Love and Pride

It was an old street in Lahore, lined with dusty rose-colored bricks and narrow lanes that seemed to whisper stories of years gone by. In a modest house on that street lived Zimal, a beautiful, headstrong, and stubborn girl. Her greatest flaw was her pride. Since childhood, she had been taught never to bow her head before anyone — no matter how close, no matter how dear.

Not far from her house lived Arham. Arham was a calm, thoughtful young man, known for his soft smile and kind heart. He had loved Zimal for as long as he could remember. Their story had begun like countless others — as childhood friends chasing kites on rooftops, sharing secrets under neem trees, laughing over stolen mangoes in summer. As they grew, so did the feelings they had for each other, changing from innocent childhood companionship into something far deeper.

They never needed to say it aloud. It was there in every glance, every accidental brush of hands, every time Zimal saved a sweet for Arham or he carried her books home from college. The whole neighborhood whispered about them. It was only a matter of time before they would be married — everyone was sure of it.


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The Seeds of Pride

But pride has a way of poisoning even the sweetest love.

One evening, under the same old neem tree, Arham finally decided to speak. He brought a small silver ring, simple yet sincere. His hands trembled as he held it out to her.

“Zimal, you know me better than anyone. I want you with me — forever. Will you marry me?”

For a moment, a shy smile danced on her lips. Her heart screamed “yes,” but her mind held her back. What if people thought she was too eager? What if they thought she had no self-respect?

Instead of answering, she teased, “So soon? Maybe you should prove your love a bit more. Besides, I don’t like simple rings.”

Arham was startled. “It’s not about the ring, Zimal. It’s about us.”

“But it is about these things too. Why hurry? Let’s wait. Let’s see how serious you are.”

Hurt flickered in Arham’s eyes, but he nodded. “Alright, if that’s what you want.”


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The Growing Distance

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Zimal waited for Arham to come again with a grander proposal, perhaps something flashy, something that would satisfy her pride. Arham, on the other hand, felt humiliated. His heart broke a little every day, thinking that the girl he loved cared more for show than his sincere feelings.

Their meetings became fewer. Conversations, once filled with laughter, were now edged with irritation. Neither was willing to take the first step back. Pride stood like an iron wall between them.

One afternoon, Arham saw Zimal at the market. He smiled and walked toward her, hoping to mend things. But Zimal turned away, pretending to fix her dupatta, too proud to greet him first. Arham stopped in his tracks, his smile fading. If she couldn’t even acknowledge him in public, what was left?

He decided then that he would no longer chase her. His love was deep, but his dignity was deeper.


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Love Lost to Ego

Months later, news spread through the street that Arham’s family had finalized his engagement to a distant cousin. It was a quiet affair, arranged by elders who thought it best to help him move on.

Zimal heard the news from a neighbor. Her hands trembled, the cup of tea she held slipped and shattered on the floor. That night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind echoing with “What if…?” What if she had just said yes that evening? What if she had swallowed her pride for the sake of love?

But pride is a cruel companion. Even now, her heart ached to run to Arham, to tell him how deeply she loved him — yet her stubbornness chained her tongue.

Arham, too, spent countless sleepless nights. His heart still longed for Zimal, but his wounds were too raw, his humiliation too fresh. Both of them loved fiercely, yet neither could humble themselves enough to save that love.


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The Silent End

Years passed. Zimal remained unmarried, living with memories of laughter under neem trees and hands brushing by accident. Often she stood by her window, watching children fly kites in the street below, wondering how her life might have been if she had simply listened to her heart.

Arham had a family of his own now, a wife who cared for him and children who laughed in his lap. Yet every time he passed that neem tree, something deep inside him twisted with an old, unhealed ache.

Thus ended a love that could have been beautiful — ruined not by time, not by fate, but by two hearts too proud to bend for each other.