Then I Started Following My Heart… A Punishment Was Coming
“Then I Started Following My Heart… A Punishment Was Coming” The night had deepened. The city lights were fading, and on a deserted road, Suleman sat in his car, taking slow drags from his cigarette. He had always done whatever he pleased—without caring about anyone, without considering the consequences. His desires, his pleasures, his choices—everything revolved around him.
But tonight, something felt different. An unsettling feeling crept into his chest, as if something was about to happen.
His phone rang suddenly, breaking the silence. It was Yousuf, his closest friend—the only one who truly understood him.
“Where are you, Suleman?” Yousuf’s voice carried an urgency.
“Same place as always,” Suleman exhaled a cloud of smoke.
“Did you hear? That girl… the one you deceived… she’s dead. She committed suicide.”
The cigarette slipped from Suleman’s fingers. His throat went dry.
“W-what?” he stammered.
“Fareeha. You remember her, don’t you? The one you played with? Made promises to? Then left her like she was nothing? They found her body in her room tonight.”
Cold sweat formed on his forehead. His hands trembled slightly.
“This… this isn’t my fault, Yousuf!” he tried to convince himself.
“Isn’t it?” Yousuf’s voice was filled with rage. “You led her on, broke her hopes, and walked away like it was nothing. Like she was nothing!”
Suleman could hear Fareeha’s last words echoing in his mind:
“Suleman, you can’t do this to me. I can’t live without you!”
And he had laughed. So cruelly, he had said:
“Do whatever you want. It makes no difference to me.”
But now, it did.
The night grew darker. Suleman sat in his car, but inside, a storm was raging. His mind was filled with voices—Fareeha’s, Yousuf’s, and his own guilty conscience whispering the truth he refused to accept.
Then, something moved in the rearview mirror. A shadow.
His heart pounded violently. He turned, but there was nothing.
“Just my imagination,” he muttered, shaking his head. He started the engine.
As soon as he pressed the accelerator, the car gave a violent jolt and shut off. The headlights flickered, and an eerie silence surrounded him.
Then, footsteps. Faint, slow footsteps approaching from behind.
“Who’s there?” his voice trembled.
No answer. But suddenly, faint handprints appeared on the windshield—red, as if made of blood.
His heartbeat became erratic. He gasped for air.
Then, a soft whisper—painful yet familiar:
“Suleman… It didn’t matter to you, did it? But now… it will.”
His breath stopped.
That voice… it was Fareeha.
The next morning, people passing by saw a car parked on that deserted road. The driver’s door was open. Inside, Suleman sat—his eyes wide open, frozen in terror, his face pale as death. His heart… had stopped beating long ago.
No one knew what had happened to him.
But when Yousuf arrived at the scene, he could only whisper one thing:
“Then I started following my heart… A punishment was coming.”