/N's nature, this simply seemed like an extension of that.

Only Y/N understood the truth.

Every object leaving the house was one less thing she would leave behind to collect dust.

One less memory for somebody else to sort through after she was gone.

Meanwhile, Laiba remained blissfully unaware, perhaps because Y/N worked very hard to keep it that way.

Movie nights became more frequent.

Astronomy discussions became longer.

Afternoons were spent baking together despite the fact that neither of them was particularly good at it.

The kitchen staff had learned to expect disaster whenever mother and daughter decided to cook.

Still, nobody complained.

The laughter was worth cleaning up afterward.

One evening, Y/N sat beside Laiba in the garden while the girl enthusiastically pointed toward the sky.

"There."

Y/N squinted.

"I don't see anything."

"The star, sirius!."

"There are millions of stars."

"No, that one, the shiny one."

"Laiba, that doesn't help, all of them are shiny."

The teenager groaned dramatically.

"You're impossible."

"And yet you love me."

Laiba immediately leaned sideways until her head rested against Y/N's shoulder.

"Obviously."

The answer came so quickly that tears nearly formed in Y/N's eyes.

She looked away before her daughter could notice.

Because how did one prepare for leaving behind someone who loved you so easily?

How did one prepare them?

That question haunted her more than death ever could.

So she began introducing the idea carefully.

"What would you do if I went somewhere for a while?"

Laiba looked genuinely alarmed.

"Where?"

"I don't know."

"Then don't go."

Y/N laughed softly.

"Life doesn't work like that."

"Then life is stupid."

The answer was immediate.

Y/N kissed the top of her head.

And later that night cried alone in the bathroom.

Because every attempt ended like this.

Every attempt hurt.

Yet she continued, because she had to.

Because there would come a day when Laiba woke up and Y/N wouldn't be there.

And that reality terrified her more than her own death ever would.

---

A month passed and then another.

The coughing worsened, the breathlessness worsened, some days climbing stairs felt like running a marathon.

Still she told no one.

Still she smiled.

Still she carried on.

Until one evening, Iqbal came home early.

So early, in fact, that several members of the staff looked surprised to see him.

The sun hadn't even fully set.

Laiba was upstairs with her tutor.

The house was unusually quiet.

And Y/N sat alone in the library speaking on the phone.

"...I'm serious."

Her friend's voice crackled through the speaker,

"You need to leave him."

Y/N sighed. The conversation had become familiar lately, ever since she admitted she had seen Iqbal with another woman, ever since she finally stopped pretending everything was fine.

"He has a girlfriend, Y/N."

"I know."

"Then why are you still there?"

Y/N looked out the window.

The gardens stretched peacefully below.

Somewhere upstairs, Laiba's voice drifted faintly through the floorboards.

The sound softened something inside her.

"I have Laiba."

"You can fight for custody."

The suggestion almost made her laugh.

Fight Major Iqbal? For a child he adored perhaps more than anthing and anyone here?

No.

That wasn't a battle she would ever win.

Nor was it one she wanted Laiba caught in.

"I'll leave."

Her friend immediately sounded relieved.

"Good."

Y/N smiled a sad little smile, the kind nobody could see through a phone.

"Just...a few more months."

Outside the library, footsteps stopped.

Iqbal had just entered the hallway quietly moving towards their bedroom, but the words caught his attention immediately.

A few more months?

His frown deepened.

Inside the room, Y/N continued speaking quietly.

"I just need enough time."

Enough time.

The phrase lingered strangely.

Enough time for what?

To gather courage? To arrange a separation? To finally leave?

Iqbal wasn't sure.

And ultimately, he didn't care enough to ask.

After a moment, he simply continued walking.

The conversation forgotten almost immediately.

Meanwhile, Y/N remained seated by the window long after the call ended.

One hand resting lightly against her chest.

The familiar ache was there.

A few more months.

Nobody knew what those words truly meant, nobody knew she had already begun measuring her life in months instead of years.

---

The next week, Y/N was in the main living room with Ruksana and Bashir chacha, arguing over something pointless as they always did on lazy evenings.

The sound of the front gates opening barely registered in their minds,

Cars came and went constantly from the mansion, deliveries, visitors, business associates.

Nobody paid much attention, it was normal.

Until the front door opened, Y/N looked up and so did everyone else.

And suddenly the laughter died.

Iqbal stood in the foyer, beside him stood a woman.

Dressed head to toe in a bridal attire.

For a second, nobody moved, nobody breathed.

The entire room seemed frozen.

Y/N's gaze shifted from the woman to Iqbal.

Then to their joined hands.

And finally to the wedding ring glittering on the woman's finger.

Understanding settled over the room all at once.

Ruksana went white, one of the younger help dropped the tray she was carrying.

The crash echoed through the silence.

Nobody even looked at it.

Everyone was staring at Iqbal, and at the woman beside him.

At the audacity of bringing her here, into this house, into their begum sahiba's house, into Y/N's house.

Iqbal's expression remained unreadable.

Calm and cntrolled as always.

Finally, he spoke.

"This is Ayesha."

His voice cut cleanly through the silence.

No one answered, no one greeted her, no one even blinked.

Iqbal continued.

"She is my wife."

The words landed like a slap.

Around the room, several faces visibly hardened.

Bashir chacha's jaw tightened, Ruksana looked one sentence away from unemployment or death.

The younger helpers stared at Ayesha as though she had personally committed a crime. In their mind they had.

Nobody in the house was unaware of what Major Iqbal was capable of, they knew exactly what happened to people who crossed him.

Yet for one dangerous moment, several of them looked ready to do it anyway.

All because of Y/N.

Because everybody in this house loved her.

And everybody knew she deserved better than this.

The silence stretched.

Iqbal's eyes eventually found Y/N.

Perhaps he expected tears or anger or even humiliation.

Instead, Y/N simply stepped forward.

The movement startled everyone.

Including him.

She stopped in front of Ayesha.

The younger woman looked terrified, like someone awaiting judgment.

Y/N offered a small smile, the same smile she offered guests and strangers.

"Assalamualaikum."

Ayesha blinked and then quickly returned it.

"Walaikum assalam."

Y/N nodded.

Then turned toward the staff.

"Why is everyone standing around?"

Nobody moved.

"Tea should be prepared."

Still nobody moved.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, and immediately the room exploded back into motion.

People scattered, though several looked deeply unhappy about it.

Only then did she look back at Ayesha.

"Come."

The younger woman hesitated before following her.

Y/N led her upstairs.

Neither woman spoke.

Behind them, the house remained eerily quiet.

Word had already begun spreading.

By the time they reached the second floor, every staff in the residence probably knew what had happened.

Y/N stopped outside the master bedroom.

Her bedroom Or what used to be her bedroom even the night before. For eleven years.

She pushed the door open,

Sunlight spilled across polished floors.

The large bed sat exactly where it always had.

Ayesha stared at the room.

Y/N stepped aside.

"You'll stay here."

The younger woman's eyes widened.

"What?"

"You'll stay here."

Y/N continued,

"The staff will move my belongings to one of the guest rooms. They'll also bring your things upstairs."

The younger woman looked moments away from crying.

Y/N felt oddly detached from it all.

As though she were watching somebody else's life unfold.

Maybe because, in a way, she was.

The life she had built with Iqbal had ended long before today.

Today was simply the first day everyone else could see it.

She turned toward the door.

Then paused.

Without looking back, she spoke softly.

"If you need anything, ask Ruksana."

Ayesha swallowed.

"Why are you being kind to me?"

For the first time, Y/N's smile faltered.

Just slightly.

Because the answer was complicated.

Because anger required energy she no longer possessed.

Because she had bigger things to worry about than a husband who stopped loving her.

Because every day she woke up knowing she had fewer of them left.

Instead she simply said,

"Get settled."

Then she walked away.

Leaving the room.

Leaving her marriage.

And, though nobody knew it yet,

slowly beginning to leave everything else behind too.

---

The first few days after Ayesha's arrival were awkward for everyone, except Y/N.

The staff took it personally.

Ruksana refused to make eye contact with Iqbal unless absolutely necessary,

Bashir chacha's replies became painfully short, the kitchen staff lowered their voices whenever Major Sahab or choti begum shiba entered a room.

Nobody openly disrespected them, nobody was foolish enough for that.

But the warmth that once existed was gone.

And everyone knew why.

The strange thing was that Ayesha seemed just as uncomfortable.

She kept trying to help, trying to fit in, trying to speak to the staff.

Most attempts ended with polite responses and quick exits.

Not because they hated her, because loving Y/N made loyalty feel complicated.

Ayesha seemed to understand that, she never complained, never demanded respect, never acted entitled.

Instead she quietly endured the discomfort.

Which made disliking her increasingly difficult, for Y/N especially.

Because she watched.

And the more she watched, the harder it became to blame the girl.

Ayesha was not cruel, not arrogant, not malicious.

She looked guilty more often than happy.

Like someone who had gotten everything she wanted and somehow still felt bad about it.

The apology finally came a week later.

Y/N was sitting in the garden sorting through old books.

The pile beside her had grown considerably over the last month.

Some were destined for charity.

Some for the staff.

Some for Laiba.

All of them were part of a future Y/N no longer expected to see.

She heard footsteps approaching.

Y/N didn't look up but she could recognise the nervous footsteps pretty easily now, Ayesha.

The younger woman stopped nearby.

Neither spoke immediately, and the silence stretched.

Then, "I'm sorry."

The words were so quiet they almost disappeared into the wind.

Y/N closed her book.

Ayesha looked miserable, eyes red, hands twisting together in her dupatta.

For a moment, Y/N saw not the woman who married her husband.

Just a girl, A frightened girl carrying far more guilt than she knew what to do with.

"For taking him from you."

There it was.

The thing everyone had been avoiding.

The thing hanging over the house like a storm cloud.

Y/N studied her for several seconds.

Then smiled.

"He was never mine to begin with."

Ayesha's eyes immediately filled.

"No."

"Yes."

Y/N looked away.

Toward the flower beds.

Toward the afternoon sun.

