"Iman?" Mihra's voice pulled me out of my thoughts.

I glanced up from my laptop just as she stepped into my room, carrying a cup of tea between her hands. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast a golden hue over her face, making her expression look even gentler.

"Here," she said, offering it to me with a small smile.

I hesitated for a moment before taking it, my fingers brushing against the warm ceramic. "Thanks," I murmured, my voice quieter than usual.

Mihra didn't leave right away. She lingered by the door, watching me as I curled my hands around the mug, seeking comfort in its heat.

"Nervous?" she asked, her tone softer now.

I exhaled sharply, pushing a stray strand of hair off my face. "Very."

It was an understatement. The weight of everything ahead pressed down on me, and no amount of tea or reassuring smiles could ease it.

"How much longer until the email?" she asked gently, her voice laced with warmth as if she already sensed the storm brewing inside me.

I swallowed down the lump in my throat, the heat of the tea doing little to soothe the unease tightening my stomach. "Midnight," I murmured, barely above a whisper.

At that, her gaze flickered toward the wall clock. I followed instinctively.

11:55 p.m.

Five minutes. That was all that separated me from either relief or disappointment.

My fingers curled tighter around the cup, but suddenly, the tea that once felt comforting turned bitter on my tongue. I placed it aside, my movements slow, almost reluctant. Leaning back against the headrest, I let my eyes slip shut.

This was it. I was standing on the edge of my dream—Imperial College London. The dream I had nurtured, chased, and sacrificed for. And yet, in mere moments, it could slip through my fingers. The odds were hanging by a thread, one so thin it felt as though it would snap before I could grasp it.

A sharp knock on the door pulled me from my spiraling thoughts. I blinked, my gaze lifting just in time to see Arham step inside, cradling six-month-old Siara in his arms. Her tiny hands curled into his shirt, dark eyes wide with curiosity as she took in the unfamiliar surroundings. A soft smile tugged at my lips despite the tension gripping my chest. She was just like her mother. Just like Mihra.

Behind Arham, Nimra and Ali trailed in, their faces lit with easy smiles. Nimra's eyes sparkled with mischief, while Ali's expression, though more subdued, carried that quiet amusement only he could pull off. Sunshine in my darkness.

I exhaled slowly, a little of the heaviness in my chest easing. If nothing else, at least they were here.

My gaze drifted back to the clock. 11:59 p.m.

Oh, Allah.

My throat tightened as I swallowed hard, the weight of the moment pressing down on me like an anchor. My fingers curled into the fabric of my blanket, my breaths shallow. Any second now, and I'd know. The verdict on my dreams. The difference between moving forward or standing still.

I felt the sting in my eyes before the tears even formed, my vision blurring at the edges. I blinked rapidly, trying to push them back, but the lump in my throat wouldn't ease.

A soft rustling of fabric, and then I felt Nimra settle beside me, her warmth radiating through the blanket. She didn't say anything—she didn't have to. Instead, she took my hand, her fingers squeezing mine in silent reassurance.

"It'll be okay," she murmured, her voice softer than I'd ever heard it.

Ali leaned against the desk, arms crossed, his gaze flickering to the screen of my laptop. "If they don't accept you, it's their loss." His tone was as nonchalant as ever, but there was something firm beneath it.

Arham sat at the foot of the bed, bouncing Siara slightly in his lap as if she were the only one blissfully unaware of the storm raging inside me. Or maybe she knew and just didn't care. She babbled something incoherent, her tiny hands reaching out toward me.

I exhaled shakily, forcing a smile as I wrapped my fingers around Siara's tiny hand. Her warmth grounded me, but it did nothing to stop the way my chest tightened.

Twelve. The clock struck midnight.

I glanced at the screen. Nothing.

The email wasn't here.

My breath hitched, and I lowered my gaze to my lap, fingers curling into the fabric of my sweater. The room felt too quiet.

A beat passed. Then another.

My lower lip trembled, and I bit down on it, willing myself to hold it together.

Broken dreams.

And then—

A sound. A single, sharp ding.

My breath caught in my throat. My eyes flew to the screen as my fingers scrambled to pull the laptop closer. The notification glowed in the dim light, my heart hammering so loudly it drowned out everything else.

Imperial College London - Application Status Update

My vision blurred for a moment, my hands trembling as I clicked the email open. The words swam before me, my pulse roaring in my ears.

Dear Miss Iman Hamid,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been offered admission to the PhD program in Biomedical Sciences at Imperial College London. Your dedication, academic achievements, and passion for research have distinguished you as an exceptional candidate for our institution.

We look forward to welcoming you to our esteemed university, where you will have the opportunity to contribute to groundbreaking advancements in your field.

Further details regarding enrollment, scholarships, and housing arrangements are provided in the attached documents. Should you have any questions, please do not hesitate to contact us.

Once again, congratulations.

Best regards,

Admissions Office

Imperial College London

I stared at the screen, the words sinking in slower than they should have. My chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, my mind struggling to catch up with reality.

I got in.

I got in.

A strangled sound—half laugh, half sob—escaped me as I clapped a hand over my mouth. My vision blurred again, but this time, the tears spilled freely. The weight pressing down on me for months lifted in an instant, replaced by something so overwhelming it left me breathless.

A dream I had nurtured for years, a hope I had nearly given up on—it was real.

Mihra's voice broke through my daze. "Iman?"

