20| Guilt And Regret

Love a girl who writes,

And live her many lives;

You have yet to find her,

Beneath her words of guise.

Kiss her blue inked fingers,

Forgive the pens they marked.

The stain of your lips upon her-

The one she can't discard.

Forget her tattered memories,

Or the pages others took;

You are her ever after-

The hero of her book.

- Lang leav

Credit - pinterest

I couldn't help but share this. It was beautiful.

Anyway back to business.

The above picture is of Humza ♥

And this is his POV

Enjoy!

G U I L T A N D R E G R E T

W O R D C O U N T: 2693

Regret was a foreign concept to Humza.

He never did anything without calculating the consequences, without weighing the risks. His entire life had been built on control—on discipline, on logic, on the firm belief that emotions were nothing but an unnecessary liability.

But tonight, he had lost control.

And he despised himself for it.

The engine of his car roared as he sped through the dark streets, but his mind was stuck in that single moment—the moment his hands had wrapped around Anaabiya's throat.

The memory burned.

He could still feel it, the delicate curve of her neck under his fingers, even from under her hijab, the way her pulse had pounded against his palm, rapid and terrified. He could still see the sheer horror in her eyes, the way she had struggled, gasped, clawed at his wrist, fighting to breathe.

And yet, he hadn't let go.

His grip had only tightened, fueled by the storm inside him.

A storm that had erupted the second she had uttered that name.

His father's name.

His beloved father's name.

For a fleeting second, the image of his lifeless body seared through his mind.

And then, as if pouring fuel onto an already raging fire, she had mistakenly addressed his father's brother as his father.

That man didn't deserve it. Didn't deserve to be associated with his father in any way.

That man had been erased from his life a long time ago. Or at least, that's what he had told himself. He had buried him, locked him away in the deepest parts of his mind, refusing to acknowledge his existence.

But with just a few words, Anaabiya had ripped the past wide open.

And he had lost himself.

His fingers curled tighter around the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.

It scared him.

Not just the memory of what he had done, but the realization of what could have happened if Bibijaan hadn't come in when she did.

For the first time in years, a foreign, unsettling feeling crept into Humza—something dangerously close to fear.

He had ended countless lives without a second thought, but taking hers?

That, he knew, would be the death of him, even though he could hardly accept it.

What if she hadn't stopped him?

Would he have killed Anaabiya?

The thought sent a sickening chill down his spine.

The sharp sting of Bibijaan's slap still burned on his face, but he was grateful for it.

Because he had deserved it. Every bit of it.

That slap had snapped him out of whatever dark haze had consumed him. It had forced him to see what he had become in that moment—someone unrecognizable, someone who had let his rage dictate his actions, someone who had almost...

His stomach twisted.

Anaabiya could have died.

By his hands.

He exhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. He needed to get a grip. He needed to remind himself who he was.

She was just supposed to be a name on a contract, a temporary piece in a much bigger game.

She shouldn't have mattered.

And yet, as much as he wanted to push it aside, to shove it into the depths of his mind like he had done with everything else, he couldn't ignore the ugly truth staring him in the face.

Tonight, he had almost crossed a line he could never return from.

And that terrified him more than he was willing to admit.

Humza didn't want to see her. He couldn't. Not after what he had done.

So he had driven aimlessly, letting the city swallow him whole. The streets blurred past him, neon lights flashing, but his mind was stuck in that one moment—his hands around her throat, the terror in her eyes. He should have gone anywhere but back home, yet when the night stretched too long, and the silence in his car became deafening, he had no choice but to return.

Back in his room, he paced, debating. A part of him wanted to check on her, to ask if she was fine—if she could even stand to look at him.

But he knew the answer.

She wouldn't want to see him. Not now. Not ever.

Humza sat on the edge of his bed, his hands running through his hair in frustration. His mind was a battlefield, waging a war he didn't know how to win. He didn't want to see her, yet when he heard footsteps in the corridor, his entire body went still.

Was it her?

For a second, hope flickered inside him—ridiculous, unfounded hope. He clenched his jaw, willing himself to stay put, but the need to see her, just once, gnawed at him.

So he got up. Slowly, hesitantly. He stepped out of his room, his heart hammering in his chest, and then he saw her.

