Swept by Love

In the quiet streets of old Lahore, nestled between crumbling walls and blooming bougainvillea, stood the grand white Haveli of the Rahman family. With its towering arches and centuries-old wooden doors, it was a house that echoed with laughter, tradition—and secrets.

Zareen, barely twenty, worked in that house.

She was not born into wealth or opportunity. Raised in a small village where education came second to survival, Zareen's world changed the day her father fell ill. With her brothers too young and her mother too frail, she stepped forward and found work as a maid in the city. Her life became a rhythm of sweeping floors, washing dishes, and folding the silks of people who had never known hunger.

But she carried her dignity like a crown. Quiet, kind, and always careful with her words, Zareen earned the respect of the other servants and the quiet trust of Begum Sahiba. She moved through the Haveli like a whisper—present, but never noticed.

Until he came home.

Ayaan Rahman, the only son of the family, had returned from London after completing his studies. Tall, clean-cut, with thoughtful eyes and an effortless smile, he didn’t carry himself like the privileged sons of landlords. He said “thank you” when Zareen poured his tea. He picked up his own plates. Once, she caught him laughing with the driver and helping the old gatekeeper carry sacks from the market. It unsettled her—and slowly, charmed her.

For weeks, she avoided his gaze. She reminded herself: You’re the help. This world is not yours. But fate, mischievous and bold, had other plans.

One afternoon, while dusting the bookshelves in the family library, Zareen climbed up a stool to reach the top shelf. Her scarf slipped. She lost her balance. The world tilted.

And suddenly, strong hands caught her.

Heart pounding, breath stolen, she opened her eyes to find Ayaan holding her steady. For a brief second, time slowed. Her scarf lay forgotten. His eyes held hers.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice gentle.

Zareen nodded, her voice lost somewhere between shame and something more dangerous—hope.

From that day on, everything changed.

He began spending more time in the library. Sometimes reading. Sometimes pretending. Sometimes just... there. One day, he handed her a book.

“You love to read, don’t you?” he asked.

Zareen hesitated, then nodded. Her secret was out.

From then on, he’d leave books out for her with notes: This one is beautiful. Page 87 will stay with you. She’d read at night by candlelight, heart swelling with words and the dangerous closeness growing between them.

But love, like truth, can’t stay hidden forever.

One morning, while placing fresh roses in the drawing room vase, Zareen heard raised voices in the hall.

“She’s a maid, Ayaan!” Begum Sahiba’s voice thundered. “Have you lost your mind? What will people say?”

Zareen froze. Her world crumbled with those words.

That evening, she stood at the rooftop, staring at the moonlit sky, tears blurring her vision. Footsteps approached. She didn’t turn.

“I never meant to hurt you,” Ayaan said softly. “But I can’t stop feeling what I feel.”

She turned to him then, eyes shining with quiet fire. “What I feel doesn’t matter. My love is not allowed.”

Ayaan stepped forward. “I want to change that.”

Zareen smiled sadly. “Some hearts must be hidden, Ayaan. Not because they don’t beat—but because the world doesn’t let them speak.”

She left the Haveli the next morning. No goodbyes. Just a note tucked inside the book he last gave her:

“You taught me that love doesn’t ask for permission. But some lives are shaped by boundaries too high to cross. Forgive me for leaving—but thank you for seeing me.”

Five Years Later...

A small, cozy library opened on the edge of the city. It was built for the poor—open to all. Children came in barefoot, women sat in corners reading poetry, and a quiet young woman ran it with grace and warmth. Her name was Zareen.

One evening, while stacking books on a shelf, she found a new donation: Pride and Prejudice. Inside was a small card.

“Page 87 still stays with me. — A.R.”

Her fingers trembled as she turned the page.

And she smiled, heart fluttering in a way she thought she’d forgotten.

The End.