Morning arrived quietly, slipping into the room on soft footsteps. Pale sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting the walls in a gentle glow, as if the day itself was still half-asleep.
Inaya was curled into the warmth of the bed, wrapped in blankets, her face relaxed, her breathing slow and steady. For a moment, everything was peaceful.
Then her phone rang.
The sharp sound shattered the calm, echoing far too loudly in the quiet room. Inaya stirred, her brows knitting together as she shifted restlessly. Half-asleep, she reached out blindly to silence the noise—and only then did she realize something was wrong.
The other side of the bed was empty.
Her eyes fluttered open, confusion fogging her thoughts. She turned her head slightly, squinting.
"Meher?" she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
"I'm in the kitchen!" Meher's voice came back cheerfully. "Making breakfast for us. Now pick up the call—I hate that ringtone!"
Inaya groaned softly, burying her face into the pillow for a second before sighing. "Okay, okay…"
She picked up the phone without even checking who it was.
"Hello?" she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
There was a brief pause on the other end.
"Hello?" a man's voice replied.
She frowned, blinking. "Who's this…?"
"It's me," he said. "Faqair."
Sleep vanished instantly.
Inaya pushed herself upright, the blanket slipping down her shoulders as her heart skipped. "Oh! But… how did you get my number?"
"I asked Miss Meher," he answered lightly. "Funny how we call ourselves friends yet don't even have each other's numbers."
A small smile curved her lips. "Yes… that's true," she said, letting out a soft laugh.
"And," he added gently, "what happened to your voice?"
"I was sleeping…"
"Oh—sorry," he said immediately. "I disturbed you. I'll call later."
"Okay, fine."
The words slipped out so easily that even she didn't realize what she'd said at first.
On the other end, Faqair went quiet. He frowned at the phone, disappointment tugging at his chest.
"I thought she'd want to talk…" he muttered, almost pouting.
"Hm?" Inaya asked, having caught the sound.
"Nothing—I'll hang up—"
"I'm joking," she said quickly, warmth creeping into her voice. "Tell me. Why did you call?"
He exhaled, relief washing over him.
"I was just… worried about your health," he admitted. "Are you feeling better?"
Her expression softened. "Yes. I'm fine now. Thanks for asking."
The concern in his voice lingered, settling somewhere deep in her chest. Then, slowly, another thought surfaced—one that had stayed with her since last night.
"You…" she began carefully. "Why did you punch Nabeel?"
His tone sharpened instantly. "Who told you?"
"Answer first."
"He deserved it."
"Oh God…"
"Now tell me," he pressed, "who told you that?"
"Nabeel."
Faqair stiffened. "He told you? Did you two meet?"
"No. He called me."
"He called you?" anger flared in his voice. "He had the guts to call you again? What did he want? Did he say anything inappropriate?"
Inaya laughed softly, shaking her head. "So many questions. At least breathe first."
He paused, then exhaled. "Okay. Tell me."
"It's nothing serious," she reassured him. "Meher handled it well."
"But I'm still left to handle him," he muttered.
"And what exactly are you planning to do?" she asked, already suspicious.
"…Nothing."
She smiled knowingly. "Don't do anything reckless, okay?"
"Of course."
Just then, a loud crash echoed from the kitchen—metal clattering against tiles.
Faqair startled. "Was that an earthquake?!"
Inaya burst into laughter. "Kind of. Meher's cooking. This is normal."
"Haha! She's that bad?"
"Bad?" she said between laughs. "We're both the worst cooks alive."
"Then I guess I'll have to learn more dishes now."
She blinked. "Sorry? What?"
"Nothing," he said quickly. "Go freshen up. And don't forget your medicines."
"Okay… bye."
"Bye."
The call ended—but Faqair didn't lower the phone right away. He stared at the blank screen, letting the silence stretch.
He had waited until she hung up.
Because every second of hearing her voice—sleepy, laughing, alive—felt too precious to be the one to let go.
And somewhere, without realizing it, both of them carried the same quiet thought into the morning:
Some calls weren't made out of habit.
They were made out of care.
To be continued....