A Love Lost and a Life Gained"

A few years ago, in the golden twilight of a peaceful village, two hearts quietly beat for each other—softly, secretly, and sincerely. My name is sher Khan, and this is the story of a love that once warmed my soul, the pain that shattered it, and the life that healed it again.

Her name was Shukrya—my cousin, my friend, and for a time, the one I believed was my future. Shukrya was not just beautiful in the way most people speak of beauty. She had a quiet charm, a kindness in her eyes, and a presence that made even the stillness of evening feel alive. We both knew we loved each other, even though the words were never spoken aloud. Our hearts said what our lips could not.

Every day, like a secret ritual, we met after the evening call to prayer. In Pashto, we call that time mazigar—a soft, magical moment between daylight and night, where the world seems to pause. That was our time. Not a single day passed without seeing each other. And when circumstances kept us apart, the absence hurt like a wound. My heart would ache for her, and I knew hers did the same.

We were engaged—yes, mangni was done between our families. The idea of spending our lives together felt so natural, so destined. But not all dreams are easy to reach. Her father, although not against the match, asked for time—time we felt we didn't have. My family was in a hurry to settle things, and pressures began to rise. Still, I held on to hope.

But then something changed. One day, doubt crept into my heart. A small misunderstanding, a whisper of suspicion—perhaps jealousy, perhaps fear—caused a crack in the trust I had placed in her. I began to question her loyalty, influenced partly by the closeness she shared with another cousin. I never saw anything inappropriate, but sometimes, the heart invents what it fears most.

I never confronted her. I simply drifted away, quietly and painfully. For days, we didn’t speak. She didn’t know what had happened; she didn’t know what broke me. Maybe she wondered, maybe she cried—I don't know. All I knew was that something between us had been lost, and I didn’t have the courage to fix it.

My family, unaware of the storm within me, began searching for another bride. Within two months, I was engaged again—this time to another cousin—and shortly after, we were married. Life moved faster than I could think, and soon I was a husband, and later, a father.

And Shukrya? She married too. After my wedding, she was wedded to another man. Like me, she became a parent. We each built new lives with new people. Our paths, once so closely linked, now ran parallel—but never touched again.

Sometimes, I think back to those mazigar evenings. The way her smile would meet mine, the silent conversations we shared with our eyes, the dreams we never dared to say aloud. I wonder what might have happened if I had spoken, if I had trusted more, if I had fought harder. But life, like time, doesn’t wait for regrets.

Now, years later, I see her sometimes. She has her family; I have mine. Our children will never know the story of us. And that’s okay. Some stories are meant to be remembered only by the hearts that lived them.

There’s a lesson in all of this—maybe even a kind of beauty. Love doesn’t always mean forever. Sometimes, it’s just a season, a soft whisper in the middle of our lives that teaches us something we didn’t know about ourselves.

What Shukrya and I shared was real, even if it didn’t last. And that’s enough. Because in the end, life is not about holding on to every moment—it’s about letting go when the time comes, and embracing the path that lies ahead.

I do not hate her. I do not regret her. I simply carry her in a small, quiet place in my memory—where the mazigar still feels warm, and two young hearts still meet in secret, untouched by time.