Toward anything except the pity on Ayesha's face.

"I lost him years ago."

The words felt strangely easy to say.

Because they were true.

People thought marriages ended dramatically with explosions, arguments, betrayals.

But most didn't.

Most ended quietly in missed dinners, unasked questions, empty beds and forgotten anniversaries.

By the time another woman appeared, the marriage was often already dead.

Ayesha began crying.

Which honestly felt unfair.

Y/N should have been the one crying.

Yet somehow she found herself comforting the woman who married her husband.

Life was absurd sometimes.

After that conversation, things changed grafually.

Almost without anyone noticing.

Ayesha started joining Y/N during afternoon tea, sometimes they spoke.

Sometimes they didn't.

Neither seemed to mind.

The younger woman listened more than she talked.

Y/N appreciated that.

One afternoon she learned Ayesha liked astronomy.

The information lodged itself somewhere in her mind.

Two days later, she casually mentioned it during dinner.

"Laiba."

The teenager looked up.

"Hm?"

"Ayesha likes astronomy too."

Laiba immediately narrowed her eyes.

Suspicious.

Protective.

Very fourteen years old.

"No she doesn't."

Ayesha looked startled.

"I do."

"No you don't."

"I do."

"Name three planets."

Ayesha blinked then obediently named five.

Laiba looked genuinely offended.

Y/N nearly laughed into her tea.

That was the beginning.

After that came small things.

Tiny moments.

Little bridges built one day at a time.

"Show Ayesha your telescope."

"Tell Ayesha about your project."

"Ayesha knows how to make kheer."

"Ayesha likes documentaries too."

At first Laiba resisted every attempt, not aggressively. She wasnt capable of aggresion. Just stubbornly.

The way special needs children resisted change.

But Ayesha never forced anything, never demanded affection, never tried replacing anyone, She simply showed up.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Patient. Consistent. Kind.

Eventually Laiba responded.

The first time Y/N heard laughter coming from the study and discovered Ayesha and Laiba sitting together over an astronomy documentary, she quietly backed out before either noticed her.

Then stood in the hallway crying.

Not because it hurt, because it didn't.

That was the shocking part.

It felt like relief. Pure relief.

For months she had been terrified.

Terrified of leaving Laiba alone.

Terrified of what would happen afterward.

Terrified that nobody would understand her daughter the way she did.

Now, for the first time, she could imagine a future where Laiba might be okay.

The realization settled something restless inside her.

And once it did,

Y/N began withdrawing.

She started excusing herself when Laiba asked to spend time with her and instead directed her to Ayesha.

Soon it became normal.

Laiba watched documentaries with Ayesha, had tea with Ayesha, went shopping with Ayesha.

And Y/N found herself watching from a distance.

Like someone slowly fading from a photograph.

One evening, she took things a step further.

Dinner had just ended.

Laiba and Ayesha were arguing over something involving Jupiter.

The debate sounded absurd.

Y/N smiled.

Then looked directly at her daughter.

"Stop calling her Choti Ammi."

The room immediately fell silent.

Laiba blinked.

Ayesha froze.

Even Iqbal looked up.

"What?"

Y/N's smile remained gentle.

"Call her Ammi."

Ayesha looked horrified.

"No—"

"There is enough room."

The younger woman's eyes immediately filled.

Laiba looked confused.

"But you're Ammi."

The words nearly shattered Y/N.

Still, she smiled.

Always smiling.

"Yes."

"Then she's Choti Ammi."

Y/N reached over and tucked a curl behind her daughter's ear.

After that evening she started easing the idea gently into Laiba's life.

Enough that when the truth finally came out, it would hurt them a little less.

Or at least that was what she hoped.

Unfortunately, fate had never cared much about her plans.

And somewhere inside the house, hidden beneath neatly folded clothes in a wardrobe nobody ever opened, a brown medical file was waiting patiently to be found.

---

Winter settled over the Iqbal residence quietly, the gardens were still beautiful, the staff still bustled through the halls.

Laiba still filled every room she entered with noise.

Life continued.

At least on the surface.

Beneath it, however, something was changing,

Y/N was disappearing, little pieces at a time.

She spent more time in her room or the garden, more afternoons resting,

More evenings sitting alone by the window watching the stars above.

Nobody questioned it much.

After all, everyone believed they understood why.

A woman whose husband had married again would naturally become quieter.

More withdrawn, more distant.

Even Iqbal assumed as much.

Whenever he noticed her absence from dinner, he attributed it to resentment.

Whenever he noticed her exhaustion, he blamed sadness.

Whenever he heard her coughing behind closed doors, he barely thought about it at all.

The truth never crossed his mind.

Because it never occurred to him that Y/N might be carrying something far heavier than heartbreak.

And Y/N never corrected him.

The discovery happened on an ordinary afternoon, Iqbal had been looking for some property documents.

Nothing important or memorable.

One of his associates needed copies of paperwork and Bashir chacha had informed him the files might have been moved during a recent reorganization.

So Iqbal searched his study first, then his office, then several cupboards upstairs.

Eventually he entered the guest room,

Y/N's room, the room she had moved into after Ayesha arrived.

The room he rarely entered, the room he had absolutely no reason to enter.

Until today.

The wardrobe was neatly arranged.

Of course it was.

Everything belonging to Y/N was always neat,

Iqbal moved a stack of folded shawls aside.

A brown file slipped free and hit the floor.

Papers spilled everywhere.

Annoyed, he bent to gather them.

Then froze, at first he didn't understand what he was looking at.

Hospital documents, medical reports, prescriptions, scan results, appointment records.

His frown deepened,

Slowly, he began reading.

One page. Then another. Then another.

The room became very quiet.

'Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis.'

The unfamiliar medical term appeared repeatedly. Progressive. Irreversible.

Terminal. The words blurred.

For a moment, Iqbal genuinely thought he was misunderstanding something.

This had to belong to somebody else.

Some mistake. Some error.

Because Y/N couldn't possibly—

No. Impossible.

His eyes jumped to the dates.

The earliest report was 9 months old.

9 Months.

His hands began trembling.

The realization arrived slowly and cruelly, like a knife being pushed deeper and deeper.

The coughing, the fainting spells, the exhaustion, the sudden extreme generosity, the way she kept giving her most prized possessions away, the way she encouraged Ayesha and Laiba to grow closer, the way she kept talking about the future without ever including herself in it.

The conversation he overheard.

'Just a few more months.'

The sentence slammed into him with horrifying clarity.

She hadn't been talking about leaving him.

She had been talking about dying, the file slipped from his hands.

This time he didn't pick it up.

He found her in the garden.

It was where she always went lately, the winter sunlight painted everything gold.

The flowers swayed gently in the breeze.

And Y/N sat beneath them looking strangely small.

For the first time, Iqbal noticed it.

The weight loss, the paleness, the exhaustion hidden beneath her smile.

How had he never noticed?

Or worse...Had he noticed and simply chosen not to look?

Y/N lifted her head.

Saw the look in his eyes and immediately understood that he knows.

A tiny smile touched her lips, not surprised, not frightened just resigned.

"You found it."

Four simple words.

Iqbal felt something inside his chest crack.

The pain unfolded, layer by layer, mistake by mistake, year by year.

"How long?"

His voice sounded wrong.

Hoarse and unsteady.

Y/N looked down at her hands.

"A while."

"A while?"

The words escaped harsher than intended.

She nodded.

Silently.

And suddenly Iqbal understood something awful.

She had gone through all of it alone.

Every appointment. Every test. Every diagnosis. Every terrifying conversation.

Alone.

While he was busy building another life.

While he was busy falling in love with someone else.

While he was busy convincing himself Y/N simply didn't care anymore.

A sickness spread through him.

Not grief, not yet but guilt.

The kind that clawed at your ribs, the kind that made breathing difficult, the kind that arrived when it was already too late.

"You should've told me."

Y/N laughed softly, a tired sound.

Almost affectionate.

"What would've changed, Iqbal?"

He opened his mouth, nothing came out.

Because he didn't know.

Maybe everything, maybe nothing.

Maybe he would've stayed, maybe he would've loved her properly again, maybe he would've spent her final months beside her instead of somebody else.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

The word was useless now.

The future had already happened, and there was no undoing it.

For the first time in years, Major Iqbal cried that night.

And for the first time in years, he understood exactly what he had lost.

Not his wife, not yet.

Something much worse.

The chance to love her.

And by the time he finally realized it,

there wasn't enough time left to try.

---

Major Iqbal did not sleep that night.

The reports remained spread across his desk long after midnight.

Every page felt like punishment.

Every date another reminder that while Y/N had been learning how little time she had left, he had been somewhere else.

By dawn, his eyes burned from exhaustion.

For the first time in years, his path seemed clear. No more distance,no more coldness, no more excuses.

Whatever time she had left, he would spend it beside her.

He would love her the way she deserved to be loved.

Not because she was dying, because he should have done it years ago.

The realization came far too late.

But it had come and he intended to spend every remaining day proving it.

As the first rays of sunlight spilled through the windows, Iqbal made his way toward Y/N's room.

For once, he wasn't carrying work, wasn't thinking about leaving, wasn't thinking about anything except her.

He would apologize, he would sit with her, maybe have breakfast together, maybe talk. Really talk.

Perhaps for the first time in years.

A small smile touched his face as he pushed the door open.

"Y/N—"

The word died in his throat.

The room was quiet, too quiet.

Y/N lay exactly where she had gone to sleep the night before, blankets neatly tucked around her.

One hand resting atop them, A faint smile still lingering on her lips.

As though she had fallen asleep thinking of something beautiful.

For one foolish second, he thought she was still sleeping.

Then he noticed she wasn't breathing.

The world stopped for him.

"No."

The whisper escaped before he realized it.

His feet carried him forward.

His hand found hers.

Cold enough to tell him the truth he was having a hard time believing.

Somewhere during the night, while he sat downstairs in his study, making promises to a future he thought they still had,

Y/N had slipped away peacefully.

Without waking anyone.

