Gunnah e Shab

24. White • سفید

He brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His hand resting on her flushed cheek, the pads of his thumb brushing aside the trail left behind by one of her tears.

"Don't close off. Okay?"

"How can I not? I—I want to help you Azmaray. I really want to. But my body shuts down when I'm near you. I take a backseat in my own head. I've always ever known men use women—sex at that for comfort". She whispered.

Speaking her heart out loud for the first time, Laila broke into tears. Her chest caved and collapsed. Her shoulders slumped and hit his arms. Sobbing with pain in her eyes, looking at him with blurred vision. She hoped he had a way to save her, before she drowned completely. The power of seduction seeped deep into her bones but as a human Laila yearned for that comfort, Ayna spoke about. The ones her sister's novels had. The silent understanding.

"Laila it's normal for you to feel that way. Par meri jaan agar ap ko kabhi bhi aisa mehsoos ho tou, let me know. I will stand by you, help you" [But my life if you ever feel like this,] he comforted.

"I don't regret who I've been Azmaray. I just wish I understood emotions better," she spoke.

"Bohat sai insaan emotions ko tarjeeh nahi detay. You haven't missed out much. But I promise to help you out," [A lot of humans don't give emotions importance.] He replied.

———

Anbar brushed her thick silky hair. Frowning as she observed her black roots peeking from under the light auburn dye. Tucking her hair into a three strand braid, starting at the top of her head, looping as she went, stopping when her arms began to ache under the weight of her hair. Wrapping a flimsy hair tie around her ends and fixing the stray baby hairs, she turned around. Wrapping her white chiffon veil on her head loosely, she walked down stairs with conviction her eyes searching for her husband.

To her luck, he was at home. She took a sigh of relief marching upto him. Her features relaxed as she slid on the sofa beside him, her hands resting on top of his. The local news channel on full blast, observing the country's political turmoil as Alamgeer Ahad took the oath as the nation's prime minister.

"Asghar," she tapped his shoulder.

"Anbar". He replied with equal seriousness.

"We need to go to Islamabad tomorrow," she informed.

Asghar looked at her with contempt. His face filling up with signs of confusion, going in his mind for the days agenda. As far as he could remember, there was no such plan. He was meant to supervise the apple fields tomorrow and then stop by their stables to have a look at the horses before this year's tourists arrived. He was sure a trip to Islamabad would not have slipped his mind—especially if it was with his wife.

"Isn't the dress already delivered? Why the sudden trip?"

"My roots are growing out. I need to visit my hair stylist," she pointed at her head.

"Roots?" He stared at her for more explanation.

"You know the part of your head where the hair grows out of?"

"Shouldn't they grow out then?"

"Asgh—ofcourse they should. But as you can see, I'm not a natural red head and need to get it touched up so that the black doesn't show". She explained.