The interior of Rayan's car smelled like the same cheap air freshener he'd used since we were eighteen. It was a chaotic contrast to the sterile, leather-scented silence of my life in Islamabad.
"You're staring at the dashboard like you're trying to calculate its depreciation value, man. Relax," Rayan said, downshifting as we swerved through the midnight traffic of Phase 6. "It's Ramzan. The city is alive. Stop being a statue."
"I'm not being a statue, Rayan. I'm tired," I lied, leaning my head back against the seat.
"You're not tired. You're haunted," he countered, flashing a grin that held too much insight. "You spent three hours at the library site today with Alayna, and from what Salar told me, you two treated each other like strangers at a funeral. Is that the plan for the whole month? Professional suicide?"
I looked out the window. "She wants professional. I'm giving her professional. It's what's best for the project."
Rayan snorted, pulling the car up to a roadside tea stall—a dhabba spilling over with plastic chairs and the steam of industrial-sized kettles. "You used to jump the Siddiquis' fence just to show her a new drawing. Now you won't even look her in the eye because you're afraid you'll catch feelings? You're a coward, Malik."
"I'm a CEO, Rayan. I don't 'jump fences' anymore."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night."
We sat on two wobbly chairs, the humid Karachi breeze carrying the scent of burning wood and diesel. For a moment, the corporate world felt a thousand miles away. Rayan talked about the neighborhood, about Salar's ridiculous sneaker collection, and about how the city had changed while I was gone.
But eventually, the conversation looped back. It always did.
"She's changed, Zayn," Rayan said, his voice dropping the playful edge. He stirred his tea, his eyes fixed on the bubbling pot nearby. "After you left... she went quiet for a long time. Then she started painting like her life depended on it. She's built a wall around herself that's just as thick as yours. Only hers is made of colors, and yours is made of spreadsheets."
I felt a phantom ache in my chest. I remembered the girl who used to laugh until she couldn't breathe. The girl who wasn't afraid to tell me when I was being arrogant. The woman I had seen today... she was a mirror of me. Polished. Hard. Empty.
"I didn't mean to turn her into this," I muttered, the admission slipping out before I could stop it.
"Then fix it," Rayan said simply. "Or don't. But don't pretend you don't care. It's insulting to both of you."
I didn't answer. I watched a stray cat weave through the legs of the plastic chairs.
When Rayan dropped me off an hour later, the street was silent. I stood in my driveway, looking at the dark gap between our two houses. I thought about what Rayan said. I thought about the "Indigo Glitch" on her canvas—the mistake she'd made because of me.
I reached into my pocket and felt my phone. I wanted to send a message. Not a professional one. Just something to acknowledge that I was still there.
Instead, I gripped my keys until they dug into my palm and walked inside.
The wall was still there. And tonight, I wasn't brave enough to climb it.