I turned to her, my face wet with tears, and let out a shaking laugh. "I got in."

For a second, there was silence. And then—

A squeal. A blur of movement. Mihra launched herself at me, arms wrapping around my shoulders as she shook me, laughing and crying all at once.

"You did it!" she shrieked, her voice breaking with emotion. "I knew it! I knew you would!"

Arham let out a relieved sigh, shaking his head with a small, proud smile. Nimra clapped her hands, practically bouncing in place, while Ali—grumpy, smug Ali—stood in the back, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips.

For the first time in months, I felt light.

I wasn't just dreaming anymore.

This was real. And it was mine.

_

"I don't want this paratha, mujhe laddu do!" Dadi declared at breakfast, her expression as firm as a queen issuing a royal decree. (Give me laddu)

I couldn't help but laugh.

"Amma," Taya chortled, shaking his head in amusement.

Dadi huffed, crossing her arms. "Arrey, meri potti London ja rahi hai, mujhe laddu do! Khushi ka mauqa hai ya nahi?" she said, throwing a pointed look around the table. (My granddaughter is going to London, give me laddu! Is this not a moment to celebrate?)

I bit my lip, stifling another laugh. Trust Dadi to turn anything into a demand for sweets.

Mama shook her head, still overwhelmed by the news. I knew she was holding back tears, her emotions a mix of pride and the quiet ache of knowing I'd be leaving soon.

Now, who was going to break it to her that I still had two months here? Plenty of time before my departure—yet not nearly enough, considering the mountain of work ahead.

And so, the madness began.

The moment breakfast was over, Abba sat me down with a pen and paper, listing every possible thing that needed to be done—visa appointments, university paperwork, travel documents, medical checkups. I barely had time to breathe before Mama and Tayi started bombarding me with questions about packing, while Nimra excitedly pulled up London vlogs on her phone.

"Dekho, yahan kaafi thand hoti hai," she said, showing me a clip of people bundled up in coats. (Look, it gets really cold there.)

Taya, meanwhile, was already discussing ticket prices with Arham, who nodded along like a seasoned travel agent. Ali, as expected, sat back with his arms crossed, smirking at the chaos like it was free entertainment.

"Dinner tak toh passport bhi khone wali hai," he murmured under his breath. (By dinner, she's bound to lose her passport too.)

I shot him a glare, but he wasn't wrong. My head was spinning with all the tasks ahead. This wasn't just a trip—it was the start of a whole new life.

_

By noon, the house had officially turned into a planning committee. Mama and Tayi were buried in a discussion about winter coats and "London-appropriate" shalwar kameez fabrics, while Abba paced the living room, reminding everyone that paperwork came first.

"Dekho, pehle visa lagwana hai, phir baqi sab," he said sternly, waving a list in his hand. (Look, first we need to get the visa, then everything else.)

I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Visa appointment kal subah hai, Abba. Sab kuch time pe ho raha hai." (The visa appointment is tomorrow morning, Abba. Everything is happening on time.)

But my assurance didn't stop him from pulling out a thick folder and double-checking every document, as if my admission letter would magically disappear.

Dadi, however, had her own set of priorities.

"Jahan bhi jao, parathe banaana seekh lo!" she announced, pointing her spoon at me like it was a royal decree. (Wherever you go, learn how to make parathas!)

I laughed. "Dadi, London mein parathe banana crime toh nahi hai na?" (Dadi, making parathas in London isn't a crime, right?)

"Koi larkay warkay dekhne na lagna wahan!" she warned, ignoring my joke. (Don't go looking for boys over there!)

"Tou phir parathe kis ke liye seekhun?" I teased, earning a smack on my arm from Mama. (Then who should I learn parathas for?)

Between the chaos, the excitement, and the panic of realizing I had only two months to fit my entire life into a suitcase, the reality of my departure slowly began to sink in.

This wasn't just about paperwork, packing, or London's cold weather.

This was about leaving home.

And that—no checklist could ever prepare me for.

_

Dinner was a lively affair, the table crowded with dishes, conversation, and the occasional argument over who got the last piece of naan. Dadi, as usual, had taken command, ensuring everyone ate more than they needed, while Taya and Mama debated whether I should take extra achaar with me to London.

"London mein aise achaar nahi milta," Mama argued, scooping more onto my plate. (You don't get pickles like this in London.)

I sighed, my plate already full. "Mama, mujhe wahan sirf parhai karni hai, achaar ka dukan nahi kholni." (Mama, I'm going there to study, not open a pickle shop.)

The room erupted in laughter, but in the middle of all the chatter, Baba's phone rang. The deep chime cut through the noise, and he pulled it out, glancing at the screen. His expression shifted instantly—a slow smile crept onto his face.

"Noraiz," he murmured, answering the call.

A warmth entered his voice, the kind that only comes when speaking to someone who has shared your childhood, your youth, your life. Noraiz Uncle—Baba's best friend. The man who had left for London years ago but had never let distance get in the way.

I watched as Baba leaned back in his chair, a rare softness in his features as he spoke. But my heart stilled the second I heard a name.

Zavian Noraiz.

Shit.

A name I hadn't thought about in years. A name I had no intention of thinking about now.

My stomach twisted, my appetite vanishing.

London was supposed to be a fresh start. A new beginning.

But it seemed like fate had other plans.

_

Welcome backkk ;)