Novel:-Addicted to my swan

*Title: "Addicted to My Swan"* *Written by: Mehwish Raza* *Chapter 1: First Glance, First Addiction* --- *Lahore in October* was something else. The city didn’t shout. It breathed. Old brick buildings on Mall Road stood beside glass towers that reflected the sky. The air smelled like rain that hadn’t fallen yet, jasmine from university gardens, and diesel from rickshaws that never slept. Gulberg at 4 PM looked like gold. The sun was low, lazy, painting everything in honey. Students filled cafes on M.M. Alam Road. Art students with paint under their nails. Architecture students with portfolios. Law students pretending they weren’t tired. And in the middle of it all, there was the *Lahore University of Arts and Culture*. LUAC. It wasn’t just a university. It was a world. Red brick walls covered in ivy. Fountains that never worked in summer but looked perfect in October. Corridors that echoed with footsteps, laughter, and the scratch of pencils on paper. This was where beautiful things came to learn how to be seen. And this was where *she* was. *Meral Khan.* If Lahore was gold in October, Meral was the light that made it glow. She was 22. A Fine Arts student. Third year. She didn’t look like the girls on i********:. No heavy makeup. No loud colors. Meral looked like a poem someone forgot to finish. She was tall, but she carried herself small. Like she was trying not to take up space in a world that was too loud. Her skin was fair, but not pale. It had warmth. Like moonlight on warm stone. Her hair was black. Long. She never left it open. Always a low braid, or pinned back with a simple clip. Because when she did let a strand fall, it always fell on her cheek. And she always tucked it behind her ear. Nervous habit. Her eyes were the first thing you noticed. Dark brown. Wide. Too honest. They didn’t know how to lie. When she was confused, they got bigger. When she was embarrassed, they dropped to the floor. She had a long neck. That’s why everyone in her class called her "Swan" as a joke. Once. In the first semester. Someone had said it during a life-drawing class. She had blushed. Head down. Never said anything. But the name stuck. Only in whispers. Only behind her back. Because Meral didn’t notice. Or maybe she pretended not to. She dressed in white. Always. White kurtas, white shirts, white scarves. Not for show. White was quiet. White didn’t ask for attention. And Meral never asked for attention. She had ink on her left thumb. Always. From sketching. Her fingers were thin, but strong. She held her pencil like it was part of her hand. She blushed easily. At compliments. At eye contact. At her own name if someone said it too loudly. That was Meral. Quiet. Graceful. Unaware of how beautiful she was. And then there was *him*. *Omar Ahmed.* 27. He didn’t belong in university corridors. He owned the buildings students interned in. CEO of Ahmed Designs. Architecture. Luxury interiors. Minimalist. Expensive. Cold. Omar was tall. Broad shoulders. Black suit even in October heat. Sharp jaw. Dark eyes that didn’t smile. He spoke in sentences, not paragraphs. People called him intense. Closed off. Dangerous if you were on his bad side. But no one had ever seen him on anyone’s side. He came to LUAC that day because his cousin begged him. "Uncle wants you to fund the new art gallery wing," his cousin had said. "Just show your face. Ten minutes." Ten minutes. That was the plan. --- *The Gallery Hall. 4:17 PM.* The hall smelled like old paint, wet marble, and coffee from the student stall outside. Student paintings hung on white walls. Abstract. Chaotic. Loud. Omar hated it. He stood with his hands in his pockets, counting seconds, when his eyes moved past the crowd... and stopped. Near the marble fountain, away from everyone, she stood. *Meral.* White cotton tunic. Sleeves rolled up once. Scarf draped over one shoulder. She wasn’t looking at the paintings. She was looking at one painting. A single swan on a dark lake. Her head was tilted. Just a little. The October sun from the glass ceiling fell on her hair. It turned her braid into something alive. She didn’t move. She didn’t blink much. The entire gallery was noise. She was silence. Omar stopped breathing. His cousin was still talking. "So the budget is around— Omar? Are you listening?" Omar didn’t answer. Because in that moment, Lahore, LUAC, the gallery, the noise... all of it disappeared. There was only her. The way her shoulders curved inward. The way she held her sketchbook to her chest like armor. The way her lips parted slightly when she was focused. She looked like the painting she was staring at. A swan. Alone. Untouched. His mind gave her a name before he even knew hers. _Swan._ She shifted her weight. A strand of hair fell forward. She tucked it behind her ear. Fast. Embarrassed, even when no one was watching. Omar’s jaw tightened. That small movement did something to him. Something he didn’t have a word for yet. She didn’t know he was there. She never looked up. A student brushed past her too close. Meral flinched. Her cheeks went pink instantly. God. She blushed at air. Omar’s eyes darkened. That was it. Not love. Love was slow. Love was soft. This was faster. Sharper. *Addiction.* One look. And he was gone. "Omar, hello?" His cousin waved a hand. Omar finally blinked. But his eyes didn’t leave her. "Her," he said. "What?" Omar didn’t explain. He just watched. Meral took a step back from the painting. She hugged her sketchbook tighter. And then she turned. Her eyes lifted. And met his. For one second, the world went silent. Her eyes were wide. Startled. Like she’d been caught doing something wrong just by existing. She blinked. Fast. Pink flooded her cheeks. She looked down immediately. At her shoes. Omar exhaled. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. She walked past him. Close enough that he could smell her. Rain. Paper. Something clean. She didn’t say a word. He didn’t either. Men like Omar didn’t speak first. They watched. They memorized. Shoes slightly too big. Ink on her thumb. The way her braid ended just above her waist. The way she clutched that sketchbook. She disappeared into the crowd. The gallery was loud again. "Omar, you look like you’ve seen a ghost," his cousin said. Omar’s eyes were still on the empty space where she stood. "No ghost," he said, voice low. Rough. "Then what?" Omar looked at his cousin. His face was the same. Blank. Controlled. But his eyes... his eyes had changed. "An addiction," he said. And walked out. --- *End of Chapter 1* 🦢 ---