Damn me for messaging him again. I glared at the screen, my fingers twitching to type something back—preferably something sharp enough to wipe that smugness off his face.

Wouldn't you like to know?

Of course I would like to know, you arrogant menace.

I clenched my jaw, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. The audacity. The sheer, unfiltered Zavian-ness of it all. He knew exactly what he was doing, dragging this out just to get a reaction from me. And the worst part? It was working.

I inhaled deeply, willing myself to stay calm. Ignore him, Iman. Do not engage.

My phone buzzed again. Another message from him.

Zavian: Guess you're too scared to find out. That's cute.

My eye twitched. Cute? Cute?

Before I could stop myself, my fingers moved on their own.

Me: Scared? Please. You're the one hiding behind riddles, Mr. Mysterious. Just say it.

The message sent. No turning back now.

I set my phone aside and flopped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. Why was I even entertaining this? I should be sleeping, resting before Uncle Noraiz dropped me off at my hostel tomorrow. But no, instead, I was caught in this ridiculous back-and-forth with a guy who thought silence was a personality trait.

My phone buzzed again. I squeezed my eyes shut, already knowing he'd come up with something even more insufferable.

Zavian: Wouldn't want to ruin the mystery, Mashal-e-Mehtaab.

I groaned, tossing my phone onto the pillow. This man is impossible.

_

The London morning was nothing like home. Cool. Crisp. Fresh. The air smelled clean, carrying no trace of fried parathas or chai brewing in the kitchen. No morning clatter, no hurried footsteps, no Haroon yelling about missing his socks, and no grumbling Nimra shuffling out of her room with half-open eyes.

I sighed, wrapping my arms around myself as I stood by the window. It was peaceful, yes—but too peaceful.

Shaking off the nostalgia, I freshened up, letting the icy water wake me fully. I changed into a simple shalwar kameez, the soft fabric feeling like a piece of home against my skin. Brushing through my hair, I pinned it back neatly, adjusting my dupatta before finally picking up my phone.

One missed call from Baba. Another from Mama. A text from Haroon:

Haroon: Wake up, burger baji. London won't make you angrez overnight.

I rolled my eyes, a smile tugging at my lips as I clicked on the video call button.

The call connected, and in an instant, the screen flooded with chaos.

"Nimra, shift the phone toward me!" Mama scolded.

"Baba, move a little, I can't see Iman properly!"

"Aray, Iman! Why do you look so thin already? You just left!"

I bit my lip, blinking rapidly against the sting in my eyes. "I left yesterday, Mama."

Haroon's face popped into view, grinning. "Exactly. And look at you. All London-returned already."

A small laugh bubbled out of me, but my chest felt tight. Nimra, sitting cross-legged on the couch, narrowed her eyes. "You're not crying, are you?"

I shook my head quickly. "No!"

Lies. The lump in my throat betrayed me. My eyes burned, my heart ached, and I missed them more than words could explain.

Baba's voice softened. "Beta, you're doing great. Just take it one step at a time."

I swallowed, nodding. "I know, Baba."

But as the call continued, and their familiar voices filled the quiet of my room, I realized something—this wasn't home. But I would make it feel like one. Somehow.

I told them about the aunty I met on my flight—her warm smile, the way she fussed over me like I was her own daughter, and how she insisted I shouldn't cry.

"She even gave me achaar she was taking for her son," I added, shaking my head in disbelief.

Mama let out a delighted gasp. "Allah! Aunty was an angel! See, I told you—you'll always find good people around you."

Haroon snickered. "Or she saw Iman's miserable face and thought she needed roti-salan therapy."

I rolled my eyes. "Shut up, Haroon."

But honestly? Maybe he was right. The kindness of that stranger had settled something in my heart. A reminder that even in a foreign land, I wasn't completely alone.

Nimra leaned forward on the screen, arms crossed. "You better not finish that achaar before I get to taste it."

I huffed. "You think I'd let you?"

"Aray, don't fight!" Mama scolded, though she was smiling.

Baba, who had been mostly quiet, finally spoke, his voice steady as always. "Iman, beta, stay careful. And don't hesitate to call if you need anything."

I nodded. "I know, Baba."

Haroon wiggled his brows. "And don't get married to a gora without asking us first."

"Oh, for God's sake—"

Laughter rang through the call, and I held onto it for as long as I could, like a piece of home I wasn't ready to let go of just yet.

_

After ending the call, I took a deep breath, composing myself before heading downstairs for breakfast. The house was quiet, the morning still settling in.

In the dining area, Aunt Sidra was already seated, delicately buttering a slice of toast while flipping through her phone. She looked up as I walked in, offering a warm smile. "Good morning, Iman. Slept well?"

I nodded, pulling out a chair. "Yes, Alhamdulillah."

A spread of breakfast lay before me—toast, eggs, fruit, and a pot of tea. Definitely not desi nashta but decent enough. I reached for the tea first, pouring myself a cup.

"Uncle Noraiz left early," Aunt Sidra informed me, sipping from her own cup. "Zavian should be up soon, but that boy hardly eats breakfast properly."

