Scene 1 — Cafeteria Corner: Two Brothers at Lunch
The school bell sang its familiar song and the City School cafeteria filled with the happy chaos of children. Trays clicked, voices rose and fell, and the steam from lunchboxes rose like small clouds.
At a corner table, Ubaid and Irfan sat side by side. Ubaid—tall for his six years—unwrapped a paratha and egg, while Irfan, smaller and fierce-eyed, had a neat box of pulao. The two brothers talked in low, conspiratorial voices, their laughter small and private.
"Bhai," Ubaid said between chews, "if the teacher gives a surprise test again, I'll pretend I fainted."
Irfan giggled and mimicked, "Aree, put the fan on me and say 'doctor!'"
They both laughed, and Irfan's hand found Ubaid's shoulder. At the other end of the hall, kids crowded tables and tossed crackers into each other's baskets. It was ordinary, noisy, safe.
Yaqoob pushed through the double doors, tray in one hand, eyes sweeping the room like someone searching for the exit more than for company. There was still a faint bruise across his lip from last week's incident—an absence that sat poorly on his face.
When his eyes fell on Ubaid and Irfan, something inside tightened. He had rehearsed the apology all morning: the single quiet sentence that would undo a week of mischief. He straightened his shoulders and took a step in their direction.
"Just say it," he told himself. "Say it now."
But as he closed the gap, the brothers rose at the same time, as if by agreement.
"Let's go to the playground, Irfan," Ubaid said aloud, slinging their tiffin boxes closed.
Irfan nodded and they walked away together, their footsteps light and unconcerned. Yaqoob watched them go, the apology crumpling in his throat.
He stood frozen for a heartbeat, then another. The cafeteria buzzed around him—plates, voices, the clatter of a metal cart—but Yaqoob felt an isolation so large he could have drowned in it.
"Maybe tomorrow," he muttered at last, and turned toward the window, watching the brothers as they vanished into sunlight.
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Scene 2 — Corridor of Quiet: End of School
The rest of the day moved in a haze. Yaqoob attended classes, answered once or twice when called, but mostly stared out of the window. His motions were mechanical—pack bag, wait for dismissal—the way someone goes through the steps of a ritual to survive a day.
When the bell rang finally, a rush of color and motion flooded the corridors. Children spilled into the playground and the gate area. Yaqoob lingered at the doorway, expecting the brothers to reappear, to catch him before he left. They did not.
Ubaid and Irfan walked out talking about the cricket match they had planned on the weekend, their conversation bright and ordinary. Yaqoob watched them until they disappeared into the crowd and then walked home alone, the weight of the unsaid apology settling like a stone in his chest.
"Tomorrow," he told himself again, and the word was a small prayer.
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Scene 3 — A Manager's Morning: Imran at Amana Superstore
At the Amana Superstore the next morning the hustle began early. As co-owners, Maryam and Rimsha had set a reputation for neat aisles and friendly service; Imran, as General Manager, kept the engine running smoothly. He checked inventory, signed delivery notes, and greets staff with a curt nod that always softened into something like a smile.
At 8:10 a.m., a group notification pinged on the staff WhatsApp. Rimsha's name appeared: "I'm feeling ill today — need to rest for 3 days. Please manage without me."
Imran read it twice. A small heat of worry rose in his chest. He shot a private message immediately.
Imran: "Rimsha — are you serious? Do you need a doctor? I can help with medicine."
Her reply came quick but measured.
Rimsha: "Viral fever. Doctor said rest. I'll be fine. Please tell Maryam and handle my desk."
Imran didn't let it rest. He picked up the phone and called her personal number. She answered on the third ring, voice thin but steady.
"Rimsha, you're sure? Have you taken the meds on time? Hydration? Don't ignore it."
She laughed softly, tired. "I've done all. Don't worry, Imran. I'm okay. You run the floor. Maryam and I both trust you."
That evening on the shop floor Imran found himself glancing to the Ladies' Palace counter more times than the ledger demanded. The counter where Rimsha usually stood was quiet — her clipboard untouched. He was managing returns when, on autopilot, he turned to the cashier.
"—Rehana, bring the new tester pack. Rimsha—" He stopped, cheeks warming as he realized he'd called the owner's name out loud before her nickname could disguise the slip.
Rehana smiled with gentle amusement. "Sir, I'm Rehana. But I get it — Rimsha's a hard name to forget."
"You keep teasing," Imran said, laughing to hide how much her absence tightened something inside him. "Just make sure counters run smooth. I'll check in an hour."
"Right, sir," Rehana replied, folding a pile of receipts.
