"I should go home," I said at last, keeping my voice calm despite the weight in my chest.
"It's already late. We can talk tomorrow—there's something I need to say."
Ammar looked at me for a long moment.
"Just for a bit," he replied quietly. "I'm exhausted."
I exhaled slowly. I recognized that look—not stubbornness, but the kind of fatigue that came from carrying too much alone.
"Sit there," I said, pointing to the chair in the living room.
"Rest for a moment. Then you should go home."
He nodded and did as I asked.
Not long after, his breathing steadied. His head tilted slightly forward, eyes closed. He had fallen asleep sitting upright—still holding himself together even in rest.
I stepped outside.
Under the Barbados cherry tree behind the house, I lit a cigarette. Smoke curled upward, thin and slow, carrying thoughts I didn't want to follow too far.
For years, I had lived carefully—alone, restrained, guarded. And now, just as I allowed myself to feel something again, the world seemed ready to measure and judge.
Was it wrong to want love?
Not comfort.
Not status.
Just a feeling that wasn't half-hearted.
I put out the cigarette and went back inside.
Ammar was still asleep.
I didn't touch him. I didn't move closer.
I only adjusted the light and took a thin blanket, placing it gently over the back of the chair—enough to keep him warm without waking him.
In the kitchen, I opened the fridge. There wasn't much—chicken, eggs, broccoli. I made a simple soup. Not because I was hungry, but because I needed my hands occupied—something to anchor my thoughts before they wandered somewhere dangerous.
Afterward, I showered and prayed Maghrib.
When I returned to the living room, Ammar was awake, standing awkwardly as if unsure where he belonged.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."
"It's alright," I replied. "I cooked a little. If you want, eat first."
We sat across from each other at the dining table.
Not close.
Not touching.
Yet the air between us felt heavy with everything unsaid.
"Your cooking is good," he said after a few spoonfuls.
"It's just soup."
"For me," he answered softly, "it's enough."
The words tightened something in my chest.
After eating, he stood.
"I should go now."
I nodded.
At the door, he hesitated.
"Silvi," he said quietly, "if I ever come close to crossing a line… please stop me."
I met his eyes.
"I have to be strong too," I replied. "We both do."
A faint smile touched his lips before he stepped outside.
A few minutes after the door closed, there was a knock.
"Assalamu'alaikum."
I startled slightly before opening it.
"Wa'alaikumsalam."
My cousin, Irfan, stood there, his expression cautious.
"Mbak, I saw a motorcycle earlier," he said. "Are you alright?"
"He's already gone," I answered shortly.
Irfan studied my face for a moment.
"Be careful," he said gently.
"People's words can be crueler than good intentions."
"I know."
He nodded and left.
I closed the door. Locked it. Leaned my back against it and stood there for a while.
Tonight, I had won.
Not because I was strong enough to reject someone—
but because I was brave enough to protect the boundary.
And yet, I understood one thing clearly:
The greatest temptation isn't when you're alone.
It's when someone makes you want to cross the line
just to feel alive again.
And that—
was what frightened me the most.