Borders Couldn’t Separate Us

Chapter 7 - The Wrong Engagement

The Wrong Engagement

Three years is a long time to stay away from home.

Long enough for younger cousins to grow taller. Long enough for parents to begin sounding older on phone calls. Long enough for homesickness to stop feeling dramatic… and start feeling permanent.

For Burhan, Abu Dhabi had become a life built on routine.

Morning prayers before sunrise. Strong tea in the crowded kitchen of Lasalas Club. Office targets. Traffic lights melting beneath summer heat. Late-night laughter with roommates. Weekend cricket matches. BBQ picnics during winter.

Life moved quickly in UAE.

So quickly that emotions often remained standing behind while responsibilities kept walking ahead.

But one evening, while sitting beside the Lasalas Club balcony watching airplanes blink quietly across the dark Abu Dhabi sky, Burhan suddenly realized something that tightened his chest unexpectedly.

He had not gone home in three years.

Three years without sitting beside his mother during dinner. Three years without hearing his father’s voice echo through the house after Fajr prayers. Three years without feeling like someone’s son instead of someone’s employee.

That night, without thinking further, he booked his ticket to India for one month.

The moment the ticket confirmation arrived on his screen, a smile spread across his face so naturally that even Yusuf noticed immediately.

“What happened?” he asked suspiciously from kitchen doorway.

Burhan lifted the phone proudly.

“Going home.”

Within seconds, the apartment erupted.

Aziz slapped the dining table dramatically. “Now this man will definitely return engaged.”

Abdul bhai laughed while stirring tea. “First let him survive aunties.”

Even quiet Murtaza bhai smiled from corner sofa.

Burhan laughed with everyone, but inside him, something softer had already begun traveling home before the airplane ever would.

That night before sleeping, he messaged Zehra.

“Booked my ticket.”

Her reply came after only a few minutes.

“Finally.”

Then another message appeared.

“You sound happy.”

Burhan leaned against his pillow smiling softly at the screen.

He was happy.

For the next several days, their conversations carried an excitement that felt strangely warm.

He spoke about old tea stalls, his mother’s cooking, childhood streets, relatives, and the feeling of finally sleeping in his own room again.

And Zehra listened patiently to everything.

Sometimes teasing him softly. Sometimes asking small questions that made him continue speaking longer than intended.

One night she wrote:

“Your messages feel lighter these days.”

Burhan stared at the sentence quietly.

Because somewhere deep inside, he had started noticing something too:

Whenever he shared happiness with Zehra… the happiness somehow felt complete.

The departure day arrived quietly.

At Abu Dhabi airport, Lasalas Club members gathered to drop him.

“Bring snacks when you return,” Yusuf demanded seriously.

“Bring wife,” Aziz corrected immediately.

Everyone laughed loudly.

Before entering security, Burhan turned once more toward them.

For years, these men had become his second family. And suddenly, for the first time in a long while, life felt full.

Hours later, when the airplane landed in India, Burhan felt emotion rise unexpectedly inside his chest.

The humidity. The familiar language. The crowded airport noise.

Home.

And then he saw them.

His parents.

His mother already wiping tears before reaching him. His father, Hakim Saifee, standing proudly in white kurta beneath airport lights, though age now rested quietly across his face.

The moment Burhan hugged them, something inside him softened painfully.

Not sadness.

Relief.

Pure relief.

Hakim Saifee was deeply respected within the community. Years of sincere service had made him known almost everywhere. Wherever they went, people greeted him warmly.

And now people had started looking at Burhan differently too.

Not as a child anymore.

But as a successful young bachelor working in Abu Dhabi.

Relatives smiled knowingly. Families suddenly became unusually welcoming. Aunties asked suspiciously polite questions.

Burhan understood immediately.

Marriage conversations had officially begun.

The first week passed like celebration.

Family lunches stretched for hours. Guests visited daily. Children ran through rooms loudly while elders discussed old memories over tea.

And somewhere within all this happiness, Burhan unintentionally became distant from Zehra.

Not emotionally. Just naturally.

Days became crowded. His Indian SIM card barely worked properly sometimes. And Zehra herself remained busy with university studies in Karachi.

Still… occasionally she opened w******p hoping to see his message.

Sometimes she typed:

“How’s home?”

But the message remained undelivered.

Sometimes she stared quietly at his last seen before closing the app again.

She never complained.

But absence had already started mattering now.

One evening during a large community gathering, Hakim Saifee met an old acquaintance. Conversations happened over tea, introductions followed politely, and eventually Burhan’s father was introduced to a family with a daughter named Saarah.

Educated. Beautiful. Respectful.

Later that night, after guests left, Hakim Saifee spoke quietly to his wife.

