Mysha sat by her study table ,
pen in hand, staring at the blank page of her journal. Her thoughts raced as she tried to capture the chaos of emotions she couldn’t quite name.
"Zindagi hamesha uljhano ka guccha Rahi hai", she began , her voice barely above a whisper .
"Kabhi log samajh nahi aaye , kabhi khudko samjhane ki koshish chod di , har rishta ek imtihaan hai aur main toh hamesha is imtihan me nakaam rhi hu " .
She paused, tapping the pen against her lips. Her mind drifted to her father. Their bond was... complicated. He had always been distant, more concerned with appearances and control than the needs of his family.
“Abbu hamesha kehte the, ‘Mysha, khud par bharosa karo.’ Par woh khud mujh par kabhi bharosa nahi kar sake,” she muttered bitterly.
The pen moved again, words spilling onto the paper like a flood she could no longer hold back.
“Zindagi ek ajeeb si kashmakash hai. Kabhi lagta hai ke har koi mere khilaf hai, aur kabhi lagta hai ke shayad yeh sab mere apne jazbaat ka dhoka hai. Jo rishta hamesha se tut gaya ho, usse jodna kitna mushkil hota hai na? Par phir sochti hoon, kya us rishtay ko dobara jodne ki zarurat hai jo kabhi joda hi nahi gaya tha?”
Her eyes stung with unshed tears, but she blinked them away. Weakness was not something she allowed herself to feel openly.
“Abbu ka aur mera rishta... bas ek khamoshi ka rishta hai. Unka dil samajhne ki koshish ki hai, par unka khud ka dil shayad kabhi mujhe samajhna nahi chahta tha. Shayad meri tangi, meri zidd, unke liye bas ek bojh hai.”
She dwelled deeper into expressing her thoughts in her diary which she always does whenever she feels there's no one to listen
___________________
Arsalan sat in his office late at night, his head buried in his hands. The clinic was eerily silent, save for the faint hum of the AC. His day had been relentless, yet it wasn’t the endless line of patients or the surgeries that left him drained -it was the phone call he had received an hour ago.
It was his uncle, Malik Jameel. The man’s voice still echoed in Arsalan’s mind.
“You think you can outrun your blood, Arsalan? You’re my nephew, and like it or not, you owe me.”
Arsalan clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. “I don’t owe you anything, Mama. My life is my own.”
“Your life?” Jameel had laughed coldly. “You wouldn’t have this life without the name you carry. And don’t forget—one word from me, and your so-called respectable life will be reduced to dust.”
Arsalan had hung up the call, but his uncle’s words lingered. It wasn’t just a threat; it was a reminder of the shadow that had loomed over him for years. Jameel had always been a looming figure, a man who commanded fear and power, and who expected complete loyalty from his family.
But Arsalan had drawn a line long ago. Medicine was his escape, his sanctuary. He had fought tooth and nail to distance himself from the world of crime and corruption his uncle thrived in. Yet, Jameel’s hold was like a vice—tightening just when Arsalan thought he had slipped free.
As he sat there, a knock on the door startled him. It was his younger brother, Faizal, the ever-pragmatic physiotherapist.
“Still here?” Faizal asked, stepping inside.
“Can’t sleep,” Arsalan muttered.
Faizal sat across from him, his gaze steady. “You’ve been quiet since that call. What did mama want this time?”
Arsalan hesitated. “He wants me to do something. Something I’ll never do.”
“Then don’t,” Faizal said simply.
“It’s not that easy,” Arsalan replied, his voice laced with frustration. “He has the power to ruin everything I’ve worked for. This clinic, my reputation -everything.”
Faizal leaned forward, his expression firm. “And what about your principles? Isn’t that why you became a doctor? To prove you’re not like him?”
Arsalan sighed, the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. “Sometimes, it feels like no matter how far I run, he’ll always find a way to pull me back.”
Arsalan sighed, the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. “Sometimes, it feels like no matter how far I run, he’ll always find a way to pull me back.”
Faizal placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Then stop running, bhai. Stand your ground. Let him see that you’re not afraid anymore.”
For a moment, Arsalan felt a flicker of resolve. But as the night wore on, he knew the battle was far from over.
_____________
The next morning, Mysha woke early, determined to shake off the heaviness of her thoughts. She went about her day, but her mind kept circling back to Arsalan. She didn’t understand why the knowledge of his presence in her city had such an effect on her.
She found herself in the garden later, her sister’s laughter ringing in the air as they watered the plants. Mysha smiled, but her heart felt unsettled.
“Naya sheher, naye log... aur nayi soch,” she murmured to herself. “Kya yeh soch kisi ka asar hai, ya sirf mera apna vehem?”
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The faint light of dawn filtered through the blinds of Arsalan’s bedroom. He was already awake, his sleep disturbed by the weight of thoughts he couldn’t escape. Leaning against the headboard, he stared at the ceiling, replaying moments of the past few days.
His work usually demanded all his focus—a life spent serving others left little room for personal reflection. But lately, a peculiar thought kept creeping into his mind, one that was both unsettling and oddly comforting. Her.
Mysha.
