Pakistan was wrapped in cold mist; the restless heart of Karachi refused to sleep even in the deepest hours of night.
Inside the Ahmad house, the only son of Zaheer Ahmad—ghar ka bada beta—Fakhir, lay sprawled on his bed, eyes glued to the glowing screen of his PlayStation.
“Fakhir, dinner ke liye aa jao,” Ammi’s voice floated in from the hallway.
“Ji Ammi, bas aa raha hoon… panch minutes,” he called back without looking away.
From the kitchen, Samina sighed dramatically. “Ya Allah, yeh ladka pichhle pandrah minute se sirf ‘panch minutes’ hi bol raha hai. Aini beta, jaa kar bula lao use.”
Aini looked up from her textbook, blinking behind her glasses. “Ji, Badi Ammi.”
She closed the book halfway, still reading as she walked, words dancing in her head. Outside Fakhir’s room, she stopped.
“Fakhir… khana lag gaya hai. Badi Ammi bula rahi hain,” she said softly, eyes still on the page.
No answer.
She opened her mouth to repeat herself—
“Zain! Arey cover de na! Mar jaaunga main!” Fakhir suddenly shouted.
Aini jumped. Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs. The book slipped from her fingers and landed on the floor.
She pressed a hand to her chest, breathing hard.
Stupid.
“Pehle ignore karo, phir dara do… aur khud game mein mashroof,” she muttered bitterly, picking up her book.
Anger simmering, she marched inside and switched off the console.
The screen went black.
“Arre!” Fakhir spun around. “Aini, pagal ho kya? Kya masla hai tumhein?”
Her voice trembled—not with fear, but restrained frustration. “Badi Ammi tumhein kab se bula rahi hain. Khana thanda ho raha hai.”
“Toh aa hi raha tha na! Ek match bhi chain se nahi khelne deti tum,” he snapped.
She crossed her arms. “Match baad mein jeet lena. Pehle khane aa jao… warna Bade Abbu ko bol doongi.”
He groaned. “Blackmail shuru.”
“Reminder samajh lo.”
He stood up reluctantly.
As they reached the dining room, Fakhir suddenly tugged her braid and sprinted to his chair.
“Duffer!” Aini shouted, rubbing her scalp. “Kabhi toh mature ho jao!”
His laughter echoed back at her.
Dinner buzzed with voices, clinking plates, and endless opinions.
Politics.
Inflation.
Education.
Life.
Zaheer cleared his throat. “Aini beta, padhai kaisi chal rahi hai?”
Her face lit up instantly. “Achhi, Bade Abbu. Preliminary exam ka result aaya hai… 87 percent.”
“Alhamdulillah!” Zaheer smiled proudly. “Fakhir, tumhare?”
Fakhir stiffened. “69 percent, Abbu.”
Zaheer nodded. “Theek hai… par thodi aur mehnat zaroori hai. Aini ko dekho. ”
Dadi leaned forward. “Number toh theek hain. Par Aini, sirf kitaabein hi sab kuch nahi hoti. Kal ko tumhari saas poochegi, ghar sambhalna kisne sikhaya?”
The words hit like tiny stones.
Aini’s fingers tightened around her spoon.
Habib added casually, “Amma theek keh rahi hain. Hamesha padhti rehti ho. Thoda ghar ka bhi socha karo.”
Her eyes burned.
Ayesha placed a gentle hand over her daughter’s. “Bas… rehne do.”
Samina intervened quickly, “Ho gaya. Aini bhi thak jaati hai. Khane do use.”
Fakhir didn’t notice.
He was smiling at his phone.
Amna.
Fakhir’s POV
Amna.
Just her name was enough to make my chest feel lighter, as if something warm spread slowly through my ribs.
We had been in the same class for two years now—sharing benches, glances, half-finished notes, and quiet moments.
She had the perfect smile.
The kind of confidence that didn’t need to be loud to be noticed.
The kind of beauty every boy wanted.
And somehow… she chose to talk to me.
Her message blinked on my screen.
Kal college aa rahe ho?
I smiled before I even realized it.
Bilkul. Tumhein dekhne ka jo bahaana mil jaata hai, I typed back, my fingers moving faster than my thoughts.
The corner of my lips lifted, my heart foolishly light, my mind drifting into harmless dreams.
Then—
A sound cut through the air.
Wet.
Sharp.
Wrong.
“Abbu—!”
The word tore out of my throat before I could stop it.
Blood.
Too much of it.
Red, dark, unreal—staining his lips, his hands, the floor.
My stomach twisted violently, my heart crashing down into my chest like something breaking from the inside.
Ammi screamed his name, her voice cracking into pieces.
Aini rushed forward, her hands trembling as she fanned him with her dupatta, her face drained of color but her movements desperate, determined.
Chachu’s voice thundered through the room, panicked and commanding.
“Hospital! Abhi ke abhi!”
My legs felt weak as I searched for the keys, my fingers refusing to cooperate, my thoughts turning into noise.
