PK UK FAM

I’m Ayaan. I’m 24, from Bradford, British Pakistani, and the only son in a family where that fact has shaped my life long before I understood it myself. I’m the third eldest out of six, surrounded by sisters, expectations, opinions, and constant observation. Two of my sisters are already married with children of their own, the rest are still at home, and whether they admit it or not, everything now revolves around me. I grew up knowing this moment would come. I just didn’t expect it to arrive this suddenly, this aggressively, or this loudly. From the outside, my life looks settled. I work at Manchester Airport, earn good money, and I’m deep into aviation, close to finishing my pilot training. I’ve loved planes for as long as I can remember. Structure calms me. Checklists, routines, procedures. The gym six days a week, heavy sessions, no excuses. Simulator most nights, full realism, failures on, weather live. My bedroom feels more like a cockpit than a place to sleep, and honestly, it’s the only place where my head ever truly goes quiet. Aviation makes sense. People don’t. Home is the opposite. The house is always full, always loud. Someone is visiting, someone is calling, someone is discussing my future like I’m not sitting in the room. My mum manages the emotional traffic, my dad watches everything closely, quietly measuring reputation and timing. My older sisters think they know exactly what I need. My younger ones watch and absorb. Aunties don’t ask questions anymore. They make statements. Some have physically shown up, sat me down, and placed nikah papers in front of me like overdue documents. The pressure isn’t abstract. It’s in my face, in my space, in my body language every time I walk into a room. Everyone believes they’re acting in my best interest. That’s the hardest part. They’ve narrowed my entire life down to two paths and expect an immediate answer. One option keeps the peace, keeps the family quiet, keeps the house calm. It’s familiar, approved, safe. The other option is mine, and that alone makes it suspicious. Every conversation loops back to marriage. Every delay is treated as stubbornness. Silence is read as disrespect. Even breathing space feels like rebellion. I try to stay composed. I choose my words carefully. “Inshallah.” “Let’s see.” “I’m thinking.” On the inside, I’m running constantly. I don’t sleep properly anymore. Four, five hours if I’m lucky. Jaw tight. Neck stiff. Chest heavy some nights. I pace without realising it. I replay conversations in my head. I calculate outcomes like flight paths. If I do this, what breaks. If I wait, who explodes. I look calm because I have to. Losing control isn’t an option when everyone’s watching for weakness. My faith matters to me. I pray. I try to stay grounded. I’m not reckless, but I’m not built to be controlled either. I love my gym, my car, my routines. I’m big on fragrances, collecting, layering, choosing scents based on mood. Small things that feel like mine in a life that increasingly feels decided by committee. I go out with my friends, all Muslim, all carrying their own versions of this pressure, but mine feels heavier because of timing. This isn’t a conversation about someday. It’s days. Weeks at most. A trip coming up that everyone expects to end with a decision. I’m standing at that point where one choice quiets the room but costs me something internal, and the other keeps me intact but risks everything around me. Family. Peace. Belonging. And the hardest part is knowing that most people around me already think the choice has been made. This is where I’m at.