The engagement wasn't a question anymore. It was a shadow following me wherever I went, soft but insistent, whispering that my life was no longer entirely mine.
At dinner that evening, my father's voice carries in a way that silences the clatter of plates. "Khalid's family has reached out," he says, calm, certain. "They want to begin discussions about your future."
I feel my chest tighten, a quiet panic coiling beneath the surface.
My mother sets down her teacup and adds, "Nothing official yet, but it's polite to start preparing."
Preparing. The word makes my stomach sink. Preparing for a life I haven't chosen. Preparing to walk down a path that isn't mine.
I nod, because that's what's expected. Because disagreeing would be rude. Because I'm supposed to be reasonable, obedient, agreeable. And yet, my thoughts wander. To Fahad. To the quiet moments in our business meetings when his eyes lingered too long, and my pulse betrayed me in a way I don't admit even to myself.
Later, alone in my room, I stare at the ceiling, trying to imagine a future where I am happy, and every version I see includes him, not Khalid. And that thought is terrifying. Dangerous. Forbidden.
The next day, work becomes my sanctuary and my torment at the same time. Fahad notices immediately.
"You're miles away," he observes as we sit across from each other, documents between us like a wall neither of us can cross.
"They're talking seriously now," I mutter, not meeting his eyes. "Engagement. Dates. Families. Everything is… moving forward."
He pauses, pen in hand. The light from the window catches his profile, and for a moment, I imagine how different my life could be if he were not just a colleague, if boundaries were not drawn in invisible ink.
"Do you want this?" he asks, voice softer than usual, heavy with concern.
I shut my notebook a little too forcefully. "I don't know if what I want matters."
He leans back, gaze fixed on me. "It always matters," he says quietly. "Even when everyone pretends it doesn't."
His words echo in my mind long after we leave the office. They follow me home. They haunt my quiet moments.
A few days later, Khalid calls. His tone is polite, careful, warm. Responsible. Everything a family could hope for. "I heard our families spoke," he says. "I just wanted you to know there's no rush. I want you to be comfortable."
I thank him, though it feels hollow. His kindness is real. My attraction is not for him. Yet he exists in my life, a symbol of the path I am expected to take. And that makes everything heavier.
Fahad, meanwhile, remains professionally distant, his concern masked by polite conversation and a strict adherence to work. It hurts more than I expect. His restraint, the careful control he exerts around me, makes the pull toward him all the more unbearable.
Later, when we pack up our things, he finally speaks, softer now, almost a whisper. "If this goes forward, I'll respect it."
I look at him, really look. There's no judgment. No pressure. Just understanding—and maybe, just maybe, a shared pain that neither of us can fully name.
"And if it doesn't?" I ask, my voice barely audible.
He meets my gaze, steady and unwavering. "Then you should choose what gives you peace."
Peace feels like a luxury I don't have. And yet, the engagement knocks louder every day, closer and closer, and I know sooner or later, it will not just knock. It will demand that I open the door.