“I liked that girl.”

His mother listened carefully. And slowly, discussions began.

The following evening, Burhan’s mother approached him gently while folding clothes in the room.

“There’s a girl we saw.”

Burhan smiled awkwardly.

“She’s from good family,” his mother continued softly.

For few moments he remained silent.

Then quietly he said,

“There’s one friend in Karachi.”

His mother immediately looked up sharply.

“Not again.”

Burhan laughed lightly trying to calm the tension.

“No no… nothing like that. Just friend.”

And honestly… even he himself did not fully understand what Zehra had become to him.

There was comfort. Attachment. Peace.

But nothing officially spoken. Nothing strong enough to place before family expectations.

That night, long after everyone slept, Burhan remained awake staring at the ceiling fan turning slowly above him.

A strange guilt had already begun settling quietly inside him.

Not guilt toward Saarah. Not even toward Zehra.

But toward himself.

Because somewhere deep down, he knew he was agreeing to a future he did not fully understand.

He loved his parents deeply. Especially his father, whose tired eyes carried years of sacrifice silently.

How could he disappoint them after waiting so long to see him settled?

Yet another question kept returning softly inside him:

Why did peace always enter his heart only when speaking to Zehra?

He tried pushing the thought away immediately.

Zehra lived across a border. Across politics. Across uncertainty.

Maybe destiny was never meant to be practical, he thought bitterly.

Maybe that was why people stopped listening to their hearts after growing older.

Meanwhile, time moved quickly.

His return to Abu Dhabi was approaching. Relatives encouraged the proposal warmly. Families seemed compatible.

And because Burhan deeply loved and respected his parents, he slowly allowed himself to move with their decision.

Maybe feelings grow later, he told himself. Maybe this is how marriages begin in real life.

The engagement was arranged quickly.

That evening, the house glowed beneath soft golden lights while relatives filled rooms with laughter and perfume. Trays of sweets moved from one corner to another. Children chased each other between guests. Camera flashes burst constantly through the hall.

Saarah sat gracefully among the women wearing a soft peach-colored dress. She looked calm, elegant, and slightly nervous.

Burhan greeted guests politely, smiling whenever photographs demanded it.

Everyone looked happy.

So why did his own heart feel strangely quiet?

Not unhappy. Not fearful.

Just disconnected somehow.

As though he was standing inside a life that fit perfectly on paper… but not inside his soul.

Still, he convinced himself this nervousness was normal.

Marriage was responsibility, not fantasy. Love develops slowly. Comfort comes later.

That was what everyone always said.

Late that night, after guests finally left and the house became silent again, Burhan sat alone in his room beneath dim yellow light holding his phone quietly.

For several minutes, he stared at Zehra’s chat without typing anything.

Then finally:

“Hi.”

Her reply came after few minutes.

“Assalamualaikum.”

Burhan swallowed softly before typing again.

“I got engaged today.”

For long moments… no reply came.

The ceiling fan rotated slowly above him while distant voices echoed faintly from another room. Outside, occasional scooter sounds passed through sleeping streets.

Burhan kept staring at the screen.

Then finally her message appeared.

“Mubarak.”

That was all.

One word.

Simple. Polite. Controlled.

But Burhan could feel something hidden beneath it.

Silence.

The kind of silence people use when emotions are too delicate to speak honestly.

For several minutes, Burhan kept staring at that single word.

“Mubarak.”

He typed many replies. Deleted them all.

He wanted to explain himself somehow.

Wanted to say: “I don’t even know if I’m doing the right thing.”

Wanted to ask: “Why does this suddenly feel like losing something important?”

But instead, he locked his phone quietly and placed it beside him.

That night, while relatives outside still laughed over leftover sweets and tea, Burhan sat alone feeling strangely hollow.

The engagement had happened exactly the way families dreamt.

Then why did his heart feel as though it had disappointed someone silently?

And for the first time, another fear entered him quietly:

What if Zehra slowly disappeared from his life now?

What if this was how certain people leave forever — not through fights, not through endings, but simply because life moves in different directions?

In Karachi, Zehra sat staring at her own screen quietly after sending the message. Her books remained open beside her, but she had stopped reading long ago.

Somehow she had always known this day might come.

Burhan was far away. Families existed. Reality existed.

Still… the message hurt more than she expected.

Not because promises had broken. There were never promises.

But because some attachments quietly become important before people realize it themselves.

That night neither spoke much afterward.

Yet both remained awake longer than usual.

A few days later, Burhan returned to Abu Dhabi carrying sweets, gifts, engagement photographs… and emotional confusion he could not explain properly.

At office, Rajesh and Rizwan celebrated loudly after hearing the news.

“Finally!” Rizwan shouted dramatically. “Our team leader officially trapped.”