Iqbal sank beside the bed, his fingers wrapped around hers, his forehead pressed against her hand.

And for the first time, he understood the true weight of regret.

Because after years of not choosing her,

he finally had.

And she hadn't lived long enough to see it.

Outside, the sun continued rising.

Inside, the heart of the Iqbal residence had stopped beating.

And this time, there would be no second chance.

Taglist: @laal-pari @warnermeadowsgirl @scentedwolfdragon @miwagonemad @pleasetagmejaaneman @pn28 @desibaddies @harrystyleskiwi9 @withlovemii @avasif @anxiousbeeing @goodnightkatherine @istilldonotslay @gehra-hua @forbiddenfanaa @cloudmast @bobcuts-blog @niyadarealart @mylifesalreadyfucked @gulaabjamun08 @manjari08 @forbiddenfanaa @dollie1111xo5 @iamadelusionalwriter @goldenharrysworld @debsreads21 @theuselessdaydreamingidiot @writrsblu @chai-aur-chaand @miraclejin1204 @mainyahaankyunhoon @precioussophia @rosiasthings @dhurandhar-archives @hamzair-is-my-otp @royaldreamermonsoon @between-smoke-and-roses @lavenderwinkle @sarcastic-ravenpuff @qalamband @rhymeskiii @granddynamonovajbvgjjj @sugarvibez @akshayes @rosesandpeoniesthings @bxtchyrose @alpineforeverr @iatedonuts @prettylady2006 @obsessedwidskincare

[whyishekinda]

Di, will you write for sp aslam? Like an sp aslam x reader?🤭 or even the other characters? Like Jameel? Or Sushant Bansal and Ajay Sanyal?😶‍🌫️

SP ASLAM? Okay, I can see the appeal i guess. But JAMEEL JAMALI?!?!?🤚🏼😭 I am not judging but-(okay no I am judging a little🤏🏼) you do you behen, but I don't think I'll ever write for Jameel sahab of all people😭.

And Sushant Bansal as well as Ajay Sanyal are such good characters, I wish I could write for them. But I don't think I have enough skills to interpret their characters that well to write a fic. But there's some good sushant bansal and Ajay sanyal fics out there. I'll tag the authors for you to check out. ( @goodasaysboo @baddiefication101 @mannkimansi @s4nzt @tere-naal-nachna )

(PS. If any of you write for Sanyal or Bansal, please tag me😋)

[whyishekinda]

Dhramvir ki Dharampatni needs a fic of its own coz with nobody writes about Dharamvir singh bhan😭

(I lowkey love this poster so much lol.)

Akshaye looked delicious in Border(that one 🥭 scene-🤤🤤🤤)

And yes Dharamvir needs his own fic, I think there are some fics out there on him already, but ofc not enough for us Dharamvir paglu girlies😔 (if someone writes a fic on him, pls tag me.😭)

[whyishekinda]

Hellooo this is the first every time i am sending an ask i just wanted to say that you are so incredibly talented like- i am speechless and i just wanted to ask if you will continue the newest fic you dropped 'The Act' cuz its soo gud like i am hooked luv yaaa <3

I will babe! The part 2 is already out, go read it here. And thank you so so much for all the kind words!

[whyishekinda]

Lyari Ki Mehmaan

(Rehman Dakait x Y/N)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and in no way is intended to glorify the real life people or the events linked with them.

This is a scheduled post. If I do not reply to comments ots because I am offline.

Y/N has only heard of Lyari in hushed whispers and in corners of newspapers where anything mentioned was highly regulated by the government. Nobody truly knew what was going on in the town of Lyari unless they lived there.

So naturally, when the wedding invite of a former classmate came from Lyari, Y/N RSVPed to attend it.

Thats exactly the moment her future was being rewritten.

---

The wedding hall looked less like a place meant for celebration and more like a place expecting war.

YN noticed it the moment she stepped inside.

Men with weapons stationed near exits. Men near the staircase. Men pretending to casually stand around while very obviously scanning every face entering the venue. Even the rooftop of the banquet hall had silhouettes moving across it every few minutes.

It made absolutely no sense to her.

This was supposed to be a wedding.

Not a military operation.

The women around her barely reacted to it, though. They adjusted their dupattas, fixed jewelry, exchanged gossip over plates of biryani as if armed guards every ten feet was a completely normal wedding decoration.

YN sat beside the bride's cousin, staring openly at one particularly intimidating man near the entrance.

“Why does your family wedding need snipers?” she muttered.

The cousin nearly inhaled her drink. “Shh.”

“I’m serious. Are you people expecting an invasion?”

“No,” the bride's cousin said vaguely, refusing to elaborate.

That only made YN more suspicious.

The hall itself was beautiful in a loud, overwhelming sort of way. Gold drapes hanging from the ceiling. Chandeliers throwing warm light over hundreds of guests. Music playing too loudly through giant speakers. Children running around under tables while aunties yelled after them.

And still, underneath all of it there was tension.

Like everybody was waiting for something.

Then the hall shifted, conversations softened, the men near the entrance straightened instantly, Several armed guards moved at once, clearing a path through the center of the hall.

Someone important must have arrived.

YN looked up immediately.

And then she saw him.

Well, not him.

She saw Uzair.

Tall. Broad shouldered. Built like a wall. Dressed in black with the kind of intimidating presence that made entire groups instinctively move aside for him. He walked through the crowd with calm confidence while armed men surrounded him.

Now that made sense.

“That has to be the Dakait guy,” YN whispered to herself, of course people would fear someone who looked like that.

She barely spared a glance at the shorter man walking beside him.

Smaller frame. Lean. Almost unimpressive next to Uzair’s size. Quiet-looking. Hands in his pockets. Black shawl hanging over one shoulder.

He didn’t look dangerous, despite the confidence.

In fact, half the time people moved aside for Uzair, she assumed the smaller man was simply benefiting from walking next to him.

YN’s attention drifted away quickly after that.

The party resumed. Music grew louder again. Glasses clinked. Someone started dancing in the men’s section while elderly relatives pretended to disapprove despite clearly enjoying it.

But after nearly an hour, the noise began clawing at Y/N's nerves.

Too many people. Too much perfume.

Too much heat. Too many guns.

She quietly slipped away from the women’s section before another aunt could stop her to ask “when are you getting married beta?”

The back corridor leading outside was blissfully quieter.

Cool night air hit her face the second she stepped out behind the venue.

She exhaled deeply. Finally.

The sounds from the wedding became muffled outside, just distant music now, distant laughter. Somewhere nearby, motorcycles roared through the streets of Lyari.

YN wandered a little farther toward the side wall of the venue.

And that was when she noticed him.

The smaller man from earlier.

He sat alone near the boundary wall, slightly away from the venue lights, one elbow resting against his knee. A cigarette burned quietly between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the night air.

Without the crowd around him, he looked…strangely ordinary. The weirdly confident aura not entirely gone, but it has dimmed to something much softer.

Like someone escaping the noise for a moment just like her.

He glanced up briefly when he heard footsteps but didn’t seem alarmed by her presence.

Y/N nodded awkwardly before looking away, giving him space.

And then, her instincts sharpened.

Two men were approaching from the darker side of the alley beside the venue.

Too fast to be casual, their movements immediately felt wrong,Y/N frowned.

The seated man still hadn’t noticed them.

Or maybe he had and simply didn’t care.

Either way, the two approaching men definitely did not look friendly.

One of them had his hand inside his shawl.

Her body reacted before her brain did.

She yanked off one slipper, then another.

And before anyone could comprehend what was happening—THWACK.

The first slipper smacked directly into one attacker’s face.

The man staggered backward in complete shock.

“What the—?!”

The seated man startled violently, stands up and freezes at the scene.

But Y/N was already sprinting, full speed.

Second slipper raised like a weapon.

“You think I can’t SEE you?!” she yelled.

The second man barely had time to react or even raised the gun before she slammed the slipper straight across his cheek with enough force to genuinely stun him. The entire scene became absurd chaos instantly.

One attacker cursed loudly while trying to regain balance from the unexpected attack.

Y/N, fueled entirely by instinct and misplaced bravery, attacked again before either man could recover.

“You shady-looking idiots!”

Another hit. Another yell.

The smaller man—Rehman—stood frozen for half a second in utter disbelief, because in all his years; through ambushes, gang wars, blood feuds, assassination attempts—

nobody had ever reacted like this.

Nobody had ever thrown themselves between danger and him.

People hid behind Rehman Dakait.

People begged him for protection.

People feared him.

But this girl,

this random girl at a wedding had just launched herself into a fight armed with sandals.

The commotion alerted his men stationed a little away from the perimeter.

Everything exploded into motion afterward.

Men rushed forward instantly, weapons drawn.

The two attackers were grabbed immediately before they could even think of retaliating properly by the men.

One of Rehman’s men immediately pulled Y/N backward protectively.

“Baji, side pe ho jaiye!”

“Leave me—!” she snapped, still trying to swing her remaining slipper threateningly.

Rehman finally moved then.

Still staring at her. Still looking almost stunned.

“Don’t push her away,” he said quietly.

The men immediately loosened their hold.

The night suddenly became very still.

The attackers were dragged elsewhere. The men spread out again rapidly, checking the perimeter.

But Rehman’s attention remained entirely on her.

Up close, he looked younger than she expected. Sharper somehow. Calm in a way that didn’t match the violence surrounding him.

He glanced at the slipper still clutched in her hand, then back at her face.

And for the first time in years—

Rehman Dakait looked genuinely speechless.

YN awkwardly lowered the slipper.

“…Sorry. I thought they were about to jump you.”

A slow smile appeared on his face.

Small at first, then warmer.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

His voice surprised her too. She had expected something rougher.

“You’re welcome?”

For some reason, that made his smile widen.

“What’s your name?”

She told him.

He repeated it quietly like he was committing it to memory.

Then she frowned slightly. “What even was that?”

“What?”

“Those men.”

He looked away briefly toward where his men took the two assailants.

“Some people don’t like me very much.”

Y/N blinked at that.

Which was ridiculous, honestly.

Because he seemed perfectly nice.

