Soul bound

It started on a rainy Thursday in Karachi, not the kind of rain that floods the streets, just a soft drizzle that made the city smell like wet earth and chai. He was waiting under a broken tin shed outside the coffee shop, scrolling through his phone like it was a habit, not interest. She showed up late, jeans rolled at the ankles, hair damp and wild like she’d run through a cloud. Her name was Zara.

And she laughed, not a polite laugh, not staged. The kind of laugh that made you feel like sunshine could come out of people.

He offered his umbrella. She declined, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. “I like the rain,” she said.

That’s how it began.

Zara and Ali weren’t the kind of couple people saw coming. She was loud, impulsive, and full of strange dreams like owning a bookstore in Istanbul or dancing in the streets of Italy. He was quiet, deliberate, the guy who double-checked the locks at night and always knew where his socks were.

But when they were together, something clicked. It wasn’t fireworks. It was quieter than that like a candle that never went out.

They fell in love slowly.

Late-night drives with no destination. Movie marathons with popcorn fights. Texts that said, “I miss you,” even when they’d just seen each other. And then there were those moments you don’t tell anyone about because they feel too soft, too precious.

Like the time he kissed her forehead at 2 AM and whispered, “You're my home.”

Or when she kissed his hand in the middle of a fight, just to remind him, “I’m still here.”

Their first real kiss wasn’t planned. It happened in the middle of a sentence, outside her apartment, under a sky full of stars. He was rambling about work, something boring, probably. She just leaned in, rested her hand on his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world, and kissed him.

It wasn’t fireworks.

It was peaceful.

And it made his knees weak.

But life, as it does, had other plans.

Zara got a job offer in Dubai, the kind of opportunity you don’t say no to. She tried to be practical. So did he. But hearts aren’t built for logic. The night before her flight, they sat on the floor of his bedroom, surrounded by half-packed boxes of memories, handwritten letters, a perfume bottle, and old movie tickets.

“I hate this,” she whispered.

He pulled her into his arms, held her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her.

“We’ll make it work,” he said.

“Promise?”

“With everything in me.”

That night, they made love like it was goodbye and forever all at once slow, quiet, with fingers trembling and eyes saying what words couldn’t. He kissed her shoulder, her neck, her fingertips. She ran her hands through his hair and whispered “I love you” like a prayer.

Distance tried its best to break them. Time zones, missed calls, video chats with tired eyes and poor signals. But love doesn’t live on phones. It lives in the small things surprise letters in the mail, voice notes at dawn, that silly song he sent her when she was feeling low.

And when she came back, two years later, he met her at the airport with the same umbrella he held that rainy day.

She ran into his arms.

No words.

Just breath and heartbeat.

He kissed her like no time had passed. Like their souls had just been waiting to meet again in the flesh.

They weren’t perfect. But they were soul bound.

Do you believe that some souls are destined to find each other, no matter how far they drift apart?