Rajesh smiled calmly while shaking Burhan’s hand. “Happy for you, brother.”

Burhan smiled too.

And honestly… in the beginning, he truly tried sincerely.

He called Saarah regularly. Messaged patiently. Tried understanding her.

And to be fair, Saarah also had dreams.

Like many girls, she imagined marriage would bring emotional closeness, stability, and a beautiful future abroad. She imagined long conversations, attention, excitement, and eventually a comfortable life in UAE beside her husband.

But somewhere between expectation and personality, they simply failed to connect naturally.

Burhan valued simplicity, emotional calm, and quiet understanding. Saarah expressed emotions differently.

Sometimes she became upset when he remained busy with work. Sometimes she wanted more attention when Burhan returned exhausted from client visits beneath Abu Dhabi heat. Sometimes she imagined UAE life more luxurious than Burhan’s actual reality.

And slowly, misunderstandings increased.

Small conversations became arguments. Simple expectations became pressure.

Still, Burhan blamed himself for months.

Maybe he was emotionally immature. Maybe he expected too much softness from life. Maybe every marriage eventually became difficult.

So he kept trying.

He apologized after arguments even when exhausted. He changed routines. Spoke more gently. Called more often. Ignored his own discomfort repeatedly.

But every effort left him lonelier afterward.

And the loneliness became frightening because it existed even while being engaged to someone.

One night after ending another difficult call with Saarah, Burhan sat alone in the Lasalas Club kitchen long after midnight.

The apartment had become silent. Only refrigerator sounds and distant traffic remained awake with him.

He stared at the untouched tea growing cold beside his hands and suddenly wondered:

Was this really how love was supposed to feel?

Not excitement. Not peace. Not comfort.

Just responsibility mixed with emotional exhaustion.

And beneath all those thoughts, hidden where he tried hardest not to look, lived another truth he could no longer escape:

Some part of his heart still searched for Zehra in moments when life became heavy.

Meanwhile, every evening inside Lasalas Club, he watched his roommates laughing softly while speaking to their fiancées. Their conversations sounded comforting.

But Burhan’s conversations increasingly left him emotionally tired.

Slowly, even his love for cooking disappeared.

The same Burhan who once happily prepared meals for everyone now often sat silently while others cooked.

One late night after a painful argument with Saarah, Burhan sat alone inside his parked car beneath Abu Dhabi skyline.

The city lights shimmered across the windshield while cool air drifted softly through slightly opened windows.

And there, in that silence, he suddenly realized something that shook him deeply.

There were two kinds of silence in his life.

The silence after arguments with Saarah… hurt him.

But the silence he once shared with Zehra during late-night calls…

healed him.

That realization frightened him.

Because suddenly his heart had answered a question his mind kept avoiding.

The next evening, while sitting near the Lasalas Club balcony, Burhan finally opened up honestly to Abdul bhai and Fakhri bhai.

“Is this normal?” he asked quietly.

“What happened?” Abdul bhai asked gently.

Burhan hesitated before speaking.

“It feels like something missing.”

Fakhri bhai listened carefully while tea steam rose softly between them.

Then Abdul bhai smiled reassuringly.

“Initially this happens,” he said calmly. “Two souls take time understanding each other.”

That answer gave Burhan temporary relief.

Maybe he was overthinking. Maybe adjustment simply needed patience.

So he tried again.

Harder this time.

But peace cannot grow where hearts do not connect naturally.

The arguments returned. The emotional heaviness returned. The exhaustion returned.

Until finally, months later, Burhan accepted the truth he had been avoiding desperately:

This engagement was wrong.

Breaking it became one of the hardest decisions of his life.

Relatives judged him endlessly. Families questioned him repeatedly. People whispered behind backs.

“You are too emotional.” “Marriage requires compromise.” “Good girls are difficult to find.”

And beneath all those voices lived another fear Burhan never admitted openly:

What if he had disappointed his parents forever?

His father had trusted his decision. His mother had finally accepted the engagement. Families had celebrated.

Now everything had collapsed.

For weeks after the breakup, Burhan carried guilt quietly like invisible weight.

Sometimes he avoided calling home. Sometimes he sat alone after work staring at Abu Dhabi traffic wondering whether he had ruined his own future by listening too much to his heart.

But deep inside…

Burhan knew something with complete certainty now.

Staying would slowly destroy him.

And so despite guilt, pressure, fear, and loneliness…

he ended the engagement.

The day everything officially broke, Burhan sat alone inside his car beneath Abu Dhabi night skies once again.

And for the first time in many months…

he breathed freely.

Not proudly. Not joyfully.

But honestly.

As though he had finally escaped a life his soul was never meant to live.