The Iftar spread was a masterpiece of tradition. The dining table at the Malik house was overflowing with fruit chaat, pakoras, and the sweet scent of Rooh Afza. Our families sat together, the cross-talk between Hassan Uncle (Zayn's father) and my grandfather, Waqas, filling the room.
But the air felt thin.
Zayn sat directly across from me. He was wearing a simple black kurta, his hair slightly damp from wudu. He looked more like the boy I used to know, but his eyes were fixed on his plate, his movements mechanical. He was playing the part of the dutiful son, but he was a thousand miles away.
"Waqas, you've hardly touched your drink," Hassan Uncle noted, frowning at my grandfather. "Is the heat getting to you?"
My grandfather offered a weak smile, reaching for his glass. "Just a bit of a flutter in the chest, Hassan. Old age is a persistent creditor."
I noticed it then. My grandfather's hand was trembling. Not a small tremor, but a heavy, rhythmic shake that caused the red syrup in his glass to ripple. I looked at Zayn to see if he noticed. He was mid-sentence, answering a question from Salar. He was too deep in his own shell to see the man beside him failing.
"Dada?" I asked softly, leaning forward.
Grandfather Waqas turned his head toward me. His skin wasn't just pale; it was gray. He tried to speak, but his breath hitched—a harsh, rattling sound that sliced through the laughter in the room like a blade.
"Waqas!" Hassan Uncle stood up so fast his chair flipped backward.
The change was instantaneous. My grandfather's hand went to his chest, his eyes widening as he gasped for air. Then, with a terrifyingly quiet thud, he slumped sideways.
"Dada!" The scream left my throat before I could stop it.
The room exploded. My mother shrieked, her hands flying to her face. Salar was already on his phone, his voice shaking as he called for an ambulance. Amidst the crying and the scraping of chairs, I felt a shadow move beside me.
Zayn.
He didn't shout. He didn't panic. He moved with a cold, terrifying precision. He was at my grandfather's side in two strides, his fingers immediately finding the pulse point on the neck.
"Hassan, we aren't waiting for an ambulance," Zayn said, his voice dropping into that deep, authoritative register he used for crises. "The traffic is at a standstill. We'll lose him in the back of a van."
"The car is in the front," Hassan Uncle replied, already grabbing his keys. "Zayn, help me lift him."
I stood frozen, my hands hovering in the air, useless and trembling. The "CEO" I had spent all week hating was suddenly the only person in the room who knew what to do. Zayn scooped my grandfather up, his muscles straining under the black fabric of his kurta. He didn't look at me, but as he passed, he spoke.
"Alayna.Are u coming?"
The drive was a blur of neon lights and the sound of my mother sobbing in the front seat next to Hassan Uncle. I was in the back, pressed against the door, watching Zayn. He was sitting in the middle, keeping my grandfather steady, his eyes fixed on the road ahead as if he could clear the traffic with pure willpower.
When we reached the emergency entrance, the doctors swarmed. They took my grandfather away on a stretcher, the swinging doors closing with a heavy, final thud.
The waiting room was silent, smelling of floor wax and old fear. Hassan Uncle was over by the reception desk, handling the paperwork. My mother was in the corner with Zayn's mother, Warda.
I stood by the window, my breath hitching in my chest. I felt like I was breaking apart.
Zayn was standing a few feet away, leaning against the wall. His black kurta was wrinkled, and he was staring at his hands—there was a small smudge of dust on his palm from where he'd braced my grandfather.
He looked up. Our eyes met across the sterile, fluorescent-lit gap.
I wanted to move toward him. I wanted to thank him, or scream at him, or just find some shred of the boy who used to know how to comfort me. But the five years of silence stood between us like a physical wall.
Zayn didn't move. He didn't reach out. He just stood there, his expression unreadable, his jaw tight. He looked like he wanted to say something—the mask was slipping, showing the raw exhaustion underneath—but he swallowed the words.
"He's strong, Alayna," Zayn said finally, his voice low and raspy. He didn't come any closer. "He's a Siddiqui. He won't leave you this easily."
I bit my lip, nodding once, unable to find my voice. We stood there in the silence of the hospital, two people who knew each other's souls, yet couldn't even bridge a three-foot gap to offer a hand.
The emergency had broken the routine, but the ice was still thick.