I thought I could avoid the inevitable if I just stayed away from the library. I thought if I didn't see him, the "I don't know" wouldn't feel so permanent.
I was wrong.
"Alayna, darling, open the door! We're not leaving until we see how the lace sits on your shoulders," Auntie Warda's voice chirped through my bedroom door, followed by the sound of heavy fabric bags being dragged across the floor.
I groaned, pulling the pillow over my face. It was Tuesday morning, and the house was already vibrating with the energy of a thousand wedding preparations.
I sat up, the room spinning slightly as I realized I hadn't slept more than four hours. I unlocked the door, bracing myself.
Nawal, Iqra, my mother, and Auntie Warda were standing there like a bridal commando unit. They were holding a heap of fabric that looked like it had been spun from moonlight and expensive trauma.
"It's not just a dress," Iqra said, her eyes scanning my face with that same bluntness she'd had at the shop. "It's the Nikah outfit. Warda found it in a boutique that doesn't even have a sign on the door. It's custom."
They moved into my room, taking over my space. My mother started clearing my desk of my paintbrushes to make room for the garment bag.
"Mom, don't move those," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "I was working on a sketch."
"You can sketch later," Auntie Warda said, smiling at me. "Right now, you have a husband to get ready for. Zayn is being so difficult about the venue, so we've decided to take the pressure off and just focus on you. You need to look radiant. We want you to be the one thing he doesn't have a list of demands for."
I stepped into the dressing area, the weight of the silk dress feeling like a lead blanket. As they helped me into it, the room suddenly felt very small.
Every pin they adjusted, every measurement they took, felt like a stitch closing the gap between the girl I was and the "Malik bride" I was becoming. I looked in the mirror, and the reflection that stared back was someone I didn't fully recognize—someone who looked like she belonged in a polished, cold office in Islamabad, not the girl who spent her days with charcoal on her fingers.
"It's perfect," Nawal whispered, her eyes softening. "Alayna, you look like a queen."
"I look like a doll," I corrected quietly.
"That's how it feels at first," Iqra said, stepping behind me and meeting my eyes in the mirror. She was the only one who seemed to notice the way I was holding my breath. "But you're not a doll. You're a Siddiqui. And if you go down that aisle looking like you're ready to bolt, everyone will see it. Including my brother."
"Maybe I am ready to bolt," I murmured, so low only she could hear.
Iqra smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Then don't look at the dress, Alayna. Look at him. If you're going to be miserable, at least make sure he's miserable right there with you."
I stared at my reflection, the heavy silk pulling at my skin. I wasn't just being dressed for a wedding; I was being dressed for a role. And as they adjusted the veil, I realized that for the first time, I wasn't just dreading the marriage—I was starting to dread who I would be once it was over.