“Ammi… Chachu… Abbu ko bahar lao,” I said, my voice shaking despite my effort to sound steady. “Main car nikaalta hoon.”
Something pressed into my palm.
The keys.
I looked up.
Aini.
Her eyes were wide, glossy with fear—but steady.
Stronger than mine.
“Jaldi,” she whispered, like the word itself was holding her together.
Outside, everything moved in broken pieces—voices overlapping, doors slamming, footsteps running without direction.
At the car, she came close again, pressing my wallet and phone into my hands.
“Drive carefully,” she said softly, even when the world around us was falling apart.
She was scared.
I could see it in her eyes, in the way her fingers trembled.
But she was standing.
Holding herself together for all of us.
I nodded, unable to trust my voice.
And then I drove.
The road turned into a blur of lights and shadows.
Sirens screamed somewhere in the distance.
Abbu coughed behind me.
Ammi prayed beside him.
I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles burned.
I am the son.
I am the bada beta.
I cannot fall apart.
They need me standing.
The hospital lights swallowed us whole—white, cold, merciless.
Time lost its meaning.
Minutes bled into hours.
Two of them.
Endless.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
Then the doctor finally spoke.
His voice was low.
Careful.
Emotionless.
Final.
“Zaheer Ahmad ko stage four blood cancer hai… kuch hi mahine baqi hain.”
The words did not register at first.
They hovered.
Echoed.
Then—
They shattered everything.
And just like that…
my world collapsed.
“Kya aap Zaheer Ahmed ke saath hain?” the nurse asked, her voice gentle, professional.
“Ji… woh mere bhai hain,” Chachu replied.
“Unhein hosh aa gaya hai. Aap unse mil sakte hain,” she said, then walked away.
Amma and Chachu hurried into Abbu’s room.
I stayed back.
I didn’t know what to say.
How to face him.
How to face reality.
How can he leave us?
The thought broke something inside me.
Exhaustion finally pulled me under, and I drifted into a dreamless sleep on the cold, uncomfortable hospital bench.
“Fakhir… Fakhir…”
Amma’s voice woke me.
“Ji, Ammi? Abbu kaise hain?” I asked frantically, sitting up.
“Woh so rahe hain. Main aur Habib yahin ruk rahe hain aaj raat. Tum ghar jao aur sabko—” She stopped, took a shaky breath, then continued, “—sabko batao kya hua. Phir thora rest karna. Kal subah nashta le kar aa jana.”
“Nahi, Ammi, main rukta hoon. Hum sabko phone pe bata dete hain,” I said desperately.
Samina Ammi shook her head. “Fakhir, ghar jao. Tum bohot thak gaye ho. Aur waise bhi yahan patient ke saath sirf do log ruk sakte hain. Tum Amma aur baqi sab ko sambhalo… aur Saiqa aur Fehmi ko bhi ghar bula lo.”
I nodded reluctantly.
“Koi zarurat ho to call kariyega,” I said softly.
The drive home was a blur of broken thoughts and burning eyes.
I didn’t even realize when I was standing at my door, knocking.
Aini’s POV
The house felt suffocating.
Everyone was awake, tense, pretending to be strong.
It was 1:30 a.m.
Amma had just put Dadi to sleep. We were still sitting in her room when we heard a knock.
“Main dekhti hoon,” I said, rushing to the door. Ammi and Faiza followed behind me.
It was Fakhir.
He looked… empty.
Tired. Drained. Hollow.
Like someone carrying emotions too heavy for his heart.
I stepped aside to let him in.
He walked in slowly and sat on the sofa, removing his shoes.
I hurried to bring him water.
“Fakhir…” I whispered.
Ammi sat beside him. Faiza took the other sofa.
He drank the entire glass in one go.
Silence fell.
Heavy. Terrifying.
He hesitated, as if speaking the words would make them real.
Then, finally—
“Abbu ko stage four blood cancer hai,” he said quietly.
My world shattered.
“Unke paas… bas kuch mahine baqi hain.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Bade Abbu… he’s going to leave us.
Tears blurred my vision.
Everything else faded into the background. I could hear Fakhir talking, but I couldn’t understand a word.
All I saw were my memories with Bade Abbu.
The way he loved me like his own daughter.
The way he loved Fakhir.
Fakhir…
I looked at him—really looked at him.
His shoulders were slumped.
His eyes empty.
The boy who always joked.
Always smiled.
Always stood strong.
Was gone.
In his place sat someone scared.
Someone drowning.
Someone who didn’t know how to carry this pain.
I wanted to say something.
Anything.
But what words could fix this?
What words could bring time back?
I heard him sobbing later, alone in his room.
Trying to be strong.
Failing.
Breaking.
And I… I sat outside his door.
Silent.
My tears soaking into the floor.
My heart aching for him.
For us.
For Bade Abbu.
For the time we were losing.
For the moments we would never get back.
I don’t remember when sleep finally took me
somewhere between pain and tears.
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