The smell of turpentine and linseed oil was my sanctuary. In my studio, I wasn't the "perfect daughter" or the "obedient neighbor." I was just Alayna—the girl who could turn a blank canvas into a storm.
I was currently hunched over a large piece for the Charity Gala, my brush flickering across the fabric. It was a mixture of deep indigos and sharp, gold leafing. It felt restless. It felt like me.
"Alayna! If you stay in there any longer, you're going to turn into a mannequin!"
I didn't even have to look up to know it was Salar. My brother had a talent for ruining my creative flow at the exact moment I reached it. He lounged in the doorway, tossing an apple in the air.
"Go away, Salar," I muttered, not breaking my stroke. "Some of us actually work for a living."
"Ouch. And here I was, coming to give you the weather report," he teased, taking a loud bite of the apple. "There's a cold front moving in from Islamabad. Very cold. Very... corporate."
My heart skipped a single, treacherous beat. The brush in my hand faltered, leaving a tiny, jagged gold streak where it didn't belong. I forced my expression to remain flat, staring intensely at the canvas.
"Islamabad? I didn't know you cared about the capital's climate," I said, my voice impressively steady.
"Oh, I don't. But I think you might care that the 'King of Capital' is landing tomorrow morning. Dad just got the call. Zayn is coming home for Ramzan."
The silence in the studio suddenly felt suffocating. Five years. We had lived next door for most of our lives, but for the last five years, he had been a ghost—a shadow that only appeared in family gossip and business headlines.
"So?" I shrugged, finally setting my brush down and reaching for a rag to clean my hands. I kept my back to Salar so he couldn't see my eyes. "It's his house. He's allowed to visit his parents."
"Don't 'so' me, Alayna," Salar laughed, heading back down the hall. "I'm just warning you—clear your 'mortal enemy' schedule. Grandfather Waqas is already planning a joint Iftar for the first day. And you know Rayan is already losing his mind. He's been polishing his car for three hours just so he can drive Zayn home from the airport."
Once my brother's footsteps faded, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. I turned back to my painting, but the indigo didn't look like a storm anymore. It looked like his eyes—the way they looked the last time we spoke, cold and distant, right before he walked away.
I gripped the edge of the wooden table. It's just thirty days, Alayna, I told myself. You're a professional. You're happy. You've moved on.
But as I looked at the jagged gold streak on my canvas, I knew one thing for sure: the peace and quiet of my Karachi life was officially over.