Maryam first learned to dislike Kamyaar when she was nine.

It was Eid, and the Khurshid house smelled of sheer khurma and pressed clothes. Children ran through corridors, laughter echoing off the walls. Maryam had been proud of her new bangles—thin, green, and fragile.

Kamyaar had been twelve. Older. Taller. Always serious.

She had been running when she collided with him.

Her bangles shattered.

She stared at the broken glass, chest tight.

“Tum dekh ke nahi chal sakti?” Kamyaar snapped.

(Can’t you watch where you’re going?)

Tears filled her eyes.“Tum bhi toh dekh sakte the.”

(You could’ve watched too.)

He scoffed.“Har cheez ka drama banana zaroori hota hai?”

(Is it necessary to make drama out of everything?)

That day, Maryam learned something important.

Kamyaar didn’t soften.Not for tears.Not for anyone.

Years passed, but the distance only grew.

At family gatherings, Maryam stayed with the women. Kamyaar stayed with his phone, his books, or silence. When they were forced into the same space, irritation followed naturally.

“Tum hamesha itni ziddi kyun hoti ho?” Kamyaar once muttered when she refused to move seats for him.

(Why are you always so stubborn?)

Maryam shot back,“Aur tum hamesha itne khudgarz kyun hote ho?”

(And why are you always so selfish?)

Neither apologized.Neither forgot.

Sara, however, remembered everything.

From the moment she understood what liking someone meant, Kamyaar became the center of her world.

She noticed how he never laughed loudly.How he never flirted.How he never looked at girls the way boys usually did.She mistook his coldness for depth.

“Kamyaar bhai bohot alag hain,” she’d tell anyone who listened.

(Kamyaar is very different.)

Maryam heard it once and rolled her eyes.Different didn’t mean kind.

Sara followed him everywhere.

“Kamyaar bhai, main aapke liye notes le aayi hoon.”

(Kamyaar, I brought notes for you.)

“Kamyaar bhai, aap late aaoge toh bata dena.”

(Kamyaar, tell me if you’ll be late.)

Kamyaar’s responses never changed.

“Hmm.”

“Zarurat nahi.”

“Khud dekh lunga.”

(Hmm. / Not needed. / I’ll manage.)

He never encouraged her.

But he never stopped her either.

And that was enough for sara to hope.

One afternoon, Maryam overheard her.

“Ek din main hi unki biwi banungi,” sara whispered to her friend.

(One day, I’ll be his wife.)

Maryam laughed before she could stop herself.

“Tumhe lagta hai Kamyaar kisi se shaadi karega apni marzi se?”

(Do you think Kamyaar will marry anyone by choice?)

Sara’s eyes hardened.

“Tumhein kya problem hai?”

(What’s your problem?)

“Sach bolna problem nahi hota,” Maryam replied calmly.

(Telling the truth isn’t a problem.)

From that day on, something shifted.

Sara stopped smiling at Maryam.Stopped greeting her warmly.Started watching her—closely.

Kamyaar, unaware or unwilling to care, continued being the same.He rejected affection without cruelty.He accepted attention without warmth.He lived untouched.

Once, when teased by relatives—

“Kamyaar, koi pasand nahi aayi ab tak?”

(Kamyaar, haven’t you liked anyone yet?)

He answered plainly,

“Pasand aur shaadi do alag cheezein hain.”

(Liking and marriage are two different things.)

Maryam had looked at him then, surprised.

Not because of what he said.

But because of how empty it sounded.

By the time the announcement came years later, resentment had already taken root.

Maryam thought Kamyaar was heartless.

Kamyaar thought Maryam was difficult.

Sara thought Kamyaar was hers.

None of them knew how badly destiny was about to interfere.Because love, when it finally arrived, would come slowly.Painfully.Against everything they believed.

And the people who wanted it leastwould feel it the deepest.

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