The final blow came not with a shout, but with the rustle of expensive paper. It was a regular Thursday. Aaliyah was helping her mother sort the mail. Amidst the bills and magazines was a heavy, cream-colored envelope addressed to her in elegant calligraphy.
Her heart stopped. She knew that handwriting.
With trembling fingers, she opened it. Gold leaf shimmered under the hall light.
With the blessings of Allah (SWT),
Mr. And Mrs. Raza Khan
request the pleasure of your company
at the wedding ceremony of their son
Zayan to Maham Ahmed
The world tilted. The sounds of the street outside—the rickshaw horns, the vendor’s call—muffled into a dull roar. The paper slipped from her fingers.
“Aaliyah? Beta, what is it?” Farah asked, concerned.
“Nothing, Ammi,” Aaliyah managed to whisper, her voice strangely calm. “Just… an invitation. I need some air.”
She walked, not knowing where she was going. The vibrant streets of Lahore blurred into a watercolour of pain. The laughter of children, the scent of jasmine from a street vendor, the call for Asr prayer from a nearby mosque—all felt like assaults on her shattered senses.
Maham Ahmed. The name echoed. A girl from a wealthy family, someone they’d met briefly at a charity gala months ago. Pretty, bubbly, everything Aaliyah was not.
It was all a game. A cruel, beautiful game.
My dreams were my own foolishness.
He never saw me. Not really.
The thoughts swarmed, stinging like wasps. She found herself at the edge of the busy Canal Road, the traffic a relentless river of steel and light. The sunset painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, a cruel mockery of the beauty she once associated with hope.
Her phone buzzed in her purse. A message. From him.
“Hope you got the invitation. Would mean a lot if you could come. – Zayan”
The polite, casual tone was the final dagger. It meant nothing to him. Her years of love, her silent devotion, her reshaped dreams – they meant nothing.
A sob, long and wrenching, tore from her throat. The world spun. She stepped back, disoriented, her vision clouded with tears.
The blare of a horn was deafening, a shocked scream ripped through the air, and then… an impact that felt like the world collapsing into silence.
There was no pain. Just a strange, floating quiet. She was aware of faces, frantic voices, the distant wail of an ambulance. Someone was holding her hand. Her mother’s terrified face swam above her.
“Hold on, my jaan! Hold on! La ilaha illallah…”
Aaliyah tried to smile, to reassure her. She saw Hira crying, saw her father’s ashen face. They were loading her into the ambulance. The lights flashed, painting the gathering dusk in streaks of red.
At the hospital, there was a flurry of activity. But the quiet within her was growing, a deep, expanding pool. The beeps of the machines seemed to come from far away.
In the haze, a figure stood at the doorway of the emergency room. Tall, familiar, his face a mask of horror and disbelief. Zayan.
Their eyes met across the sterile, bright room. In his, she saw a storm of guilt, of shock, of a dawning, terrible understanding. In that moment, she knew he finally saw her. Not as a cousin, not as a game, but as a soul he had broken.
He took a step forward, but her father held him back, his own face grim with grief and anger.
Aaliyah felt no anger. The pain had burned itself out, leaving only a profound, aching sadness and an overwhelming exhaustion. The dreams of NUST, of shared laughter, of a life built together… they dissolved like mist under the sun.
She gathered the last fragments of her strength, the immense love for life and family that had always defined her, and directed it towards the shadow in the doorway.
With her final, shuddering breath, as the world faded to a soft, welcoming dark, she formed the words, a whisper only her soul could hear, the most selfless prayer of all:
“May your life… be happy, Zayan.”
And then, there was only peace, and the boundless, merciful embrace of the Divine, where no heart is ever unfulfilled, and every secret love is known.
Zayan’s wedding was postponed, then quietly cancelled. He never married Maham. The guilt became his constant companion, a shadow he could not outrun. He left for NUST, but the campus held no triumph, only ghosts. He excelled academically, but his smile never again reached his eyes.
He often visited Dadi Amma, who outlived her beloved granddaughter by two years. She never spoke of blame, only of forgiveness. “She loved you with a purity that asked for nothing in return,” Dadi said one day, her voice thin. “That is a rare gift. Do not waste the life she wished happiness for. Live well. Live with purpose. Be kind.”
Aaliyah’s room in her parents’ house remained as she left it. Her books, her simple jewellery, a pressed flower from Shalimar Gardens tucked in a diary. On the first page of that diary, in her graceful script, was a verse from Rumi:
“Love is the bridge between you and everything.”
Zayan, years later, would read it and finally understand. The bridge had been there, built by her patient, hopeful heart. He had only ever pretended to walk upon it, and in his carelessness, had caused it to collapse. He dedicated his life to building bridges of steel and concrete, hoping somehow to atone for the one made of heart he had destroyed. And in every prayer, until the end of his days, he whispered her name, asking for a forgiveness she had already, in her final moment, granted.
Part I – https://fmfblog.com/whispers-of-the-heart-part-i/
Written By: –
Mrf Rukaiya
Design By: –
Rtr. Kawindra Wickramasinghe
(Junior Blog Team Member 2025-26)
