The Garden — 2:30 PM
C looked up at the sky.
The blue stretched endlessly above her — soft, deep, unfamiliar.
Clouds drifted slowly, shaped like things she couldn’t name.
The sun was warm on her face, even through her dupatta.
But her heart was not warm.
She looked at the moon.
Faint.
Pale.
Still visible in the afternoon sky.
A ghost of itself, waiting for night to reclaim it.
The same moon, she thought.
But it looks different here.
A tear slipped down her cheek.
She didn’t wipe it away.
29th August, 3 AM, she remembered.
That was the last time I saw the moon from home.
From my room.
From my window.
From beside Bisma.
Now it was 1st September.
Saturday.
Four days since she had left.
Sophia watched her.
C stood by the fountain, her head tilted upward, her large dupatta covering her head and body.
The September flowers bloomed around her — pink, yellow, white — but she was more beautiful than any of them.
So polite, Sophia thought.
So calm.
So slim.
So…
different.
She looked at C’s face — bare, no makeup, no jewelry, nothing but her natural beauty.
In the room, Sophia remembered, all the girls wear makeup.
Riya with her bold red lips.
Neha with her sharp eyeliner.
Even Yasmin puts on tinted moisturizer.
But C?
Nothing.
She doesn’t need it.
Riya stood beside Sophia, watching C too.
“Little kid,” Riya murmured.
C heard her.
She turned her head, her brown eyes soft and questioning.
“Jee?”
Riya sighed — a dramatic, affectionate sigh.
“Oh God.
Okay.
Listen to me, little kid.”
She pointed upward.
“This is the same sky.
The same sky as your home in Punjab, Pakistan.
Look at the moon.
Look at the stars.
They’re the same.
They’ve always been the same.
They will always be the same.”
C looked up again.
Her lips moved — soft, barely audible.
“Assalam o Alaikum.”
She spoke to the sky.
To the moon.
To the stars that were hiding, waiting for night.
“My name is C Ismail.”
A pause.
“Riya told me you are the same sky.
Same stars.
Same moon.
Above my home too.”
Her voice trembled.
“Please tell my Baba — don’t tire himself.
I will work hard, InshaAllah.”
A tear fell.
“Tell my Ami — I miss her cooking.
No one makes food like her.”
Another tear.
“Tell my Anita D — I miss talking to her.
I miss sitting beside her while she corrects my essays.”
Her voice broke.
“Tell my Bisma — I miss bringing chips from college for you.
I miss your small arms around my waist.”
Sophia and Riya exchanged glances.
Neither spoke.
Neither could.
The Promise
C’s voice grew stronger.
“Hamad Bhai.”
She closed her eyes.
“Thank you for trusting me.
Thank you for believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself.”
She opened her eyes.
Looked at the moon.
“I will work hard.
I will fulfill your dreams.
One day — one day, I will bring you here.
You will study too.
You will see this sky.
You will walk in this garden.”
She swallowed.
“Yes.
I miss you.”
Tears fell freely now.
Riya stepped closer.
“C…
what does Hamad do?”
C didn’t look at her.
She kept her eyes on the sky.
“He was a brilliant Computer Science student, Riya Baji.
Topper.
Brilliant.
But he chose Baba.
He chose us.
He gave up his dreams so we could have ours.”
She paused.
“Now he works in Baba’s shop.”
She didn’t tell Riya the details.
She didn’t know how.
The sacrifices were too deep, too personal, too raw.
But Riya understood enough.
She looked up at the sky.
“I’m Riya Stewart.”
She smiled.
“Tell C’s parents — I will take care of her.
She’s a very nice girl.
Sweet.
Positive vibe.
I’ll keep her safe.”
Sophia hugged C.
Warm.
Tight.
Sincere.
“C,” she said softly, “take your time.
You will feel home here.
Once you adjust, once you settle — you’ll see.”
C smiled.
“Jee.”
Room 101 — Evening
They returned to the room.
The light was softer now — evening gold, fading into blue.
C prayed Esha.
She spread her mat on the floor, faced the Qibla, and prayed.
Her voice was soft, barely a whisper, but her heart was loud.
Aminah joined her.
Yasmin joined too.
Three girls.
Three mats.
One direction.
Neha sat on her bed, scrolling through her phone.
She was Hindu.
She didn’t pray with them.
But she was quiet, respectful, never interrupting.
Riya and Sophia were Christian.
They didn’t pray either.
But they, too, sat in silence, waiting.
Different faiths, C thought.
Same room.
Same respect.
She had never seen anything like this before.
Back home, everyone was Muslim.
Everyone prayed.
Everyone fasted.
Everyone celebrated the same holidays.
But here — here, people were different.
And different, she realized, doesn’t mean bad.
The Bunk
Sophia climbed up to her bunk — the one above C’s.
She looked down, smiling.
“C, we are bunk mates.
And friends too.”
C looked up at her.
Friends, she thought.
She had never had friends.
Not really.
She had classmates, yes.
People she studied with, sat beside, shared notes with.
But friends?
People who hugged her?
People who cared if she ate?
No.
She thought friendships were distractions.
Her family was enough.
Her books were enough.
Her dreams were enough.
But these girls — these loud, kind, strange girls — were making her wonder if she had been wrong.
She smiled.
“Jee.
Friends.”
The Pain
The room was quiet.