The name had etched itself into his thoughts like an unsaid prayer. He didn’t understand why. He barely knew her, yet her sharp wit, her fiery spirit, and even her awkward hesitation had carved a place in his memory. He recalled the way her hands trembled when she reluctantly sat for her check-up, the way her gaze darted everywhere except toward him. She was like a puzzle—disjointed pieces of defiance, fear, and vulnerability, all wrapped in one.
“Focus, Arsalan,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, interrupting his thoughts. It was his mother.
“Beta, are you awake?”
"Yes, Ammi. Kya baat hai?”
“We’re meeting with the Khan family today,” she said, her tone cheerful yet laced with intent.
Arsalan frowned. “Khan family? For what?”
His mother hesitated before answering, “For you. Their daughter, Zainab, is back from London, and I thought…”
“Ammi, I don’t have time for this,” Arsalan cut her off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know how busy I am.”
“This isn’t about your time,” his mother replied, her voice firm. “It’s about your future. You can’t avoid this forever.”
The call ended with a heavy sigh from both ends. Arsalan knew his mother only wanted what was best for him, but he wasn’t ready to entertain the idea of marriage—especially not when his heart and mind felt so conflicted.
Time skip----
Arsalan stood in the delivery room, his gloved hands steady as he guided the young mother through her contractions. The room was filled with a mix of urgency and reassurance, with nurses bustling around while the mother’s cries echoed. This wasn’t an uncommon scene for him, but every delivery brought its own weight—new life, new hope, and sometimes, new fears.
“You’re doing great,” Arsalan said, his voice calm but firm. “Just one more push, come on , shabash.”
The young woman sobbed, her husband holding her hand tightly. “I can’t do this,” she whimpered.
“Yes, you can,” Arsalan encouraged, meeting her eyes with unwavering confidence. “You’re stronger than you think. Breathe deeply and push.”
Minutes felt like hours, but finally, the room was filled with the sharp cry of a newborn. Arsalan held up the tiny baby, his expression softening despite the chaos around him.
The mother’s tears turned to ones of joy as she cradled her son, and Arsalan took a step back, observing the scene with a quiet sense of accomplishment. But before he could leave, the nurse called out.
“Dr. Ahmed, the second baby is crowning.”
Arsalan turned back, his brow furrowing. Twins weren’t uncommon, but they always added an extra layer of complexity.
“Alright, let’s prepare for the second one,” he instructed.
The second baby’s delivery was more challenging. The baby’s position was difficult, and Arsalan’s focus sharpened as he worked to ensure both mother and child would be safe. The tension in the room was palpable, but Arsalan’s calm demeanor never wavered.
“Almost there,” he murmured, his hands precise and steady.
Finally, the second baby was delivered—a girl, tiny but healthy. Arsalan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“A boy and a girl,” he said, handing the baby to the nurse. “Perfect pair.”
The parents’ joy was overwhelming, and for a moment, Arsalan allowed himself to smile. These were the moments he lived for—the moments that made the long hours and emotional toll worth it.
As he left the room, peeling off his gloves, his thoughts drifted back to his own family. His mother would be thrilled to hear about the twins; she always loved such stories. But the thought of her also reminded him of the conversation they’d had that morning about meeting Zoya Khan.
Marriage. A life partner.
It wasn’t something Arsalan allowed himself to dwell on. His life was complicated enough without bringing someone else into it. Yet, for some reason, his thoughts kept circling back to Mysha.
He paused in the hallway, leaning against the wall. Why was she so difficult to forget? Her sharp tongue, her dramatic expressions, the way she tried to mask her vulnerability with defiance—it was like she had left a mark on him, one he couldn’t erase no matter how much he tried.
This is ridiculous, he thought, shaking his head. He had only met her once, and yet here he was, wondering if she ever thought about him the way he thought about her.
As he headed back to his office, Arsalan resolved to push the thought aside. He had a life to live, patients to treat, and a family legacy to fight against. Whatever this strange feeling was, it had no place in his world.
Or so he tried to convince himself.
______________
Later in evening, Mysha sat in her room, her notebook open but untouched. She had meant to work on her lecture notes, but her thoughts were too restless. Her eyes wandered to the window, where the city lights twinkled in the distance.
For years, she had prided herself on being practical, grounded. Love and romance were luxuries she couldn’t afford to indulge in--not when she had her family to support and her career to build. But now, for the first time, she found herself questioning that resolve.
Could she really let herself feel something for someone like Arsalan? Someone who seemed so far removed from her world, so out of reach?
Stop it, Mysha. You’re being foolish. She closed her notebook with a sigh, leaning back against the cushions.
Yet, despite her efforts to dismiss the thought, one memory lingered: the way Arsalan had looked at her that day in the clinic. Calm, steady, and with an intensity that made her heart stutter.
For the first time in a long while, Mysha felt unsure of herself. And it terrified her.
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Spoiler alert!!!!
"Did you heard? That our zarnish baaji's eldest son is getting married? " Mysha's maternal aunt said to her mother..
"Who? Arsalan? The doctor right?" Her mother asked
"Yesss him , I heard the girl's family is a prominent well known family and the girl is also a doctor" her maternal aunt said
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