I hummed in response, taking a small bite of toast. Just as I did, footsteps echoed from the hallway, slow and heavy.

Speak of the devil.

Zavian strolled in, looking like he had just rolled out of bed, hair disheveled but somehow still managing to look effortlessly put together. He wore a plain black hoodie and sweatpants, hands shoved in his pockets as he dropped into a chair across from me.

His gaze flickered to me lazily, then to the table. "No parathas?"

Aunt Sidra gave him a pointed look. "If you want parathas, make them yourself."

He let out a dramatic sigh, grabbing an apple instead.

I focused on my tea, pretending I wasn't aware of his eyes occasionally glancing my way.

"So," Aunt Sidra said, her tone light, "any plans for today, Iman?"

I shrugged. "Not really. Just settling in, I suppose. Uncle Noraiz is dropping me at my hostel later."

Zavian smirked, biting into his apple. "Finally getting rid of you, huh?"

I shot him a glare. "Don't act like you're not relieved."

Aunt Sidra sighed. "You two..." She shook her head, but there was amusement in her eyes.

I ignored Zavian's smug expression and returned to my breakfast. Today was a big day—I had to move into my hostel, settle in, and mentally prepare for university life.

And, most importantly, figure out how to ignore Zavian and his infuriating smirks.

I said goodbye to Aunt Sidra as Uncle Noraiz put my bags in the car. She pulled me into a warm hug, her hands lingering on my shoulders as she smiled.

"Take care of yourself, beta. And call me if you need anything, okay?"

I nodded, returning her smile. "I will, InshaAllah."

Uncle Noraiz shut the trunk with a thud and motioned for me to get in. I slipped into the passenger seat, adjusting my dupatta as I fastened my seatbelt.

The drive was quiet for the most part, the hum of the engine filling the silence. London stretched around me—tall buildings, clean roads, and people rushing about their day. It still felt strange.

"You'll be fine," Uncle Noraiz finally spoke, glancing at me briefly. "The university is great. And your hostel is in a good area."

I nodded, gripping my hands in my lap. "I know."

"You'll make friends soon enough."

I hummed, watching the city blur past. Making friends wasn't the problem. It was the sudden shift, the realization that I was really here. Away from home. Away from everything familiar.

"Zavian's university isn't far from yours," Uncle Noraiz added, a little too casually. "If you ever need help, just call him."

I scoffed before I could stop myself. "Yeah. I'm sure he'd love that."

Uncle Noraiz chuckled. "Don't let his attitude fool you. He's a good kid."

I didn't reply. I wasn't sure I agreed.

As we neared the hostel, my phone buzzed. A message.

Zavian: Try not to get lost, Mashal-e-Mehtaab.

I clenched my jaw, locking my phone without replying.

Yeah. I was definitely not calling him for help.

_

The hostel wasn't really a hostel. It was a beautiful old home, its walls covered in ivy, with large windows and a small front garden filled with potted plants. The scent of jasmine drifted in the air as I stepped inside. The house had a warmth to it, a lived-in feel, the kind that made you forget you were miles away from home.

An elderly woman, draped in a simple saree with silver hair neatly tied back, greeted us with a kind smile.

"You must be Iman," she said, her voice soft, warm—like she already cared.

I nodded, offering a polite smile. "Ji, Aunty."

She patted my head affectionately. "Call me Amma. Everyone does."

I blinked, feeling an unexpected comfort in the way she spoke. Amma. It felt right.

Uncle Noraiz exchanged pleasantries with her before carrying my bags up the polished wooden staircase. My room was on the second floor, and when he pushed open the door, I couldn't help the small beam that took over my face.

The room was spacious, simple but cozy. A single bed with plush pillows sat against the wall, a wooden cabinet beside it. There was a chair and table near the window, which offered a direct view of my university building. The washroom was attached, clean and neat. The walls had a soft cream color, and a small bookshelf stood in the corner, waiting to be filled.

"Looks perfect," Uncle Noraiz said, setting down my suitcase.

I nodded, running my hand along the wooden desk. "It really does."

He checked his watch and sighed. "I should get going. But remember, dinner at our place on Saturday. No excuses."

I smiled. "I'll be there, InshaAllah."

He gave me a nod before leaving, and as soon as I heard the main door shut downstairs, I exhaled deeply, letting the silence settle.

I was here.

Alone.

In a whole new country.

But oddly enough, as I looked around my new space, I didn't feel as lost as I thought I would.

_

I spent my noon unpacking, carefully placing my clothes in the cabinet, setting up my books on the small shelf, and making the room feel a little more like mine. All the while, I was on a video call with Mihra, Nimra, and Aliha—because, of course, they wouldn't let me do it in peace.

"Oh my God, that bed looks so comfy," Mihra sighed dramatically, lounging on her own bed back home. "I wish I was there."

"I wish you were too," I muttered, folding a shawl neatly before tucking it away.

Aliha grinned. "You should be happy you're getting some alone time. No Haroon screaming, no Nimra stealing your clothes—"

"I do not steal," Nimra cut in, scoffing.

