I left the library an hour after Rayan. I didn't take my tie off. I didn't "relax." If anything, the air in my lungs felt tighter.
I drove back to the neighborhood, but I didn't park in my driveway. I left the car at the end of the street and walked. I needed the heat of the Karachi afternoon to ground me, to remind me that I wasn't in a climate-controlled office in the North anymore.
I reached the Siddiqui gate. I stood there for a long time, my hand hovering over the iron latch. Five years ago, I wouldn't have knocked. I would have whistled, or thrown a pebble at her balcony, or just walked in and raided their fridge.
Now, I felt like a trespasser.
I walked quietly along the side of the house, toward the large French windows of the TV lounge. The curtains were drawn back.
I saw her.
Alayna was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a controller in her hand, her brow furrowed in that intense concentration she used to get when she was mixing a difficult shade of violet. Salar was next to her, yelling at the screen, but Alayna was calm. She leaned into a turn, her shoulder brushing Salar's, laughing at something he said.
She looked happy. She looked like the girl who didn't have a "contract" hanging over her head.
I reached out, my fingers inches away from the glass. I wanted to tap on it. I wanted to see her face go from relaxed to surprised, to see if that spark of us was still there.
But then I saw the way she looked at the empty seat next to her—the one where I used to sit. She glanced at it for a split second, her smile faltering, a shadow of something—loneliness? resentment?—crossing her face before she masked it and turned back to the game.
The "I don't know" I'd whispered in the park felt like a physical barrier between us.
If I walked in now, I'd bring the "CEO" with me. I'd bring the heavy atmosphere of the wedding, the library, and the expectations of two dying grandfathers. I would ruin her afternoon.
I pulled my hand back.
I couldn't give her the boy who jumped the fence. Not yet. He was still buried too deep under the suits and the cold stares. And I refused to give her the version of me that was just a "merger."
I turned away from the window, walking back toward the street. I heard a burst of laughter from inside—Alayna must have scored. It was a beautiful sound, and it felt like a door slamming in my face.
I didn't go to her. I went to my own house, sat in my dark study, and opened my laptop.
If I couldn't be the man she loved, I would be the man who built her the most perfect library in the country. It was the only language I remembered how to speak.
But as the sun began to set, the blue light of the screen felt colder than ever.