After Hafsa and Haroon left, the house fell into a hushed calm. Aisha sat in her room, changed into her night clothes, her dupatta loosely draped over her shoulders, phone clutched between her palms like a lifeline. Her thumb kept tapping the screen absentmindedly—checking, swiping, unlocking, locking. The screen stayed dark. No message. No call. He had said he'd call later.

It has been more than 12 hours since she last saw Omar, and yet, something about this distance gnawed at her—slow and aching. She’d heard his voice just hours ago, but it hadn’t been enough. Not even close. She needed more. She needed to see the softness in his eyes when he smiled at her, to hear the little changes in his tone when he talked to her.