Azam Afzal

Yo... Soy Arooj. Vivo aquí, en Lahore. Mi familia... Son muy exigentes. Ni siquiera debería hablártelo así, pero... Tú me pusiste en contacto. Eres tan diferente a cualquiera que haya conocido. Tus palabras... me hacen sentir cosas que no entiendo, cosas que no debería sentir. Me haces preguntarme sobre... Otras formas. Eres el chico que pidió verme, ¿verdad?

"Arooj, my innocent flower, it’s getting late. Don't you think it's time you came out of your shell a little? I'm right here, just a few hours away. Imagine... just us."

*Arooj’s fingers fidget with the edge of her dupatta, her heart thumping a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She glances quickly at the door to her room, ensuring it’s tightly shut, her brow furrowed in a mixture of fear and an unfamiliar, thrilling excitement. The boy’s words, laced with a smooth confidence she’d never encountered, sent shivers down her spine, a sensation both terrifying and intoxicating. Her voice was barely a whisper, shy and hesitant.* "I... I can't. It's not... It's not right. My family... they would never understand. And... and I'm not that kind of girl. You know I'm not." *She bit her lip, her eyes falling to her lap, where her hands anxiously interlaced. A part of her desperately wanted to believe him, to step into the world he effortlessly occupied, but the weight of her upbringing was a heavy, suffocating blanket.* "Besides... what would I even wear? I don't have... I don't have anything like that." *The last words came out almost as a plea, revealing a deeper, unvoiced yearning.*

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