The library felt like a tomb.
I had been standing by the north wing window for twenty minutes, staring at the dust motes dancing in the light. I had practiced a version of a conversation in my head all morning—something that wasn't "CEO" but wasn't quite "the boy who jumped the fence" either. Something honest.
Then my phone buzzed in my pocket.
"I won't be there today. Zara will be there instead."
I stared at the screen until the light dimmed and went black. She wasn't coming. After the park, after I had finally admitted I was lost, she had simply... opted out.
"Looking for someone, Malik?"
I turned around. Zara was walking toward me, a hard hat tucked under her arm and a look on her face that suggested she knew exactly what was happening. She didn't have Alayna's softness. She had a protective, sharp edge that made me feel like I was under a microscope.
"Alayna messaged me," I said, putting my phone away and trying to reclaim my composure. "She said you'd be handling the archival specs today."
"I am," Zara said, stopping a few feet away. She didn't open her blueprints. She just looked at me. "She's at home. Playing video games with Salar, apparently. Sounds a lot more fun than being interrogated by a man who doesn't know who he is, don't you think?"
I felt my jaw tighten. "Did she tell you everything?"
"She didn't have to," Zara replied. "I've known Alayna since we were ten. I know what she looks like when she's been pushed too far. You think you're the only one who's had a hard five years, Zayn? You think you're the only one with a 'legacy' to protect? She stayed. She took care of everyone while you were busy 'optimizing' your life in the north."
"I didn't come here to be lectured by you, Zara," I said, my voice cold.
"Good. Then get to work," she snapped, unfolding a map on the table between us. "But don't expect her to just wait around for you to find yourself. She's already done enough waiting for one lifetime."
I looked at the map, but the lines blurred. Zara was right, and that was the problem. I had expected Alayna to be the constant—the one piece of home that never changed while I went off to become a stranger.
I picked up a pencil, but my hand wasn't steady.
The library wasn't the project anymore. The project was figuring out how to bridge the gap between the man she hated and the boy she used to love, before the Nikkah made us both strangers in the same house.
I was staring at a structural column, trying to calculate the load-bearing capacity, but all I could think about was Alayna's "I don't know" and the way she had looked at me in the park.
The heavy door creaked open again. I didn't look up, assuming it was one of the site workers.
"You look like you're trying to solve a math problem that doesn't have an answer, Zayn."
I looked over. Rayan was strolling in, carrying a brown paper bag that smelled like fresh halwa puri. He looked entirely too relaxed for a man standing in a construction zone. He set the bag down on the drafting table, right on top of my digitized site plans.
"Rayan, I'm busy," I said, my voice tight.
"No, you're brooding," Rayan corrected, pulling out a plastic container. "There's a difference. Zara told me Alayna's at home playing FIFA. Since she's the one with the artistic vision and she's currently busy slide-tackling Salar, I figured I'd come check on the 'CEO' side of the operation."
Zara looked up from her clipboard, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips before she went back to her work.
"She's taking a day off," I said, leaning back and crossing my arms. "She's entitled to that."
"Is she?" Rayan asked, his tone shifting from playful to something a bit more observant. He leaned against the table, tearing off a piece of paratha. "Or is she staying away because being in this room with you feels like being in a freezer? Word travels fast, man. The grandfathers are already picking out the menu for the Valima. The whole neighborhood thinks this is a fairy tale. But Alayna looked like she was heading for a funeral this morning."
I felt a sharp jab of guilt. I looked away, toward the empty space where Alayna usually stood with her charcoal pencils.
"I told her I didn't know who I was," I muttered, the admission tasting like ash. "She asked if she was marrying the boy from five years ago or the man I am now. And I couldn't give her an answer."
Rayan stopped chewing. He looked at me for a long beat, then shook his head.
"Zayn, you're a genius with a spreadsheet, but you're an idiot with people," Rayan said, throwing a napkin onto the table. "You think you have to choose? You think you're two different people? You're just Zayn. The boy who jumped the fence is the same one who worked his way to the top in Islamabad. You just buried the fun part of yourself under a bunch of expensive suits because you were afraid of getting hurt again."
"It's not that simple," I snapped.
"It is," Rayan countered. "You're so scared that if you let the 'old Zayn' out, you'll lose your edge. But look at her, man. Alayna didn't change who she was. She just grew up. You? You tried to rewrite your whole script."
He stood up, dusting the crumbs off his shirt.
"She's at home, Zayn. Probably beating Salar 4-0 by now. You can sit here and stare at these walls until they're finished, but if you don't go over there and show her that the boy she loved is still breathing somewhere under that tie, you're going to be married to a woman who looks at you like a stranger for the rest of your life."
Rayan patted my shoulder—a heavy, grounding thud.
"Eat the food. Then go talk to your fiancée. And for heaven's sake, take the tie off. You look like you're attending your own board meeting."
He walked out, leaving the scent of grease and truth hanging in the dusty air. I looked at the halwa puri, then at the door. For the first time in years, the "CEO" didn't have a plan.
But for the first time in years, I didn't want one. I just wanted to go home.