❤Two stranger s on a journey ❤

That day was unlike any other. It wasn’t a celebration, nor a tragedy—but something far stranger. I had done something that even now, I can't believe I had the courage for. In the absence of my parents, without anyone’s approval, I called a mullah and married a girl I barely knew.

That girl had become my friend only through the pull of love. And it was love—deep, wild, and dangerous—that made us abandon everything we once called home. Many nights we had shared, hiding from the world, but hardship never truly disappears just because you run. It follows, it watches, and sometimes, it waits to return in another form.

Days earlier, there was a wedding at the home of one of our relatives. I went with the family. When duties were assigned, I was asked to help serve food. I didn’t mind—I welcomed anything that kept me busy. I wanted to forget. Or maybe, deep down, I wanted to remember something new.

The celebration was in full motion. The smell of rice and meat filled the house. Laughter bounced off the walls. First, we served the men, and then we turned toward the women’s area. As we laid out the cloths on the floor for them to eat, the house grew louder with the chatter of children and the clinking of dishes.

I was in a rush, trying to make sure everything was ready on time. But as I turned my head to call one of the other helpers, I saw someone. A girl. Just standing there—watching.

I don't know how long she had been looking at me, but once our eyes met, she didn’t look away. And neither could I.

Her gaze didn’t just see me—it reached inside me. She looked at me as though she had found something she had been searching for all her life. And I... I felt like I was staring at the ending of every poem I’d ever half-written.

We stood frozen in that moment. The world went quiet.

My heart felt like it had skipped a beat—or maybe it started beating for the first time.

I gave her a small nod toward the door. She didn’t hesitate. Without saying a word, she followed me.

Outside, night had draped its dark shawl over the streets. We walked in silence, side by side. The air was cool, but my skin burned. When we reached a quieter spot, I stopped. She gently placed her hand on my shoulder.

That simple touch shook me more than any storm.

I turned and asked softly, “Who are you?”

She smiled. Her voice was warm and light.

“My name is Tanha,” she said. “I live a few streets away. These people are my relatives. I came for the wedding.”

I whispered her name to myself—Tanha. It means “alone.” But nothing about her felt alone. She glowed with strength. Her presence filled the space between us like sunlight filling a room.

She looked at me curiously. “You asked about me, but didn’t tell me anything about you.”

I hesitated, then said, “My name is Gulab.”

Her laughter rang out, light and musical.

“Gulab? A rose?! That’s perfect. No other name could fit you better.”

I blushed. No girl had ever said something like that to me before. My heart was flying, but I kept my voice steady.

“I’m glad you like it,” I said. “But I don’t like you being alone.”

She smiled. “Then don’t worry. I’m not alone anymore. You’re with me.”

That one sentence, simple as it was, filled my chest with joy I couldn't describe. I gave her my phone number. She gave me hers.

She told me a bit about herself—how her father and older brother worked far away and only visited occasionally. She had studied up to sixth grade in Peshawar, but when they returned to their homeland, her education was stopped. Yet she loved to read. Loved to learn. And with what little education she had, she had already become strong in reading and writing.

Then she asked about me. I told her I was in ninth grade. Still a teenager. Still full of dreams. And maybe, now, full of something else too—love.

We agreed to meet again in the morning. Then we went our separate ways.

When I returned to the guesthouse, the others asked where I’d gone. I just said, “To the market.” A few laughs later, we all went to bed. But sleep didn’t come easy for me. My thoughts were too busy replaying her face, her voice, her name—Tanha.

In the morning, everyone was up early. Some prepared tea. Others cleaned. I watched the sky. I watched the sun. I waited.

And then, my phone rang.

“Hello?” I answered quickly.

“Is this Gulab?” said a soft voice.

“Yes! Tanha?”

“I’m near the dry riverbed. Come.”

My heart didn’t walk—it ran.

And there she was, sitting alone, tossing pebbles at the dry earth, as if each one carried a secret only I could understand.

I smiled.

And I walked toward her.