Polite. Calm. Soft spoken even.

She tilted her head. “Why?”

That actually made him laugh under his breath. A real laugh.

“Lyari is complicated.”

“Well, I think you seem nice,” she said matter of factly. “So they’re probably just weird.”

Something in his expression shifted at that. Rehman looked at her like she had unknowingly handed him the moon.

“You shouldn’t attack armed men with slippers,” he murmured.

“You shouldn’t sit alone in dark alleys if people are trying to kill you.”

That made him stare at her for another long second.

Then he smiled again.

They spoke for a little while longer after that.

Nothing extraordinary.

Just simple conversation.

She told him she was from northern Pakistan and was only here for her friend's wedding. He listened carefully to everything she said like every word mattered.

Meanwhile, Y/N remained deeply confused about why someone so gentle-looking required this much security.

She simply concluded Lyari was apparently insane.

Eventually one of Rehman’s men approached hurriedly with a phone.

“Bhai.”

The atmosphere shifted instantly again.

Rehman took the phone, expression cooling slightly as he answered.

Business.

Whatever world he truly belonged to returning again.

YN awkwardly stepped back. “I should probably go inside.”

He looked at her immediately despite being mid conversation.

For one brief second, annoyance flickered across his face at being interrupted.

Then he nodded.

“I’ll see you again.”

She smiled casually, not realizing how serious he meant it.

“Sure.”

And then she walked back inside.

The second Y/N returned to the women’s section, her friend grabbed her arm.

“WHERE WERE YOU?!”

“Outside.”

“Outside WHERE?”

“Outside outside?”

Her friend looked seconds away from cardiac arrest.

And then she noticed several armed men subtly watching Y/N from different corners of the hall now.

Her face drained of color instantly.

“…What did you do?”

Y/N frowned. “Nothing?”

“You did something.”

“I literally just talked to some guy named Rehman because two weird men tried attacking him and—”

Her friend went completely silent.

Slowly—

very slowly—

she said, “You talked to who?”

“The smaller guy outside? Nice guy. Kind of mysterious. Apparently people try killing him sometimes which feels dramatic but—”

“Y/N.”

“What?”

“That was Rehman Dakait.”

Silence.

YN stared blankly.

“No it wasn’t.”

“Yes it was.”

“No, Rehman Dakait was the tall one.”

“That was Uzair.”

“…What?”

“The smaller one was Rehman.”

Y/N blinked slowly.

Then again.

Her cousin leaned closer, looking half horrified and half impressed.

“And judging by the way his men are keep an eye on you right now,” she whispered, “you’re probably going to be staying in Lyari for a while.”

Taglist: @laal-pari @warnermeadowsgirl @scentedwolfdragon @miwagonemad @pleasetagmejaaneman @pn28 @desibaddies @harrystyleskiwi9 @withlovemii @avasif @anxiousbeeing @goodnightkatherine @istilldonotslay @gehra-hua @forbiddenfanaa @cloudmast @bobcuts-blog @niyadarealart @mylifesalreadyfucked @gulaabjamun08 @manjari08 @forbiddenfanaa @dollie1111xo5 @iamadelusionalwriter @goldenharrysworld @debsreads21 @theuselessdaydreamingidiot @writrsblu @chai-aur-chaand @mainyahaankyunhoon @precioussophia @rosiasthings @dhurandhar-archives @hamzair-is-my-otp @royaldreamermonsoon @between-smoke-and-roses @lavenderwinkle @sarcastic-ravenpuff @qalamband @rhymeskiii @granddynamonovajbvgjjj @sugarvibez @akshayes @rosesandpeoniesthings @bxtchyrose @alpineforeverr

[whyishekinda]

Hey guys, as most of you already know, I am in charge of taking care of a wounded cat after his surgery. So I am going to be offline till 9th June.(that's when his stitches will be removed)

And hence I'll not be posting anything until then. I have a few stories sitting in my drafts, I'll schedule them and go offline tonight.

And yes, I will be working on Asrar-e-Ishq and the Act part 2 in the meantime.

Thank you for the patience and love.

-Ophelia

[whyishekinda]

Hi guys,

For those who missed my previous post, there is a stray cat(golu) in my locality who was severely injured and needed immediate medical assistance. I took him to the vets as soon as I could and they successfully performed the surgery on him. The whole cost of the treatment came around to be 16k, unfortunately I did not have the means to provide the financial aid he needed so I posted about it here. And the kind people of this community helped so much! They engaged with my post, reblogged for reach, and donated money. And the massive support I got from the people here is unbelievable. Within 2 days I have reached the goal amount needed for golu's medical care.

I am so so grateful to each and everyone of you, I have no idea how I'll ever be able to repay the kindness everyone has shown golu and me here. I love you guys. I hope all the goodness you spread goes back to you 10 fold!

This is him after the surgery. He is doing good now, stable and healing.

He is eating dry food and sleeping well, still throwing tantrums when I try to give him his oral meds tho. But that's not unusual behaviour from his end.

Anyway. This will be my last post about him. If anyone wants further update they can dm me.

Once again thank you so so much for all the help you guys. 🫂💕

[whyishekinda]

Hi guys, I wouldn't have shared this message here unless I was really desperate.

A stray cat in my area is severely injured and is in urgent need of medical care. I have hospitalised him as soon as I could but the post surgery cost is really high for me to afford. I am unemployed, and only have 2k inr that I have already used for him. Nobody is willing to help out and everyone keeps saying to just let him succumb to the injuries. I am thinking of taking a loan from a shopkeep here...but I would need to return the money. I don't know what I'll do. I am really anxious and scared rn. If you guys could help out or even share the donation link, it would mean the world to me.

Picture of the injured cat is attached below. See at your own discretion.

Surgery done:

(Update)

Using tags for reach.

@laal-pari @warnermeadowsgirl @scentedwolfdragon @miwagonemad @pleasetagmejaaneman @pn28 @desibaddies @harrystyleskiwi9 @withlovemii @avasif @anxiousbeeing @goodnightkatherine @istilldonotslay @gehra-hua @forbiddenfanaa @cloudmast @bobcuts-blog @niyadarealart @mylifesalreadyfucked @gulaabjamun08 @manjari08 @forbiddenfanaa @dollie1111xo5 @iamadelusionalwriter @goldenharrysworld @debsreads21 @theuselessdaydreamingidiot @writrsblu @chai-aur-chaand @mainyahaankyunhoon @precioussophia @rosiasthings @dhurandhar-archives @hamzair-is-my-otp @royaldreamermonsoon @between-smoke-and-roses @lavenderwinkle @sarcastic-ravenpuff @qalamband @rhymeskiii @granddynamonovajbvgjjj @sugarvibez @akshayes @rosesandpeoniesthings @roohafterdark @torumii @twinblueflamee @yearnerray @sparksfromhell @velvetdakait

[whyishekinda]

THE ACT🎬 Pt.2

Part 1

Based on this idea

Shout out to @royaldreamermonsoon for helping me witht the edits🥰(she did most of the work)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, none of the incidents and events described in the fiction is real. Also this contains teensy bit of Dhurandhar spoilers, so read at your own risk.

P.S. at this point, this has turned more into a fic than a smau😭😭😭 honestly I can't help it. Aur flow flow mein zyada hi likh diya hai. So yeah. 😭😭😭 Deal with it I guess.

The morning sun is barely through the curtains when Y/N Raina pours herself a cup of chai and settles onto her couch. She's in her pajamas and hair a mess, She opens Instagram like she does every morning before hitting the gym.

Scroll, double tap a few posts from her mutuals, roll her eyes at reels and move on. But today was different because a sudden notification made her stop. Aditya Dhar's post is right there on her feed, uploaded 2secs ago and right on cue a mention from the said man pinged across her screen.

The official posters of the movie releasing on 5th December, she smiled at her poster, but then she made the mistake of scrolling and saw the second poster. Akshaye Khanna as Rehman Dakait. AKSHAYE BLOODY KHANNA. And the vague caption: 😏, like what is that even supposed to mean?!?

Her chai getting cold in her hand as she stared at the screen in shock. She zoomed in on the poster once. Twice. Three times. The comments were already on fire — "OMG AK AND YN???" and "I'M CALLING MY MOTHER" and "THE ARE GOING TO PLAY HUSBAND AND WIFRE AFTER 17 YEARS I'M NOT OKAY." Y/N puts down her chai. She's not going to be able to drink it now.

-------------------------------------------------------

She calls Yami immediately. No hello, no good morning or how are you, just launching straight into it,

"Yami, I love you but I am not doing this."

There's a brief pause on the other end. Then Yami's voice, still thick with sleep, "Di? What are you—"

"Your HUSBAND. His post. The caption. The comments. I am not doing THIS."

Yami sighs. That long, patient sigh that only younger sisters (or sister adjacent friends) can muster. "Di... it's been seventeen years."

"I KNOW how long it's been."

"You're both professionals."

"Yami—"

"You signed the contract."

"Yes, but i didn't know HE was—"

"He didn't know either. Adi told me. He literally called me after Akshaye signed and said, and I quote, 'I've made a terrible mistake or a masterpiece. Time will tell.'"

Y/N wants to be angry, but she can't. Aditya's chaos is somehow endearing. It's why Yami married him.

"I can't do this," Y/N says again, but softer.

"You can. You've done films with actors you hated."

"I didn't hate them-"

"You told me you wanted to throw a chappal at Uday Chopra during Fareb."

"That was different. He kept humming some stupid tune while I was trying to do an emotional scene."

"Di." Yami's voice goes serious. "You are Y/N Raina. The Y/N Raina. You were the 90s girl crush. You rocked the early 2000s. You survived THE breakup when the entire country was picking sides. You can survive a movie with hardly 30 mins of your part."

Y/N doesn't say anything.

"Besides," Yami adds, "you haven't seen him in seventeen years. Maybe he's ugly now."

Despite herself, Y/N snorts. "He's not ugly."

"Oh? So you keeo tabs on him huh? And how do you know?"

"I... saw a photo once. At an award show. I wasn't looking. It was in the background."

