Hearts Against the Storm

The first time I saw Alya, she was standing beneath the old mulberry tree in our school’s back garden, sunlight tangled in her hair, her scarf fluttering like a silent rebellion against the breeze. She was humming to herself — unaware, I think, that someone was falling in love with her from across the corridor.

I was just eighteen. She was seventeen. But what we had wasn’t a childish crush. It was deep, urgent — the kind of feeling that doesn’t care about consequences.

It started with glances, then brief smiles in the library. I’d pretend to care about poetry because she loved it. I wrote clumsy verses and left them hidden in her favorite books. She pretended not to notice, but her smile said otherwise.

But our love didn’t live in a fairytale.

My name is Taimoor. I belong to a respected family in our town — not wealthy, but proud. Especially my father. My mother, though gentle, carried the weight of old wounds.

Alya was from the same place, but a different world. Her family name — Sherzai — was whispered more than spoken. Her grandfather, Malik Sherzai, had once ruled our village like a king. Twenty years ago, during a land feud, he was accused of murdering my uncle — my father's younger brother. The case was buried, the evidence vanished, and justice never came.

My father never forgave. My mother never forgot.

So when they discovered I was in love with the granddaughter of the man who tore our family apart, their anger wasn’t just loud — it was absolute.

“You will not disgrace your blood, Taimoor,” my father said. “Not for a Sherzai girl. Never.”

I tried to explain, to plead — “She’s not her grandfather. She’s nothing like him.”

But the past was a weight they couldn’t set down.

And if that wasn't enough, there was Azeel.

He was Alya’s distant cousin — or so he claimed. Older than us. Dangerous. He had grown up with Alya’s brothers, attached to the Sherzai name like a shadow. It was said he’d always believed Alya would marry him — a claim Alya had rejected again and again.

When he learned about us, he didn’t scream or threaten. He just watched. Coldly. Like a hunter measuring distance.

At first, he sent subtle messages — a slashed tire, a stray rock through my window. Then, one evening, a phone call:

“Stay away from Alya. Your love story ends here.”

I didn’t back down. Neither did Alya. We continued meeting — by the old canal, in empty classrooms, in silence and stolen laughter. We held on to each other like anchors in a rising storm.

“I want to leave this place with you,” she whispered one night. “They’ll never accept us. Your parents, Azeel, my family — they’ll keep trying to break us.”

“I can’t yet,” I told her. “My mother’s sick. My younger brother needs me. But I promise — I’ll find a way.”

But Azeel wasn’t waiting.

One day, outside a small teashop near my college, I saw her. Alya. Across the street. Crying.

Azeel was behind her. Gripping her arm.

Before I could move, a black SUV pulled up. He forced her in — and they vanished.

That moment changed everything.