In every relationship there is a lover and a beloved, a seeker and the one who is sought. Theirs was a usual relationship. At least they both thought that they were usual. They had a small dream, the dream all lover’s dream when they are in love. They wanted to look at the moon together in the wintry nights and drink tea from silver lined cups. They wanted to walk on the same paths and collect pebbles of memories. But then she was not sure that who was the lover in the relationship. They both played the game with equal zeal. The game of loving and not loving. Seeking and not seeking. The ancient game of apatheia.

He was calm. A silent thinker, slow talker. She was talkative and colorful with a smile willing to win hearts. There were few times when she hated his anger busts. Like once in the streets of Islamabad he became angry on a small issue. In those moments he would turn into a tribal man. Completely possessive without any rationality. “Dr Khan it is not your freaking agency”. She had cried on the side of "book bank". He had left her without looking back.. yes he would do that
again and again.

Leaving was his habit and coming back a winter ritual. They were inseparable yet separate in their own worlds. At times she would wonder why he loved her. They had nothing common between them. He hated books she lived between them. He hated the pseudo intellectual activism which was the warp of her life. He hated numbers and her world revolved around them. But still some where their lives were intertwined. They would laugh at same jokes and would talk about
random things. Things she thought she was incapable of. There was magic between them. Pure, divine, and ethereal.

That evening he was staring at her face. The light was falling on her spectacles. The trees were still green despite the harsh wind. There was a different kind of sadness enveloping them. “Lets go for the coffee”, she insisted.

“My prescription does not work in this part of the world sweetheart”. He murmured slightly, ”I will be ok”. She pressed her hand over his warmth. He was aware of her pains, her tantrums and her whimsical soul.

“I won’t die, not with a cup of coffee”. They were walking on the silent streets of a dead city. She could read desire in his eyes. In his touch. In his voice. The man who was addicted on her. “Do you love me?”

She looked in his eye. “Probably,” he whispered "Let’s talk about absolute things not probabilities." They had walked past the church, the old pub, the funeral home and the school.

She was still not sure about love. What do you love in me. “You are insecure Zaru," he looked at her with a grim smile. "There are more beautiful women out there, then why me?" “Because …because it is you. He gently kissed her on the lips that were red because of the cold.”

"What if I leave you,” she smiled.
“Then you will be like a paraplegic who tries to find a broken limb,”
he said with a serious tone.
“Ahh and you think I will run back to you, to get it back?”
"No, I know you..Zaru"

The air was now heavy, she felt that she was walking with weights on her feet. His presence was now overwhelming. As if some one had drained oxygen from air.

Zara Ahmed thought that she was in love. At least love that was pure from any intellectual corruption. There was a man who was adamant that he loved her because of what she was. And then she was aware that he himself was not sure what she was. Reality is a mirage. We all try to transform our realities in veneers of words. Both of them were doing the same thing.

She was not sure that what she loved about him. The curls of his hair, his random laughter or the way he loved her. Possessively, completely, in an annihilating way. There was something indefinable about their relationship. The spark was natural, divine and pure. His eyes were capable of melting her soul.

Destiny shapes the randomness of things in its own course. And one night he walked out again, like many other nights. "You don’t understand me," she said. "You don’t understand me either!" he shouted back to her.

Sparks can create fire, and fire is destructive. She cried, he became deaf to her cries. She wept and he walked away. And then things changed.

It was another evening. She was walking. The man beside her was playing with her curls. ”I want to have coffee,” he said. She smiled, ”you'll end up in pain.” He looked at her face puzzled.

She moved and looked at his face, Prosthesis. She was trying to look into the eyes of her own demons.