Chapter: weeks later
It had been four days.
Four long, silent, eye-contact-avoiding, WhatsApp-unchecking, seat-behind-him-ignoring days.
And not just any four days. Four freaking days since she had stopped talking to me.
I stood outside the school gates like a statue no one wanted to sculpt. Backpack slung lazily, tie barely hanging on, and a half-eaten biscuit in my mouth. The sun blazed like it had personal beef with me, and the only relief was the faint breeze blowing from the east—the direction of Vasco.
Vasco. Her colony.
The one joke I used to tease her with:
"Madam Vasco da Gama, chalti ho toh lagta hai India abhi discover hoga."
She used to roll her eyes so hard, I was afraid they'd get stuck.
Now, even my jokes don't get a blink.
I sighed and looked at the bypass corner.
There she was.
Iman Shafi Khan.
In her uniform;a navy-blue pleated skirt with a sharp sailor-style top, white-striped cuffs, and a knotted scarf around the collar. Her legs covered in sleek black tights that matched her polished shoes — and even the way she leaned against the wall felt different. Sharper. Sharper and deadlier.
We made eye contact. Sort of.
She blinked, looked through me like I was Vasco's broken statue, and walked past.
I followed on my cycle—maintaining the distance of a rejected suitor from an old Mughal court painting.
Why She's Not Talking to Me?
(Backtrack)
Okay, here's the thing.
Ever since we opened that 200-year-old book from the St. Paul's library—things got…weird.
The book had been addressed to a Prince, signed by someone named Noor Jahan or written by her or something I dont know. We haven't figured that part out yet.
There were words like blessed with blood, unopened till the right eyes read it, and some map fragments tucked in a hidden sleeve. It's like a whole war-and-love story locked inside Urdu poetry and ink-stained parchment.
And then... she just stopped talking to me.
Not even a "shut up, Ahad" — and that's her classic.
I replayed every word I'd said. Every smirk. Every sentence .
Was she hurt? Angry? Triggered?
Maybe it was because I said:
"I bet the prince forgot her before he even left the palace."
And she went quiet.
---
Back to Today — School
After Miss Brigainza's announcement--nearly after 2 weeks --of a "co-ed friendly reshuffling" because apparently, group activities are now character-building.
Just say you're bored, ma'am.
Suhail and Iman were to sit together right behind me.
And me? Right in the middle of regret and regret's twin.
I turned a little, just enough to try a "Hey."
She pulled out her pen with the elegance of a queen and didn't even blink.
It felt like being executed… politely.
"Tough crowd," I muttered to myself.
On the new seating arrangement day we were fine,even after weeks of that.But after that.These consecutive 4 days she has been ignoring me.Damnit,I hate to admit thus.But,I am lost!
Even Suhail, who'd noticed the frost between us, whispered during Chemistry,
"Bro… did you insult her ancestors or what?"
I shrugged. "I think I insulted a fictional prince."
---
Later That Day – Breaktime (2 weeks later)-She had started ignoring me.
She and Shanzay sat under the middle tower archway—classic Iman spot, where sun fell just right on her journal pages. I stood nearby, trying not to look like a stalker, failing spectacularly.
I heard Shanzay say something about Hafiz, the guy who'd once gotten too clingy.
Something about Ahad being there the night he tried to follow her.
Iman didn't speak much. She just listened. That's what hurt the most.
Because when Iman listens without looking at you, it means she's protecting herself.
That was four DAYS . EARLIER
Four days of writing "Sorry" and deleting it.
Four days of flipping pages in the 1857 book, hoping she would sit beside me and start translating again.
Four days of looking at her like the Prince must have looked at Noor Jahan's last letter—too late.
But today… someone else was returning.
Sara.
She had messaged in the morning:
"Landing at 9. School,tommorrow. Don't act like you didn't miss me."
Iman would talk to her.
Sara would notice.
And maybe, just maybe, she'd drag Iman back to my side with that calm wisdom of hers that always felt like Sufi poetry wrapped in sarcasm.
Maybe tomorrow, I'd finally hear her voice again.
4 days,just 4 days of not talking to her.And i am already turning like a walking heart broken man.