C was in her bed, her dupatta still covering her head, her body still wrapped in her simple long kameez shalwar.
She was almost asleep.
Then she heard a voice.
Yasmin: “Aminah, you okay?”
Aminah’s voice was weak.
“Got periods pain.”
C’s eyes opened.
She sat up.
She looked at Aminah’s bed — across the room, near the window.
Aminah was curled on her side, her face pale, her hand pressed against her lower stomach.
C got up.
She walked to Aminah’s bed, her bare feet silent on the floor.
“Baji,” she said softly.
“Do you need anything?”
Aminah looked up, surprised.
“No…
thank you.
Just…
foot pain.
Legs hurt.”
C hesitated for a moment.
Then she asked:
“Baji, can I sit in your bed?”
All the girls looked at her.
Yasmin paused.
Riya stopped scrolling.
Neha looked up from her phone.
Aminah blinked, confused.
“Yeah…
okay.”
C sat on the edge of the bed.
Her head was still covered with her large dupatta.
Her voice was soft, calm, polite.
“Baji, I can press your legs.
The pain will go soon.
Can I?”
Oh God, Riya thought.
She’s so soft-spoken.
So calm.
Aminah didn’t know why, but she nodded.
C began pressing her legs — gently, carefully, the way she had learned from watching Ami, from helping Anita D during their difficult days.
Small hands, Yasmin noticed.
Gentle hands.
Aminah’s tense shoulders relaxed.
“You are so fragile,” Aminah whispered.
“Thank you.”
C didn’t stop.
“Baji, close your eyes.
Close your eyes, Baji.”
Aminah closed her eyes.
The room was silent except for the soft sound of C’s hands moving.
No one had ever done this for her, Yasmin thought.
Not even me, her cousin.
I just give her a pill.
That’s it.
But C — this fragile, quiet girl — she gives her hands.
An hour passed.
Yasmin finally spoke.
“C, go to bed.
Thank you.
Aminah is sleeping.”
C nodded.
She stood up quietly, covered Aminah with her blanket, and walked back to her bed.
Sophia looked down from the upper bunk.
“C, you are amazing.
I saw.”
C didn’t know what to say.
She lay down, pulled her blanket over herself, and closed her eyes.
I was just helping, she thought.
That’s what family does.
And maybe — maybe roommates are family too.
The Hospital — 7:00 PM
Azhan walked through the hospital corridors, a stack of patient files in his hands.
His white coat was crisp.
His steps were steady.
His face was unreadable.
But his mind was elsewhere.
Brown eyes.
Soft voice.
“I…
I did it.”
He passed a group of nurses.
They smiled at him.
He didn’t see them.
He passed Dr.
Michael, who said, “Good work on the Anderson case.” Azhan nodded.
He didn’t hear him.
He passed the residents’ lounge, where young doctors were laughing about something.
The sound faded behind him.
Why can’t I stop?
The Rounds
He entered the post-op ward.
Mr.
Anderson was awake, his wife beside him.
Azhan checked the monitors, reviewed the charts, spoke to the patient in calm, measured tones.
“The surgery was successful,” he said.
“You’re recovering well.”
Mrs.
Anderson clutched her husband’s hand.
“Thank you, Doctor.
Thank you so much.”
Azhan nodded.
“Rest is important.
No stress.”
He turned and walked out.
Behind him, the nurses whispered.
“He’s so cold.”
“But brilliant.”
“Someone should warm that heart.”
Azhan heard nothing.
He was already somewhere else.
The Corridor
Dr.
Sadaf Rahmani fell into step beside him.
She was dressed perfectly — white coat over a tailored dress, her hair styled, her makeup subtle but effective.
Her smile was warm, practiced, inviting.
“Azhan,” she said, her voice light.
“You skipped lunch again.”
He didn’t look at her.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
She laughed softly.
“You’re never hungry.
When was the last time you ate a proper meal?”
He didn’t answer.
She tried again.
“There’s a new restaurant near the hospital.
Mediterranean.
Very healthy.
We could go sometime —”
“I’m busy.”
His voice was flat.
Final.
Sadaf’s smile flickered but didn’t fade.
She had been trying for years.
Years of small gestures, casual invitations, careful words.
He had never said yes.
He had never even looked at her the way she wanted him to.
But today, she thought, he’s even colder than usual.
More distant.
Like his mind is somewhere else.
Or someone else.
She didn’t know about brown eyes.
She didn’t know about airport signs.
She didn’t know that a girl with a covered face and a soft voice had done what she had never been able to do.
Made Azhan feel something.
The Office
Azhan closed his office door behind him.
He sat at his desk.
The files were open.
The charts were waiting.
His MS thesis was due soon.
But he couldn’t focus.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.
C Ismail.
Just a letter.
Just a name.
Then why?
Why can’t I forget?
He closed his eyes.
And somewhere in the city, in Room 101, a girl with brown eyes was falling asleep, her hands still smelling like the oil she had used to massage Aminah’s legs.
She didn’t know that across the city, a surgeon was thinking about her.
She didn’t know that her hands — small, gentle, kind — had touched more than one heart that day.
She pressed the pain from someone’s feet, While he walked halls on crowded streets.
She thought of home beneath the moon, He thought of her inside his room.
Two worlds apart, two hearts confused, One gently loved, one long abused— By silence, walls, and years of cold, A story waiting to unfold