Anaabiya stood there, looking as shattered as a person could be. Tear-streaked face, swollen eyes, a quiet devastation clinging to her like a shadow. His breath hitched, as if someone had driven a fist straight into his gut.

He did this.

He destroyed lives—that was what he was good at. His father. Malika. And now, her.

For the first time in years, Humza felt something close to shame.

A sudden, inexplicable urge took hold of him. He wanted to cross the distance between them, pull her into his arms, press her head against his chest, whisper reassurances until she fell asleep.

But wasn't that hypocrisy?

How could the one responsible for her pain be the one to take it away?

Then came the final blow.

The look in her eyes—pure, unfiltered hatred.

He took a step forward, but she didn't wait. As if the mere thought of his approach repulsed her, she turned away and shut the door before he could take another step.

The sound echoed through the hallway, sealing something inside him.

Humza paced in his room, restless. The hours dragged by, but sleep evaded him. He had tried—tried to drown out the thoughts, to ignore the gnawing weight in his chest, but it was impossible. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was Anaabiya's tear-streaked face, the raw hatred in her eyes, the way she had slammed the door shut, shutting him out completely.

He should let it be.

She probably never wanted to see him again.

But the guilt clawed at his insides like a slow, agonizing poison.

He had almost killed her.

His hands curled into fists at the thought.

For a man who had taken countless lives without a second thought, this should not have mattered. But it did.

Because this was Anaabiya.

He didn't even know when he had risen to his feet, but suddenly, he was walking towards her room.

He told himself it was only to check if she was okay. Nothing more.

Yet, when he reached her door, his steps faltered.

What was he even doing?

He debated turning back, telling himself that he had no right, that she wouldn't want him anywhere near her. But despite all the voices in his head screaming at him to leave, his hand lifted on its own, his knuckles grazing the door in a soft, hesitant knock.

Silence.

There was no movement from the other side.

His chest tightened. Was she asleep? Or was she simply ignoring him?

He exhaled, preparing to leave. But something didn't sit right. The silence felt unnatural. The unease in his gut grew stronger, so before he could think twice, he pressed his fingers against the handle and turned it.

To his surprise, the door wasn't locked.

He froze for a moment before slowly pushing it open. The dim moonlight spilling in from the curtains was the only source of illumination in the room. His eyes scanned the space until they landed on her.

She was asleep.

For the first time, Humza saw her hair open, cascading down her pillow like dark silk. He had never seen her like this before—unguarded, fragile, untouched by the burdens of reality. She looked nothing like the woman who spat venom at him, who fought back even when she was afraid.

She looked peaceful.

Delicate.

And something in his chest twisted painfully.

Was it possible for something so beautiful to exist?

For a man like him, who had only known destruction and chaos, she was an impossible contradiction. A reminder of everything soft in a world that had hardened him.

His gaze softened against his will, but then his eyes traveled lower—

And his breath hitched.

There, against the pale skin of her neck, was the bruise. A dark, angry mark wrapping around her throat like a cruel reminder of what he had done.

His stomach twisted.

He did this to her.

The memory slammed into him with full force. The way his fingers had curled around her throat, the way her body had trembled beneath his grip, the sheer terror in her eyes. His own hands had nearly taken her life, and for what? Because she had uttered a name?

He clenched his jaw, his breathing uneven.

Guilt was not something he was accustomed to, but right now, it consumed him.

He had almost lost himself. Almost lost her.

And the thought made something deep inside him snap.

For the first time in his life, he felt an unfamiliar, overwhelming urge. Not to hurt. Not to destroy.

But to protect.

Her.

From everyone. From the world.

From himself.

Humza didn't know how long he sat there, simply watching her, absorbing the rise and fall of her breaths, as if reassuring himself that she was still here, still alive. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his eyes never leaving her face.

If she woke up now and saw him, she would probably scream, probably curse him and tell him to get out. She would probably call him a creep.

And she would be right.

But for now, in the quiet solitude of the night, he allowed himself this moment.

This moment of weakness.

This moment of remorse.

This moment where he could look at her without seeing the hatred in her eyes.

Almost half an hour had passed when he heard a soft whimper.

Humza's body tensed instantly.

