The morning sunlight crept through the curtain gaps, landing softly on the living room floor. Washma sat curled up on the corner sofa, her legs tucked under her. Her suitcase was still pressed beside the wall, unopened since last night, a silent symbol of her unsettled state.
She had barely begun to settle into this house, and already, there were unspoken rules that weighed heavy. Aunty had made it clear that the bedroom was not for lounging in the daytime—"This is not your room to sleep in all day," she had said, "You'll stay in the living. Girls don't get used to laziness here."
So here Washma was, sitting on the couch, feeling watched even by silence.
She picked up the remote and began flipping through TV channels. Nothing felt familiar. No Urdu dramas, no early morning shows from Pakistan. Just accents that felt foreign, hosts that smiled too much, and programs she couldn't understand yet. But she kept watching, just to pass the time… and to feel less lonely.
She was a young woman in her early twenties, tall with a graceful frame. Her innocent face held the kind of beauty that didn't need effort—a complexion like soft cream, big sparkling eyes that carried both wonder and a hint of silent pain. Her thick dark hair fell behind her shoulders, and her scarf was loosely wrapped—barely clinging on to her chest, as it usually did at home.
Suddenly, the main door clicked. Washma turned her head gently.
Adeel.
He entered, dressed in his usual branded hoodie and jeans, the air around him thick with the smell of cologne and smoke. His hair still gelled up from wherever he had been. He dropped his car keys on the side table and leaned against the wall—his sharp eyes now fixed on Washma.
She immediately felt it.
The way his gaze ran across her face, then lingered longer than it should have. There was no kindness or warmth in it—just an uncomfortable stillness, the kind that makes your skin tighten. She looked down immediately and adjusted her scarf, pulling it closer to her chest, a reflex born of discomfort.
Adeel smirked slightly.
"You watching TV?" he asked casually, his voice low and stretched with arrogance.
"Yes," she replied softly, not looking up. Her voice barely made it across the room.
He stepped into the living room, then dropped himself onto the single couch across from her, still watching.
"You don't talk much, do you?" he said with a half-smile. "Girls in London aren't this shy."
Washma didn't respond. Instead, she reached for the remote and turned down the volume slightly.
Adeel leaned forward on his knees, "It's okay, you'll get used to this place… people change here," he said with a certain tone. One that felt more like a warning than comfort.
She swallowed hard.
"I'm going to make tea," she said suddenly, standing up with the excuse to leave the room. As she walked past him, she could feel his eyes follow her.
In the kitchen, she took a deep breath and clutched the counter. Her heart was racing—not out of fear, but that growing awareness that this place wasn't just unfamiliar—it could be unsafe.
She poured water into the kettle, her hands trembling slightly. In her mind, she heard her mother's voice again:
"Take care of yourself, Washma… not everyone outside will protect you the way we do."
And she knew, this journey was far from easy.
---
Whisper in the Dark
That night, London's cold crept through the walls more than it did through the air. Washma lay curled up on the thin mattress on the floor of Uncle Rehmat and Aunty's bedroom. She had only a small blanket and a pillow they gave her when she arrived. The silence of the house felt heavier than the darkness.
She tossed once… twice. Something didn't feel right. Her skin tingled.
Suddenly, her eyes fluttered open. The hallway door creaked gently. The light from the corridor spilled into the room in a thin line.
There—a shadow moved.
It wasn't a dream. Her senses tightened. Her breath caught in her throat.
She blinked again.
Adeel.
He stood silently near her bedding, just a few feet away. His presence was not accidental—it was watchful. Predatory. His eyes met hers in the dim light. Washma sat up instantly, wrapping the blanket tightly around her chest, her scarf missing in sleep, her thick, unbound hair falling wildly across her shoulders.
Before either of them could speak—
"Adeel?" Aunty's sleepy voice cut the stillness.
Uncle Rehmat stirred next to her, alarmed.
Adeel didn't flinch. His face twisted back into calm arrogance.
"I just came in to get the tissue box," he said quickly, his tone smooth, too smooth. "There's none left in my room."
Uncle Rehmat reached toward the side table and passed him the tissue box silently, still half-asleep.
"Next time, knock," Aunty added coldly, her eyes narrowing.
Adeel took the box, but not without one last look at Washma—a stare sharp enough to wound.
Washma stood still, pressed to the wall, covering herself with her arms as though trying to shrink from sight. Her heart pounded loud in her ears. Her face burned with confusion, fear, and shame.
As Adeel left the room, she slowly sat back on the mattress, her back to the wall, eyes wide open, no longer able to sleep.
She whispered under her breath:
"Ya Allah… keep me safe."
And somewhere deep inside, for the first time, she missed not just her family… she missed safety. She missed being invisible to danger.