Imran walked back to his office with the soft gravity of missing someone he didn't yet know how to say he missed.
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Scene 4 — Calls and Concern
Rimsha's phone buzzed off and on throughout the day — Imran's practical texts, Maryam's calm check-ins, a few staff messages about shelf adjustments. Each time her lip twitched into a small smile. She wanted to reply with more than a two-line reassurance, but the fever made her slow and wary of exerting herself.
Imran, meanwhile, called often. Each call ended with a short checklist: medication, fluids, rest. His voice felt more tender than managerial on those calls; he tried to hide it with instructions about the weekly sales summary, but Rimsha heard the softer thread beneath.
At noon he attempted brisk professionalism when the store became busy. He stepped out to the Ladies Palace, pockets full of coins and receipts, and again said the wrong name to a customer before he caught himself.
"Sorry — Rimsha, I mean Rehana," he blurted. The counter erupted in mild laughter, and Rehana wagged a finger at him.
"You owe Rimsha a chai when she returns," she teased. "Or maybe two."
Imran promised. Rehana's good-humored ribbing made the hours feel less hollow.
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Scene 5 — Evening: A Late Night Visit
By eleven Imran's worry had turned from abstract to physical. He'd told himself he would respect her rest, but hers was a quiet house and he knew she lived alone now — after their parents' death and Maryam's marriage, Rimsha kept the family home; it was both a comfort and a hollow for lonely evenings.
He drove over, the city quiet and cool. He rang once, then twice. After the third ring, the bolt slid and Rimsha opened the door, hair loose, shawl around her shoulders. Her face lit with surprise and relief at the sight of a familiar, concerned face.
"Imran? It's late — you shouldn't have come."
His voice had the small, rough edge of someone who'd been holding back. "I couldn't sleep. I wanted to make sure you're okay."
She stepped aside and let him in. The small lounge smelled of chamomile and the faint scent of cough syrup. They sat close but respectfully on the sofa; the TV idle, a single lamp burning at low light.
"How are you feeling?" he asked after a minute.
"Tolerable," she said honestly. "Doctor said take rest. I tried to sleep but coughing woke me up."
He watched her—the slope of her cheek, the way she tried not to complain. "You should be in bed. I'll just sit for a while, then leave."
She hesitated a moment, then rose slowly. "Imran, will you have anything? It's nothing formal — I can make tea if you want."
He shook his head immediately. "No. Sit. Don't move."
She ignored him, smiled, and moved toward the kitchen. After a few minutes the clinking of glass came and she returned with a single glass of chilled drink, the condensation beading on the side.
"This is nonsense," Imran said, half-laughing, half-reproach. "You shouldn't be up making anything for me."
Rimsha set the glass down in front of him. "It's not formality," she said quietly. "At home, we were taught to give something when someone comes over. It's respect, Imran. Hospitality is part of our religion too."
Imran looked at her for a long moment and then picked up the glass. He drank slowly. The cold liquid soothed him and the simple gesture of being cared for warmed him more than he expected.
They talked then—about the store, about small inventory annoyances, and then about softer things: a memory of their father measuring tea, of Maryam organizing a festival stall, of how the Superstore had become a second home for many. The talk never edged into confessions; both kept the line of friendship neat. Still, things unsaid thrummed between them, comfortable and dangerous both.
An hour slipped by. The late clock pressed its soft insistence.
"Rimsha," Imran said finally, standing up. "I don't want to leave you alone but I must go. Early morning at the store."
She walked him to the door. For a moment neither spoke. At the step she said, a little breathless:
"Thank you for coming… but you didn't have to."
"I know," he said, smiling in the dark. "I would rather be considered foolish than absent."
He stepped into the cool night air, his breath clouding for a second, and walked to his car. From the gate she watched him until the tail lights slid away. Then she closed the door, went straight to bed, and slept with a small, steady smile on her face.
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Scene 6 — The Morning After
The next morning at Amana Superstore Imran moved with the bright, purposeful energy of someone who'd slept badly but with the comfort of having done the right thing. He filed the delivery docket with precision and then tapped the staff group once more.
"Take care of Counters," he wrote. "Rehana, cover Ladies Palace for the morning; Maryam, I'll meet you at 10 to discuss the weekend order."
He paused before hitting send and added a private note to Rimsha: "Drink warm liquids. Call me if anything."
She replied after a while: "Thank you. Feeling a little better."
And somewhere in the heart of the Superstore—the owners' office, the counters, the shelves that felt like old friends—life continued moving: careful, hopeful, and threaded with small unspoken loyalties that would, in time, form the truer shapes of love.
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