Maryam had learned many things growing up in the Khurshid house. How to lower her gaze. How to smile at the right moments. How to listen without responding. But no one had taught her how to sit in a room where her future was being decided without her consent.

The living room was crowded, heavy with expectation.

Kamyaar stood near the bookshelf, arms crossed, eyes distant. He had always stood like that—closed off, unreachable. As a child, Maryam had found him arrogant. As a teenager, unbearable. Now, she didn’t know what he was to her anymore.

Phupho’s daughter, sara, sat a little too close to him.

She always did.

“Kamyaar bhai, aap chai lenge?”

(Kamyaar, will you have tea?)

Her voice was soft, hopeful.

Kamyaar didn’t even look at her.

“Jab zarurat hogi, khud le lunga.”

(If I need it, I’ll get it myself.)

The rejection was casual. Practiced.

Sara’s smile faltered, but only for a second. She had been chasing his attention for years—laughing louder at his jokes, finding excuses to sit beside him, defending him even when he was wrong. Kamyaar noticed none of it. Or worse—he noticed and didn’t care.

Maryam watched from across the room, irritation curling in her chest. Not jealousy. Never that. Just disbelief.

How can someone try so hard for someone so cold? she thought.

“Maryam, zara idhar aao.”

(Maryam, come here.)

Her mother’s voice pulled her back.

She moved forward slowly.

Haji Abdul Khurshid cleared his throat. The room quieted instantly.

“Yeh baat hum kaafi waqt se soch rahe the,” he began.

(We have been thinking about this for a long time.)

Kamyaar’s jaw tightened.

Maryam felt it before she understood it.

“Maryam aur Kamyaar ka rishta…”

(Maryam and Kamyaar’s relationship—)

“No.”

The word echoed in Maryam’s head, though she hadn’t spoken it.

“…pehle hi tay ho chuka tha.”

(…was decided long ago.)

Silence.

Sara’s head snapped up.

“Kya?”

(What?)

Kamyaar finally looked up.

“Dada jaan, yeh zaroori hai?”

(Grandfather, is this necessary?)

His tone was controlled, distant—but underneath it, something sharp stirred.

“Zaroori nahi,” Haji sahib replied calmly.

(Not necessary.)

“Yeh parampara hai.”

(This is tradition.)

Maryam felt heat rise to her face.

She spoke before she could stop herself.

“Main is faisle se khush nahi hoon.”

(I am not happy with this decision.)

Gasps. Shock. Disapproval.

Kamyaar turned toward her, eyes cold.

“Jaise mujhe koi shauk hai.”

(As if I’m thrilled.)

Their eyes met—hostile, familiar.

They had never liked each other.

As children, Kamyaar had called her stubborn.

Maryam had called him heartless.

They fought over trivial things, avoided each other at gatherings, existed in the same family without warmth.

And now—

“Tum dono ek doosre ko samajh jaoge,” Begum Zainab said gently.

(You both will understand each other.)

Kamyaar let out a hollow laugh.

“Samajhne ke liye kuch hona bhi chahiye.”

(There should be something to understand first.)

Maryam clenched her fists.

Sara’s stood abruptly.

“Par… Kamyaar bhai—”

(But… Kamyaar—)

He didn’t look at her.

Not then.

Not ever.

The decision was sealed without affection, without consent, without love.

Two people bound together by force.

By blood.

By a destiny neither of them wanted.

Neither Maryam nor Kamyaar knew it yet—but this marriage, born in resentment and silence, would not end the way it began.

Because sometimes, the slowest love is born where none was meant to exist at all.