---
The rest of the night passed with Washma lying wide-eyed on the thin mattress, her back to the wall, blanket pulled tight around her. Every creak, every shifting sound of the house seemed louder than it should have been. She couldn't stop replaying the moment over and over—the way Adeel stood, the look in his eyes, and the sharp chill of fear that had crept through her body like ice.
She missed her own room. Her sister Zainab's sleepy complaints. Her Ammi's late-night tea. Her Abbu's quiet snoring from down the hallway. And Imran bhai, who never let her feel unprotected even for a moment.
Here, she was alone. Truly alone.
When the first light of morning began to slip through the curtain, she hadn't slept at all.
Washma stayed quiet, folding away her bedding and heading into the kitchen slowly. Uncle Rehmat greeted her warmly, unaware of the storm in her chest. She smiled back, faint and strained. He offered to make tea again, but she gently declined, saying she'd try herself today.
Ali Bhai returned home after dropping his daughters at school. By that time, both Amna Bhabhi and Saliha had already left for work. As he stepped into the dining area, he called out to Washma. She was in the kitchen, hesitantly trying to make breakfast for herself.
"Washma, no need to make breakfast," he said warmly. "It's already on the dining table—I prepared some for you too."
Ali Bhai, who usually prepared breakfast for his wife and daughters every morning, had now naturally included Washma in his care. Touched by the gesture, Washma stepped out of the kitchen, offered a soft salaam, and quietly took her seat at the table. Her face looked pale, her eyes tired.
"Washma, are you alright?" he asked, concern evident in his tone.
She nodded gently. "Yes bhai, just didn't sleep all night."
Ali Bhai gave her a kind look. "You know you can share anything with me or your Bhabhi, right?"
Washma hesitated before replying, "No bhai… just missing my family."
"You didn't speak to them yet?"
"I want to," she admitted softly, "but… I don't have any personal space in the house. I feel uncomfortable talking in front of everyone."
Ali Bhai immediately understood. "You're right," he said gently. "You know, there's a lovely park just across the road—it's safe and peaceful. If you ever feel down or want to talk to your family in private, you can go there. It'll help."
Washma gave a thankful nod, a small relief softening her face.
"But for today," he continued with a smile, "I have different plans for you. I'm taking you to Central London. I'll show you around, and maybe you'll feel a little more at home. So, get ready—you have just thirty minutes. We'll be taking the underground from our nearest station."
They lived in Willesden, a diverse and bustling neighborhood in northwest London. Washma's heart fluttered—nervous, but curious. Maybe the city would open its arms to her in ways this house hadn't yet.
---
First Steps into a New World
After quickly freshening up and changing into a modest outfit with her scarf carefully draped over her shoulders, Washma met Ali Bhai near the door. He was already dressed, holding an Oyster card in one hand and a warm smile on his face.
"You ready?" he asked.
Washma gave a small nod, her nerves dancing inside her.
They walked through the quiet residential streets of Willesden, where rows of red-brick houses stood under a cloudy June sky. Children in school uniforms passed them, and the smell of fresh bread drifted from a nearby bakery. As they approached the underground station, the rumble of the arriving train grew louder.
Washma had only seen the London Tube in YouTube videos—now, the real thing buzzed before her.
Ali Bhai guided her with ease, helping her tap the card, explaining the lines and maps, and how the trains worked. She noticed how many people walked past without even glancing—everyone seemed so occupied in their own world. So different from the warmth and chaos of Lahore.
They changed at Baker Street station, and when they came above ground, the sight before her made Washma pause.
London.
She stood among centuries-old architecture, stone buildings, black cabs, and the double-decker buses that once seemed like fantasy. People of all backgrounds walked together. Pigeons fluttered in the sky, and a street violinist played soft music under the overcast clouds.
"This is your new city," Ali Bhai said. "It's big. Cold. Fast. But if you're strong, it will accept you."
They walked through Oxford Street, passed Hyde Park, and eventually stood near the London Eye, where the River Thames flowed silently beneath gray skies.
Ali Bhai offered to take her photo, and for the first time in days, Washma gave a tiny, fragile smile.
They sat on a bench with warm coffee in their hands, looking out over the river.
Ali Bhai broke the silence. "This city will feel strange at first. Maybe even unkind. But keep reminding yourself—this is part of your journey. You'll grow here."
Washma looked down at her cup, then out at the water. The wind was colder than Lahore's breeze, the people spoke faster, but somehow, for a moment, she felt a little lighter.
Her mobile vibrated—the one Ali Bhai had given her. A message from Zainab, her little sister:
"Miss you Baji. Tell me everything. Love you."
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.
"I'll be okay," she whispered to herself. "I have to be."