"Sure it was."

"Shut up."

Yami laughs. "Just get through the script reading. One day at a time. And Di? Don't kill him. I need this film to release. Adi has put way too much money, time and our future child on this project"

Yami hangs up. Y/N stares at her phone Fir a long minute, then at the ceiling, then at her half finished chai. She's not sure she believes a word Yami said. But she doesn't have a choice.

-------------------------------------------------------

Aditya Dhar's office is not what people expect. It's a converted apartment in Lokhandwala, three bedrooms knocked into one large space, walls covered in posters of films, some of which Y/N was a part of, whiteboards filled with scribbled dialogue, and a coffee machine that hasn't been cleaned since 2022.

The long table in the center is covered in scripts. Dhurandhar scripts for todays reading, scene breakdowns, character sketches, color coded index cards taped to the edges. Water bottles line the center like soldiers.

Y/N arrives first. She stands in the doorway for a moment, taking it in. The room smells like paper and coffee and nervous energy.

She finds her seat. Her name card says Y/N RAINA in bold letters. She sits down, picks her script in front of her, and pretends to read it. She's not reading it. She's watched the door three times in the last two minutes.

She's not waiting for him. She's just... aware of the possibility of him entering the room any minute. Yeah, absolutely, she's just nervous because she hasn't seen this man since july of 2007, atleast that's what she tells herself.

-------------------------------------------------------

Then the door opens and one by one people start trickling in, first was Ranveer Singh arrives like a weather system; loud, energetic, and absolutely impossible to ignore. He's wearing something that can only be described as "art teacher meets rockstar." He hugs Aditya, then turns to Y/N.

"Y/N ji! I am your biggest fan. No, really. My mother named my sister after your character from your first movie!."

Y/N laughs. She likes him immediately.

Arjun Rampal arrives next, sipping on some green concoction, quiet. Cool. Sunglasses indoors. He nods at everyone, shakes a few hands, and immediately hugs Y/N and then takes a seat near the middle.

Danish Pandor comes in with a box of cookies. "I bake when I'm nervous. I was very nervous last night. There are seven types. Please take some so I don't eat them all myself." Y/N takes a sugar cookie and immediately decides, scratch Ranveer, this is her favourite person on set now.

Rakesh Bedi ji is on his phone when he walks in, mid conversation about a goat that wouldn't cooperate on a shoot in the 80s. He hangs up, looks around the room, and immediately starts telling the goat story to anyone within earshot.

Sanjay Dutt enters last, the room goes quiet. Not because anyone is scared, Sanjay has a gentle energy these days but because it's Sanjay Dutt. He has a presence that fills every corner. He greets everyone with a warm namaste and takes his seat at the head of the table.

Then the door opens again and Akshaye Khanna walks in, Y/N, despite not wanting to, steals glances at Akshaye, his hair buzzed, eyes not as passionate, his face is leaner than she remembers.

He nods at Sanjay. "Sir."

Sanjay nods back. "Akshaye."

He shakes Ranveer's hand. Greets Arjun. Nods at Danish. Listens to Rakesh ji's goat story for exactly three seconds before moving on.

He does not look at Y/N.

She notices. The room notices. Ranveer's eyes dart between them. Danish offers cookies to no one in particular. Arjun takes off his sunglasses and pretends to read the script.

Akshaye sits at the opposite end of the table. Maximum possible distance.

As everyone starts flipping the pages, a panting mess of a girl barges in. A very starry eyed Sara Arjun engers the room, she's young barely twenty and with big sparkly eyes and a face that still has teenage softness.

She scans the room. Sees Sanjay Dutt. Freezes. Sees Ranveer. Freezes again.

Then she sees Y/N, her face changes. Like someone turned on a light from inside.

"Oh my god," she whispers, sitting right beside her.

"Oh my god," Sara says again, louder. "You're THE Y/N Raina."

Y/N smiles,"I am. And you're Sara Arjun. I watched Deiva Thirumagal the other night, it was very beautiful. I cried so many times!"

Sara looks like she might faint. "You saw my film!?"

"Yep, and i loved it. You were incredible even at such a young age."

Sara's hands fly to her face. "I grew up watching your films. I had a poster of 'Dil kho gaya' on my wall. I even have all the limited edition watches that you released in collaboration with 'samay watches'!!"

Y/N pulls Sara into a side hug, genuinely grateful for all the love. Meanwhile Sara looks like she's ascended to heaven.

-------------------------------------------------------

The script reading finally starts after that.

Aditya calls the room to order,

"Alright, everyone. Scripts open. Page one. Let's go."

The reading begins.

The early scenes are fine. Too much graphic gore in Y/N's opinion, but still fine.

But then they get to Page 21. The Slap scene.

They move past a few more pages.

Page 35.

Script: 'Rehman holds Ulfat's hand in comfort.'

Akshaye stops reading. "Why does he have to hold her hand?!"

Aditya explains. Akshaye grumbles. Y/N rolls her eyes.

Page 102.

The car scene. Ulfat holding onto Rehman as SP Alsam attacks their car.

Y/N stops reading, "I'm not comfortable with this." Aditya explains why this scene is particularly necessary for the plot, why the desperation amd the emotions are necessary, Y/N grumbles. Akshaye mutters something under his breath.

They still haven't spoken to each other. Not once. Every protest is aimed at Aditya. Every complaint is about the script, the direction, the characters anything except each other.

The room is dying inside.

Ranveer eats another cookie. He's on his fourth.

-------------------------------------------------------

Aditya closes his script like a disappointed girlfriend, "Alright. We're not continuing the reading. We're doing chemistry exercises."

Y/N and Akshaye both look like they've been asked to eat glass.

"Look at each other," Aditya instructs.

They look at each other. It's painful. Y/N's face is stiff. Akshaye's jaw is tight.

"No. Like... LOOK at each other."

They try again. Y/N's gaze meets Akshaye's for half a second before skittering away. Akshaye looks at the wall. Then the ceiling. Then the cookie box.

"You two are supposed to play husband and wife. Right now you look like you're at a divorce mediation."

Ranveer raises his hand. "Should I leave the room or—"

"Stay. Everyone stay. They need an audience."

Y/N shoots Aditya a death glare. Akshaye mutters something that sounds like "this is humiliating."

They run through a few scenes, first a romantic one, a fighting one, a longing stare across a crowded room one. Every single one is stiff. Awkward. Painful.

It's like someone fed them neem leaves.

Aditya puts his head in his hands as the two most promising actors of their time stand there like awkward dads in the womens section of the mall.

Aditya sighs, and brings them back to Page 21. The grief scene.

"Okay. Let's run it."

Y/N and Akshaye stand. Facing each other. Three feet apart. Feels like three hundred.

"Action."

Y/N finds the tears. Her face crumbles. She doesn't make a sound. This scene explores the part where she found out her eldest was killed in a gang attack, she has slapped her husband and is now supposed to be pulled in his arms by him as a means of comfort.

Akshaye steps forward for the same,his arms open.

Y/N looks at his arms. Then at his face. Then back at his arms.

She steps back.

"I don't want to cuddle this man. Can't you use a body double Adi?"

Akshaye drops his arms. "A body double for cuddling!?"

"They have those."

"They really don't."

"Then I don't know. A pillow. A stuffed toy. Anything."

Akshaye turns to Aditya. "Look, I understand why I have to comfort her but is the hug thing absolutely necessary—"

"You are not hugging Y/N ma'am. Your character Rehman is hugging his wife Ulfat. There is a difference."

"She's playing Ulfat. So technically—"

"TECHNICALLY, you are an actor doing his job. Now can we please move on?"

Akshaye makes a face. Y/N crosses her arms.

No one moves.

Aditya slams his script on the table.

The room goes dead silent.

"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU TWO? You are GROWN ADULTS. You have been in this industry for decades. You have done love scenes. You have done crying scenes. You have done scenes that required ten times more intimacy than a hug and a shoulder to cry on."

He points at Akshaye. Then at Y/N.

"Whatever happened between you two, I don't care. It was SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO. You are here to do a job. So ACT LIKE PROFESSIONALS and DO THE SCENE."

Aditya storms outside to take a breather.

Y/N looks down at her hands. Her ears are burning, Akshaye stares at the wall. His jaw is tight, but not in anger anymore. Because Aditya is right. They've been acting like children. Refusing to look at each other. Protesting every touch like it's the first time they've ever been asked to act.

Seventeen years. And they still haven't figured out how to be in the same room without making it weird.

Y/N takes a breath.

"He's right," she says quietly.

Akshaye nods. Just once. "Hmm."

They don't look at each other. But for the first time, they're not avoiding it either. They're just... standing there. Guilty. Tired. Ready to try.

-------------------------------------------------------

After Aditya returns, they run the scene again.

This time, Y/N doesn't protest. Akshaye doesn't grumble.

Y/N closes her eyes. She finds Ulfat, the woman who has lost everything. The tears come again, but different now. She's not crying as Y/N. She's crying as a mother who lost her child.

Akshaye steps closer. His hand hovers near her shoulder. Then it lands.

She doesn't flinch.

He pulls her in. Slow. Careful. Like she's made of glass.

Y/N leans into his chest. Her forehead presses against his collarbone. She can feel his heartbeat. Steady. Calm. It hasn't changed.

She hates that she remembers what his heartbeat feels like.

The scene ends. No one speaks.

Aditya nods. "Again."

They do it again. Better this time. The chemistry, the real, natural chemistry that made them the IT couple in the 90s is still there. Buried under seventeen years of silence and hurt and stubborn pride.

But it's there.

Ranveer whispers to Danish: "Damn."

Danish nods. "Yeah..damn."

Even Arjun looks up from his script.

-------------------------------------------------------

Soon everyone moves to rehearse their scenes, Akshaye and Y/N are still at it, Sara is talking with the choreographer, Aditya is instructing Ranveer and Danish to put more bromine into their part..or whatever that means, while Arjun, Rakesh ji and Sanjay Dutt are reading their script in a corner. More set workers started arriving, milling about to finalise more details before the shoot begins next month. One of those set workers, young and clearly an intern on his first day of work makes the mistake of clicking a very blurry photo of Akshaye and Y/N hugging. To everyone on set, they were practising their scene but the leak of that photo the very evening was going to make the media lose their shit yet again. Rumours flying. Twitter trending. Conspiracy theories buzzing yet again.