She shifted slightly in her sleep, a pained expression flickering across her face as she turned to her side. His gaze snapped to the bruises on her neck, the darkened skin standing out against her pale complexion like a cruel reminder of his own monstrosity. His chest tightened, guilt clawing at him with renewed intensity.

Without thinking twice, he was on his feet.

He needed to do something. Anything.

His mind immediately went to the ointment. Bibijaan always kept a small stash of medicines in her room. That's where he needed to go.

Moving swiftly, he stepped out of her room and made his way down the hall to Bibijaan's quarters. The house was silent, the world around him asleep, but his thoughts were anything but quiet.

As he pushed open the door, he found her sleeping soundly. Good. He didn't want to wake her.

Moving with quiet urgency, he walked over to her medicine drawer. He knew exactly where she kept everything. His fingers grasped the handle, pulling it open as carefully as he could, but the soft creak of wood was enough to disturb the stillness of the night.

Bibijaan stirred.

Squinting her eyes against the darkness, she tried to make sense of the figure standing by her drawer. "Humza?" Her voice was thick with sleep.

He stilled for a fraction of a second, but then he straightened. "Yes."

She blinked a few times, slowly sitting up. "What are you looking for?"

"Nothing," he replied quickly, not trusting himself to meet her gaze. He just wanted to grab the ointment and leave.

Bibijaan didn't press, but she didn't look away either. A heavy silence stretched between them before she finally spoke again, her voice quieter this time.

"I feel it's too late to make amends for what you did today."

The words cut through him like a blade.

But he didn't respond. He didn't argue.

Because right now, he wasn't trying to make amends. He wasn't looking for forgiveness.

All he wanted—needed—was to protect Anaabiya. From the pain, from the bruises, from everything.

Even if he got nothing in return.

Humza returned to her room, the ointment clutched tightly in his hand. He had barely stepped inside when he heard it.

"Please... not again."

Her voice was weak, trembling with fear even in sleep.

His heart twisted painfully.

Before he knew it, he was by her side, crouching next to her bed. His hands hovered over her for a brief second before instinct took over, and he pulled her into his arms.

She was drenched in sweat, her body tense, shaking as though she was trapped in a nightmare she couldn't escape.

His fingers threaded through her damp hair, stroking it softly as he whispered against her temple.

"Shhh," his voice was low, soothing. "It's just a dream, Anaabiya. A nightmare. You're safe."

Safe.

The word felt foreign on his tongue. Could he even offer her that? Hadn't he been the one to destroy whatever sense of safety she once had?

Her breathing was uneven, shallow gasps escaping her lips as she clung to his shirt, her fingers digging into the fabric like he was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

"Open your eyes," he urged, his voice gentle yet firm.

She stirred.

Tried.

Her lashes fluttered, her body relaxing slightly under his touch. He kept whispering to her, coaxing her out of the darkness, his arms steady around her trembling frame.

And then she whispered something that made his world tilt.

"I need you, Uzair."

Everything inside him stilled.

It was like a blade had been driven straight through his chest, twisting mercilessly.

His grip on her loosened. His breath came out slow and sharp.

Uzair.

The name echoed in his mind, ringing louder than anything else.

She had been reaching for someone. But not for him.

Never for him.

His forehead ticked. His jaw set tightly.

A nightmare had pushed her to the edge of terror, and in that moment, when she had needed someone—needed someone—it wasn't him she called for.

It was another man.

Who the hell was Uzair?

A bitter taste filled his mouth, his muscles coiling with unexplainable tension.

She had been holding onto him as if he was her lifeline, but all along, she had been thinking about someone else.

Someone who wasn't him.

His throat tightened, his hand twitching at his side.

Why did it matter?

Why did that name feel like a thousand knives slicing through him all at once?

She wasn't his.

She had never been his.

But the way her lips had formed that name, the desperation in her voice—it made something inside him snap.

She had no idea what she had just done to him.

No idea how that single moment had unraveled something deep within him.

He inhaled sharply, trying to regain control.

Right now, all that mattered was that she was no longer shaking. That the fear had started to fade from her face.

That she was okay.

Even if it wasn't because of him.

To be continued..

E D I T E D on 19.2.2025