I snorted. "No, you just 'borrow' for months and forget to return them."

She rolled her eyes. "That's called sharing."

"Sure," I hummed, shaking my head.

The conversation flowed easily, their voices filling the quiet space as I moved around. Nimra kept complaining about something Mama did, Mihra was already planning my weekend, and Aliha, being the calm one, just listened with an amused smile.

It felt normal. Like I wasn't miles away.

And for now, that was enough.

_

I headed down to the living room for lunch, my stomach growling slightly from all the unpacking. The space was cozy, filled with the delicious aroma of home-cooked food. But the moment I stepped in, I felt it—the awkward silence.

Four girls were already seated, their conversations halting as they turned to look at me. I hesitated for a second before offering a small smile. "Uh... hi."

One of them, a girl with warm brown eyes and a bright smile, spoke first. "You must be new." Her accent was different—soft yet distinct.

I nodded. "Yeah... just moved in today."

That seemed to break the tension because, within seconds, introductions started flying around.

"Aisha," the girl with the bright smile said, placing a hand on her chest. "From Bangladesh."

"Sophia," a brunette with a mischievous glint in her eyes chimed in. "From Spain."

"Isabella," the girl with deep curls and a dimpled grin added. "From Brazil."

"Yuki," the last one, with soft features and short hair, said shyly. "From Japan."

I smiled, feeling an odd sense of comfort settle in. "I'm Iman. From Pakistan."

For a moment, we just blinked at each other, processing the mix of cultures sitting around this one table. Then, like magic, the awkwardness melted, and we all laughed at the randomness of it.

"Well," Aisha grinned. "This is gonna be fun."

"Hope you like loud conversations and late-night snacks," Sophia added, winking.

"Because we do that a lot," Isabella laughed.

"Lots of food too," Yuki said with a small smile.

I chuckled, already feeling at home. "Sounds like my kind of people."

Just then, Amma—the sweet elderly woman who owned this house—walked in, her presence warm and welcoming. "Now that you've all met, let's hear more!" she said, sitting down with us.

And just like that, the real introductions began.

_

"No way," Sophia gasped, her eyes wide as Aisha recounted a chilling black magic story from her family.

I stared at her, my food long forgotten. Well, everyone's was. Even Amma, who had been enjoying her meal, had paused, watching Aisha with intrigue.

But Aisha? Completely unfazed. She ate like she was telling a bedtime story, casually scooping up a bite of rice as she continued.

"So, my grandmother swears she saw the shadow move," Aisha said, glancing around the table. "It wasn't a trick of the light. It moved, on its own. And the next morning, the neighbor's cow was dead, just like that—no wounds, no explanation."

Sophia shuddered. "You're kidding."

"I wish I was," Aisha smirked, her tone far too nonchalant for the gravity of her story.

Isabella, who had been silent the entire time, finally spoke, her Brazilian accent making her words sound even more dramatic. "That is terrifying. And your grandmother just... lived with that?"

Aisha shrugged. "What else could she do? She burned some incense, recited some verses, and prayed that whatever it was left her alone."

Yuki, who had been listening quietly, suddenly cleared her throat. "In Japan, we have similar stories. Spirits that attach to places, people..." Her voice dropped slightly, eyes flickering toward the dimly lit hallway. "They don't always leave."

A strange silence settled over the table. Even Amma, who had probably heard all kinds of stories in her lifetime, pursed her lips.

Aisha, however, simply sipped her water. "Well, good thing we don't have any spirits here, right?"

I swallowed, glancing toward the darkened corners of the room. "Yeah," I muttered. "Good thing."

_

Sophia shivered, hugging her arms. "Okay, that's enough horror stories for lunch. I'm officially creeped out."

Isabella chuckled, but there was a nervous edge to it. "Yeah, let's talk about something less... I don't know, cursed?"

Aisha smirked, completely unbothered. "Fine, fine. But don't come running to me when something starts moving on its own."

I shot her a glare. "Aisha."

She laughed. "Alright, alright. No more ghost stories. For now."

Amma shook her head with amusement, finally picking up her spoon again. "You girls are funny."

The conversation gradually shifted to lighter topics—how everyone ended up in London, their first impressions of the city, and what they missed most from home.

"I miss the street food," Isabella sighed, pushing her plate away. "Brazilian snacks are unmatched."

Yuki nodded. "Same. Japanese convenience store food is on another level."

Aisha grinned. "Bangladeshi food is elite, no competition."

Sophia dramatically placed a hand on her chest. "Spanish food, though. Tapas? Paella? Perfection."

I smiled, stirring my tea. "I miss Pakistani breakfasts. Parathas, halwa puri, chai from dhabas... nothing compares."

Amma clapped her hands together. "Maybe one day, you all can cook a dish from your country. I'd love to taste them."

A chorus of agreement followed, and just like that, any lingering eeriness from Aisha's ghost story disappeared.

By the time lunch ended, the awkwardness of earlier had vanished. It didn't feel like I had just met these girls today. The vibes matched, the energy was right.

I had a feeling we were going to get along just fine.



_

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