-------------------------------------------------------

Sara unbeknownst to her, fueled the already burning fire. She posted a group photo with the remaining cast on her Instagram story.

And that confirmed the suspicions. It were indeed Y/N and Akshaye hugging! The same jacket, the same salwar! It had to be them! The media was having a field day with it.

The headlines write themselves.

"AKSHAYE X YN CONFIRMED? Akshaye Khanna and Y/N Raina's hugging moment Goes Viral."

"From 'not in contact' to physical contact!"

"Dhurandhar Set Leak Shows Intimate Scene Between Bollywood's Most Famous Exes."

News channels pick it up. Entertainment shows run segments. Fans are losing their minds on every platform.

Theories everywhere. Did they reconcile? Is this acting? Is life imitating art? Did Aditya Dhar plan this whole thing as viral marketing?

No one knows. Everyone is guessing.

Y/N's phone starts buzzing. Then buzzing again. Then won't stop.

She ignores it. She's still in the rehearsal.

-------------------------------------------------------

Until later when she goes back to her home and turns the news on, only to find the blurry Instagram post from that stupid intern and the screenshot of story from Sara's account making round in every news outlet.

She groans and turns the TV off.

Then again, she makes the mistake of opening her social media app. Thousands of notifications have piled up, more incoming.

"This," she says, voice muffled by her palms, "is exactly what I needed after coming back to the industry two decades later. Lovely. Just lovely."

She turns the notifications off and almost decides to deactivate her accounts, only stopped by an incoming call.

It's a number she hasn't seen in seventeen years. No name. Just digits. But she recognizes it immediately. She hates that she recognizes it immediately.

"Why hasn't this man changed his number since 2005?" she mutters.

She answers. "Hello Akshaye."

A pause on the other end. Then his voice, lower than she remembers, rougher over phone.

"How did you knkw it was me?"

"You havent changed your number ober a decade."

"You memorised my number?"

There was a pause on the line.

"Did you call to breathe into the phone, or...?"

"No. I..." He stops. Starts again. "You've seen the news? The photo?"

"Everyone has seen the photo. Including my aunt in Canada. She asked me if we're back together. In those exact words. 'Are you back together with that nice Khanna boy?'"

A beat. Then ....did he just almost laugh?

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her I'm blocking her if she asks again."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer she's getting."

Silence. Not uncomfortable. Just... there.

Then Akshaye says: "I didn't leak it."

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"Because you don't even know how to post on Instagram."

There it is. Almost a joke. Almost like old times.

She hates how easy it is.

-------------------------------------------------------

Akshaye is sitting in his car outside his lokhandwala home. He doesn't know why he called her. He doesn't know what to say.

Then she answered. And her voice, just those two words, "Hello Akshaye" did something to his chest.

He tells himself it's heartburn. (It's not heartburn.)

"You're not... mad?" he asks.

"About the photo? No. About the fact that someone on set clearly has no respect for privacy? Yes. But that's not your fault."

"You're taking this very calmly."

"I'm screaming internally."

"That's fair."

Another pause. He looks out the car window. The neem tree outside the house hasn't changed in seventeen years. Neither has he, apparently.

"We should probably talk," he says. "About how to handle this."

"Handle what? The media? Or us?"

He doesn't answer. Because he doesn't know which one she's asking about.

Or maybe he does. Maybe that's the problem.

His chest tightens again.

"The media," he says finally. "We should have a statement ready. Something neutral. Professional."

"Agreed."

"I'll have my manager draft something. Send it to you."

"Fine."

Another silence.

"Y/N?"

"What?"

"The rehearsal. The scene. You were..." He stops. Tries again. "It was good. You were good."

She doesn't say anything for a moment.

Then: "You weren't terrible either."

That's the closest they've come to a compliment in seventeen years.

He doesn't know why it makes his chest hurt.

-------------------------------------------------------

The call ends. Y/N stares at her phone.

The number is still there. Still not saved.

She should save it. They're working together. It's practical. She opens the contact screen. Her fingers hover over the keyboard.

She types "Akshaye". Stares at it. Deletes it.

Types "AK". ...no doesn't feel right.

Types "Mister Khanna". Stares at it hard, ...what is she doing?! Ugh.

She can't do it. She can't type his real name. It feels too heavy. Too much like opening a door she closed a long time ago.

Finally, she types: "Rehman"

The character. Not the man. That's safe. That's professional. That's just the role he's playing.

She stares at the name for a moment.

Rehman.

It doesn't feel like his name. His name is Akshaye. It has always been Akshaye. Even when she was trying to forget it, it was there, buried somewhere in the back of her mind, waiting.

But she's not brave enough for Akshaye. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

She saves the contact. Locks her phone. Puts it down on the couch next to her.

"Rehman," she says out loud. Testing it.

It feels like a lie.

But it's the best she can do right now.

Taglist: @laal-pari @warnermeadowsgirl @scentedwolfdragon @miwagonemad @pleasetagmejaaneman @pn28 @desibaddies @harrystyleskiwi9 @withlovemii @avasif @anxiousbeeing @goodnightkatherine @istilldonotslay @gehra-hua @forbiddenfanaa @cloudmast @bobcuts-blog @niyadarealart @mylifesalreadyfucked @gulaabjamun08 @manjari08 @forbiddenfanaa @dollie1111xo5 @iamadelusionalwriter @goldenharrysworld @debsreads21 @theuselessdaydreamingidiot @writrsblu @chai-aur-chaand @mainyahaankyunhoon @precioussophia @rosiasthings @dhurandhar-archives @hamzair-is-my-otp @royaldreamermonsoon @between-smoke-and-roses @lavenderwinkle @sarcastic-ravenpuff @qalamband @rhymeskiii @granddynamonovajbvgjjj @sugarvibez @akshayes @rosesandpeoniesthings

[whyishekinda]

Jealous Much?(Hamza Ali Mazari x Y/N)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not intended to represent or glorify any real person.

Genre: Crack/Fluff

This is a little rushed and the sentencing us a little awkward, pardon me guys. And this was supposed to be a 100 followers special, but oh well. Anyway, Thank you everyone for reading and supporting my little hobby. Love ya'll loads🥰💕

The fight had started over something so stupid neither of them even remembered the original point anymore.

Something about Hamza forgetting to call.

Or Y/N hanging up first.

Or him saying “fine” in that annoying tone.

Now they were at a mutual friend’s party standing barely six feet apart, acting like divorced parents forced into the same room.

“Juice?” someone offered.

Hamza grunted.

Y/N grunted louder.

The tension was so ridiculous that even the music seemed awkward around them.

Hamza leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight. Every few seconds his eyes flicked toward Y/N, who was pretending very hard not to notice him.

She noticed him. She noticed everything.

Especially when a girl walked up beside him, Shorter than her. Very pretty. Curly hair. Sharp eyeliner.

Yalina Jamali.

And unfortunately for everyone involved, Hamza suddenly remembered he was charmer.

“Oh wow,” he said immediately, standing straighter. “Hi.”

Yalina blinked. “Hi?”

Hamza smiled far too smoothly for a man who was internally screaming for his girlfriend’s attention.

“You know,” he started casually, “you have a really cool vibe.”

Across the room, Y/N visibly rolled her eyes.

Yalina noticed and then she noticed something else.

Every single time Hamza spoke, he checked Y/N’s reaction.

Every. Single. Time.

'Oh.

This was one of those, a 'make-my-girlfriend-jealous' operation.'

Yalina almost laughed.

Still, she played along because honestly? It was entertaining, and birthdays were not her thing. She needed the entertainment.

“Thanks,” she said, amused.

Hamza smiled like he was in a toothpaste commercial, “You seem chill. I appreciate chill people.”

Y/N snorted loudly from across the room.

Hamza ignored her with the dignity of a soldier marching into battle.

“So what do you do?” he asked.

Yalina answered, but honestly she was barely listening to herself because Hamza was SO painfully obvious.

The overly casual posture, the fake deep voice, the way he kept trying to sound mysterious while very clearly monitoring his girlfriend from the corner of his eye.

Yalina's eyes drifted to Y/N everytime Hamza’s did as well.

Because good lord, she was beautiful.

Then, Y/N walked toward them with slow confidence, hips swaying slightly, expression calm and unimpressed in the most attractive way humanly possible and suddenly Yalina forgot Hamza was even speaking.

Hamza was still mid sentence.

“—and honestly I just value mature communication—”

Yalina looked directly past him.

Straight at Y/N and smiled.

Hamza stopped talking.

Why was she smiling at Y/N like that.

Y/N stopped beside them, sipping her drink calmly.

“Hi,” she said.

Yalina smiled immediately. “Hi.”

Hamza looked between them.

Something felt incorrect already.

Y/N glanced at Hamza briefly before looking back at Yalina. “He bothering you?”

Yalina bit back a laugh. “A little.”

Hamza gasped. “Traitor.”

Y/N hummed smugly. “Thought so.”

And then, Yalina tilted her head slightly and said,

“You’re even prettier up close, by the way.”

Hamza froze.

Y/N blinked once and then smiled, a slow devastating smile.

“Careful,” she said lightly. “I might start thinking you’re flirting with me.”

“I might be.”

Hamza’s soul left his body.

“Okay,” he said immediately. “Absolutely not.”

Neither girl looked at him.

Yalina leaned against the counter a little closer to Y/N. “Can you blame me?”

Y/N laughed softly at Yalina's flirtatious nature.

And Hamza,

Hamza was witnessing his own plan collapse in real time.

“No because hold on,” he interrupted, pointing between them. “Why is this becoming a THING?”

Yalina ignored him completely.

“I love your outfit,” she told Y/N instead. “You look insane.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Insane good?”

“Dangerously good.”

Hamza stared, mouth agape, eyes blown. Because what the hell was this.

HE was supposed to be flirting with Yalina.

HE was supposed to make Y/N annoyed.

Instead the girl he recruited had immediately folded for his girlfriend the second she walked over.

And the worst part?

Y/N was flirting back. Comfortably. Naturally, like she did this every Tuesday.

Hamza looked horrified.

“You can’t flirt with my girlfriend in front of me.” He accused Yalina.

Y/N finally looked at him. “You literally started this.”

“Not like THIS!”

Yalina laughed. “To be fair, she walked over looking like that. What was I supposed to do?” she said, still shamelessly checking Y/N out.

Hamza turned to Y/N accusingly. “Why were you walking like that.”

Y/N looked offended. “What walk?!”

“The… the dramatic walk!”

“It’s called having legs, i have always walked like that-.”

Yalina physically laughed into her drink.

Hamza looked at her next. “And YOU.”

“What about me?”

“You were supposed to help me make her jealous!”

Yalina shrugged unapologetically. “Sure...but then she came over...and goddamn...”

As if that explained everything, which apparently it did.

Hamza dragged a hand down his face slowly.

“This is actually unbelievable.”

Meanwhile Y/N was fully enjoying herself now.

“You know,” she mused to Yalina, “you’re cute.”

Hamza’s head snapped toward her so fast it was concerning.

“EXCUSE me?”

Yalina grinned. “Oh my God, she thinks I’m cute.”

Hamza looked genuinely stressed now.

“No. Nope. End of conversation.”

He immediately stepped between them like a security guard responding to an emergency.

Y/N burst out laughing, Yalina looked delighted.

Hamza pointed at both of them accusingly. “I tried to execute a simple jealousy plan.”

“And failed,” Y/N supplied.

“Horrifically,” Yalina added.

Hamza ignored them. “Instead somehow my girlfriend stole the girl I was flirting with.”

Yalina raised a hand slightly. “In my defense, your girlfriend has better game.”

Hamza looked deeply wounded.

“My game is excellent.”

Both girls stared at him silently.

Hamza frowned. “…okay maybe it’s average.”

“Painfully average,” Y/N corrected.

“You flirt like a man who learned romance from motivational podcasts,” Yalina added.

Y/N nearly collapsed laughing.

Hamza looked at the ceiling for strength.

“This is sick,” he muttered. “I’m being bullied in real time.”

Taglist: @laal-pari @warnermeadowsgirl @scentedwolfdragon @miwagonemad @pleasetagmejaaneman @pn28 @desibaddies @harrystyleskiwi9 @withlovemii @avasif @anxiousbeeing @goodnightkatherine @istilldonotslay @gehra-hua @forbiddenfanaa @cloudmast @bobcuts-blog @niyadarealart @mylifesalreadyfucked @gulaabjamun08 @manjari08 @forbiddenfanaa @dollie1111xo5 @iamadelusionalwriter @goldenharrysworld @debsreads21 @theuselessdaydreamingidiot @writrsblu @chai-aur-chaand @mainyahaankyunhoon @precioussophia @rosiasthings @dhurandhar-archives @hamzair-is-my-otp @royaldreamermonsoon @between-smoke-and-roses @lavenderwinkle @sarcastic-ravenpuff @qalamband @rhymeskiii @granddynamonovajbvgjjj @sugarvibez @akshayes @rosesandpeoniesthings @bxtchyrose

[whyishekinda]

My family

Father!Rehman Dakait x daughter!OC

Genre: Crack fic

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not intended to glorify any real life pos terrorists and the activities linked with them.

P.S. this was a little hard for me to write since I am not sure how to portray child-parent/other adult figure relationships that well. Also, some charecters are a little ooc, deal with it😭

When Miss Sara Ahmed accepted the transfer from Islamabad to the Lyari branch of Burger kids International Academy, she had prepared herself mentally for rich, spoilt and difficult students.

The school was one of those elite private chains spread across Pakistan,with polished campuses, imported smart boards, absurd annual fees, and parents who thought donating suspicious amount of money to the school board gave them control over the syllabus.

Her colleagues in Islamabad had warned her before hand.

“Karachi rich kids are another breed.”

“Half of them think rules are optional.”

“Good luck surviving parent teacher meetings.”

So naturally, Miss Sara arrived in Lyari expecting spoiled children with superiority complexes and attitude problems.

Instead, she got… surprisingly lovely students.

Sure, there were a few dramatic children.

One boy cried because the cafeteria ran out of Nutella sandwiches.

Another genuinely asked if “community service” could be outsourced.

But overall?

The students were disciplined and polite.

They stood when teachers entered class, submitted homework on time, said “thank you" and "please" instinctively.

Some were mischievous, obviously, but not malicious.

The staff was decent too.

Though Miss Sara had noticed one strange thing, sometimes certain surnames made people pause very briefly.

Like they knew something she didn’t.

One of those surnames was:

Baloch.

Particularly attached to:

Naiem Baloch

Faisal Baloch

Meher Baloch

Naiem no longer attended, but the staff still talked about him like a he was the next Sheldon Cooper.

Graduated high school at fifteen, national distinctions, mathematics prodigy and painfully shy.

Apparently the principal still used his answer sheets as examples for other students.

Then there was Faisal, Miss Sara hadn’t met him yet, but she’d heard enough.

Failed eighth grade twice, charming menace.

Once convinced an invigilator he deserved “extra marks for being cute."

According to the Urdu teacher:

“That boy could sell sand to the desert and water to the sea.”

And finally, Meher Baloch.

Grade 4, nine years old and an absolute angel. Quiet and attentive and always completed her work neatly, shared stationery without being asked, raised her hand before speaking, always wanting to take part in class activities, basically the type of student teachers secretly prayed for.

So naturally Miss Sara adored her almost immediately.

Which is why what happened the following week nearly gave her a nervous breakdown.

---

“Alright class,” Miss Sara announced cheerfully one Monday morning. “Fir today's homework we are going to write a short essay about our families.”

Immediate excitement.

Children loved talking about themselves and their rich parents.

“You can write about your parents, siblings, pets, traditions, anything you want. Just write honestly.”

That, unfortunately, was the problem.

The essays came in by Wednesday, most were painfully generic.

“My father is a businessman.”

“My mother cooks very well.”

“My sister annoys me but I love her.”

A few essays were suspiciously sophisticated for a 4th grader.

Miss Sara read one sentence about “the socio economic contribution of paternal labor” and immediately knew someone’s overeducated and unemployed uncle had written the entire thing.

Then she reached Meher's notebook, the handwriting was neat but imperfect, a few spelling mistakes and some awkward sentence structures,very obviously written by an actual fourth grader.

Miss Sara smiled approvingly like finally an authentic essay.(Yes anon, Meher doesn't use ai)

Then she started reading and slowly her jaw fell to the floor.

---

My Family

By Meher Baloch

Grade 4-B

My family is very loving and little bit busy. There are many people in my house all the time. Sometimes when I wake up there are random uncles sleeping on sofas downstairs and nobody explains who they are.

Maybe guests, maybe abbu's friends from the factory. In my house it is hard to tell.

My Abbu’s name is Rehman and he works in a factory because Ammi always says things like “Eat your breakfast before going to the factory" and sometimes Abbu also says things like “Uzair get the car, we are late for the factory.”

So definitely factory.

But I think factory work is very stressful because many people come to our house crying, mostly men, very sweaty men.

Some hold Abbu’s hand and say sorry many many times. One uncle even kissed Abbu’s shoes once which I think was too much because they were dusty.

Then after some days some of those uncles disappear.

I asked Ammi where they go and she always says “Behesth.”(trans. Jannat, heavean)

I do not know where Behesth is but MANY people go there from our house. It must be very nice there because the uncles do not come back.

One time I asked if Behesth is near Lahore and Naiem bhai started laughing into his juice.

My Abbu is very nice though. He brings me chocolates and lets me sit with him during meetings. Sometimes the meetings look scary because everybody has angry faces and there are guns on table but nobody points them at me so probably safe.

Once I colored on Abbu’s knife with pink marker and pit hello kitty stickers on it because it looked boring, Everybody became very quiet, but then Abbu said “beautiful” and put the knife back in pocket. So, I think he liked it.

Sometimes Abbu comes home late with blood on him but Ammi never gets worried. She just says things like “go clean up” or “don’t touch the sofa.” So maybe factory workers get injured a lot. My Abbu works really hard for us.

One time there was a lot of blood on the floor and on abbu and I got scared but Siyahi chacha said it wasnt Abbu’s blood and then he cleaned it while eating biscuits so maybe it was not emergency.

My Ammi’s name is Ulfat and she is the real boss of house because she is the only person who yells at Abbu and abbu doesnt yell back. Everybody else talks to Abbu very carefully like school children talking to principal ma'am. But Ammi says things like “Rehman if you don't stop drinking rn I will kill YOU myself.” and Abbu stops drinking his stinky medicine.

Once one uncle was shouting very loudly in drawing room and then Ammi entered and said “awaaz neeche.”

That uncle almost whispered after that.

Ammi also has superpower aim with slippers. She can hit anybody from very far away without looking. Once Faisal bhai annoyed her from upstairs and she threw slipper from kitchen and it was direct headshot. Even Donga chacha said “wah.”

My oldest brother is Naiem bhai and honestly he is terrifying. He reads books with no pictures happily. Sometimes he sits alone in room doing maths for fun. FOR FUN.

Once I woke up at night and saw him in kitchen holding knife and staring at wall. I got scared but then he said he was thinking about equations and eating mango. I don't think he is okay.

But Naiem bhai loves me very much. He lets me have princess tea parties with him even when he is studying. One time I put makeup on him and he just sat there looking tired and beautiful. He also checks under my bed for monsters every night even though he says monsters are “statistically unlikely.”

My other brother is Faisal bhai and he is evil. He steals my chocolates and then helps me search for them. Once he put lizard in my school bag and I screamed so loudly one guard uncle came running inside with gun.

Then ammi shouted at him for ten minutes. It was nice.

Faisal bhai also fights me for TV remote even though he is old and should not watch so much tv. One time he told me I was adopted and they found me in a trash can outside the house, I cried so much that Ammi threw another slipper at him. Then he cried too which was embarrassing because he is old.

But he is nice sometimes, once I had fever and woke up at night and saw him sleeping on floor near my bed holding knife because he heard “suspicious sound outside.” it was the neighbour's cat.

Then in my family, I Have my Uzair chachu.

My Uzair chachu is unemployed because he just drives around in black cars wearing sunglasses and acting cool. Sometimes he leaves house at 3 am and comes back with bruises which feels unnecessary for unemployed person. Like what is he even doing? I think he was playing football with kids again.

He is very nice tho. He buys me dresses and teaches me football. He also taught me how to punch Faisal bhai properly.

He said “always stomach first.”

Sometimes Uzair chachu cleans guns while watching cartoons with me and and he also braids my hair. Uzair chachu is my favourite chachu.

Siyahi chacha and Donga chacha are also very nice. They play snakes and ladders with me and carry me to bed if I fall asleep downstairs. One time Siyahi chacha taught me how to remove blood stains using cold water and salt. Ammi shouted at him for “teaching weird things to child.”

But what if school uniform gets blood? Then what?

There are many guards outside my house always. When I was younger I thought everybody had guards with guns but then I went to Sana’s house and they only had one sleepy gate uncle with stick. I felt little unsafe for them honestly.

Sometimes loud noises happen outside at night and everybody suddenly wakes up and starts making phone calls. Then Ammi gives me ice cream and headphones and tells me not to come outside room. One time I peeked outside and saw Naieem bhai holding cricket bat while wearing SpongeBob pajamas and Uzair chachu holding actual gun ahead of him.

Very strong family bonding moment.

My family is little strange maybe, but they love me very much and I love them too.

---

Miss Sara read the essay twice.

Then a third time, and by the fourth read she had developed a stress headache and briefly considered emailing the school counsellor, child protection services, the principal and possibly the police.

Because surely, no well adjusted nine year old casually wrote things like:

“Sometimes meetings look scary because there are guns on table but nobody points them at me so probably safe.”

Or:

“One time Siyahi chacha taught me how to remove blood stains using cold water and salt.”

And yet the author of this essay was Meher Baloch. Tiny braid, My little pony sippy bottle, polite voice and constantly sharing stationery with classmates.

It made no sense.

Miss Sara looked at Meher again and as usual Meher smiled back sweetly.

Either something deeply concerning was happening in that household or Meher was a very creative liar.

So, at the end of class she handed the notebooks back one by one.

“Good.”

“Nice effort.”

“Please improve spelling.”

Then when she reached Meher's desk,

“Meher beta, stay one minute.”

Meher nodded obediently. “Yes Miss?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Miss Sara assured quickly, “I just reallyyyyy liked your essay and wanted to meet your parents.”

Meher brightened instantly. “Really?”

“Yes. Short meeting tomorrow before class.”

“Okay Miss.”

Then after a pause lottle Meher asked,

“Should guards also come?”

Miss Sara blinked.

“…Guards?”

“Yes.”

After a beat Miss Sara said, “…That won’t be necessary.”

---

The next morning Miss Sara walked into her little corner office in the staff room, and nearly dropped her coffee.

There were four armed men outside her office.

So apparently it had been necessary.

And sitting calmly at Meher’s desk was a man dressed in black pathani kurta, broad shouldered, composed, frighteningly relaxed. Beside him sat an elegant woman fixing Meher’s uniform while scolding her softly for not finishing breakfast.

Meher waved excitedly.

“Miss Sara! This is my Abbu and Ammi.”

Miss Sara’s stomach dropped.

Because now she recognized him properly.

Rehman Dakait.

Oh. Oh this was bad. Very bad.

For one horrifying second Miss Sara remembered all the authorities she’d considered contacting the previous night, right now she realised that these people were the authorities in Lyari.

“Assalamualaikum,” she said faintly.

“Walikumassalam,” Rehman replied politely. Which somehow made him look even more scarier.

Miss Sara sat slowly and opened the notebook.

“There were just… a few things I wanted clarification on.”

“Of course,” he said calmly.

She opened the notebook and pointed at the first paragraph.

“Random uncles sleeping on sofas downstairs.”

“What exactly does she mean by this?”

“People stay after meetings sometimes.”

“What kind of meetings?”

A pause.

“Work.”

That single word was doing unbelievable heavy lifting, Miss Sara nodded awkwardly and turned the page.

“Sweaty men crying and apologizing.”

“Business disagreements.”

Beside him, Ulfat sighed. “She notices too much.”

Next line.

“There are guns on table…”

“She’s not wrong,” Rehman admitted calmly.

Miss Sara stared at him.

He stared back, completely relaxed.

Like discussing firearms in front of a fourth grade teacher was a normal.

She flipped another page quickly.

“One time there was blood on floor—”

“Goat meat,” Ulfat interrupted immediately.

Rehman glanced at her briefly.

Then nodded once. “Yes,Goat meat.”

Miss Sara did not believe either of them for a second.

Then:

“I put Hello Kitty stickers on Abbu’s knife.”

To her horror, Rehman smiled slightly.

“She was very proud of those stickers.”

“You kept them for three weeks,” Ulfat said flatly.

“She would’ve been upset otherwise.”

“It was a weapon, Rehman.”

“It was decorative.”

Meher giggled proudly.

Miss Sara sat there frozen while one of Karachi’s most feared men defended Hello Kitty stickers on a weapon with complete sincerity.

And somehow, the terrifying part was that they genuinely seemed to adore their daughter.

Every few minutes Ulfat adjusted Meher’s hair absentmindedly. Rehman answered every question patiently, never once dismissing her. Meher leaned against them comfortably, completely secure.

There was no fear in that child, only affection.

Chaotic, heavily armed affection, but affection nonetheless.

Eventually the meeting ended.

Rehman stood first.“Thank you for teaching our daughter.”

Then Meher hugged Miss Sara around the waist before skipping out happily between her parents towards her class.

The armed guards followed behind them.

And Miss Sara remained seated at her desk long after they’d left, staring blankly at the essay in her hands.

Then she slowly closed the notebook, leaned back in her chair and whispered to herself:

“…Okay so apparently the mafia can produce emotionally stable children.”

Taglist: @laal-pari @warnermeadowsgirl @scentedwolfdragon @miwagonemad @pleasetagmejaaneman @pn28 @desibaddies @harrystyleskiwi9 @withlovemii @avasif @anxiousbeeing @goodnightkatherine @istilldonotslay @gehra-hua @forbiddenfanaa @cloudmast @bobcuts-blog @niyadarealart @mylifesalreadyfucked @gulaabjamun08 @manjari08 @forbiddenfanaa @dollie1111xo5 @iamadelusionalwriter @goldenharrysworld @debsreads21 @theuselessdaydreamingidiot @writrsblu @chai-aur-chaand @mainyahaankyunhoon @precioussophia @rosiasthings @dhurandhar-archives @hamzair-is-my-otp @royaldreamermonsoon @between-smoke-and-roses @lavenderwinkle @sarcastic-ravenpuff @qalamband @rhymeskiii @granddynamonovajbvgjjj @sugarvibez @akshayes @rosesandpeoniesthings @bxtchyrose

[whyishekinda]

Fuck them anon. I am going to post the Rehman x daughter oc today. Its almost ready just the final part is left.

And thank you to all the people who sent me messages and comments, I haven't been able to respond to all of that. But I soon will. Thank you so so much for all the love. I am very overwhelmed rn😭🫂💕

[whyishekinda]

Hey loves 🤍

i think i’m going to take a break from tumblr for about a week or so.

Since this morning, the anonymous hate messages have been nonstop, and honestly, it’s all gotten a little too overwhelming for me mentally and emotionally now. i tried to brush it off at first, tried being funny and rage baiting the anons, and honestly it was fine when they were criticising my writings but then they started sending disgusting casteist, racist and religion specific slurs. And after hours of such hate and negativity in my inbox, constantly after the replies, i just don’t have the energy to be online right now.

i do want to say thank you guys though, genuinely. the amount of love, support, kind messages, and people defending me today means more than i can explain. you all made a really awful day feel a little lighter, and i appreciate every single one of you for that 🫶

but for now, i think i need to step away for a bit and clear my head. this doesn’t mean i’m leaving forever or abandoning my stories i just need a small break from tumblr and from interacting online for a while.

there probably won’t be any updates for the next week, and i most likely won’t be replying to comments or messages either because i’ll be staying offline during that time.

hopefully i’ll come back feeling better and ready to continue writing again <3

take care of yourselves for me. love you all 🤍

@laal-pari @warnermeadowsgirl @scentedwolfdragon @miwagonemad @pleasetagmejaaneman @pn28 @desibaddies @harrystyleskiwi9 @withlovemii @avasif @anxiousbeeing @goodnightkatherine @istilldonotslay @gehra-hua @forbiddenfanaa @cloudmast @bobcuts-blog @niyadarealart @mylifesalreadyfucked @gulaabjamun08 @manjari08 @forbiddenfanaa @dollie1111xo5 @iamadelusionalwriter @goldenharrysworld @debsreads21 @theuselessdaydreamingidiot @writrsblu @chai-aur-chaand @mainyahaankyunhoon @precioussophia @rosiasthings @dhurandhar-archives @hamzair-is-my-otp @royaldreamermonsoon @between-smoke-and-roses @lavenderwinkle @sarcastic-ravenpuff @qalamband @rhymeskiii @granddynamonovajbvgjjj @sugarvibez @akshayes @rosesandpeoniesthings

[whyishekinda]

We love your writing!! Fanfics are supposed to be self indulgent, one should only write if they get joy out of it. That weird, desperate anon should get a job instead of being jealous of someone's writing and their reach.

IKR, people just have too mchh time these days. I'm just gonna delete the stupid messages if I get some in the future, and thank you so much for all the love! It means the world to me! You guys are the sweetest!😭🫂💖