Raya's POV
The days that followed felt like walking through fog.
Not the kind that lifted with the morning sun, but the kind that clung to your skin, damp and unyielding, blurring the edges of everything familiar. No one spoke about the visit from my classmates — not Ammi, not Abba. They moved around the house as if nothing had happened, as if laughter hadn't curdled into cruelty right there in our living room.
Maybe that was the worst part.
Every smile felt heavier.
Every silence, louder.
I watched Ammi hum while folding laundry, her movements careful, deliberate. Abba read the paper every morning like clockwork, his brow furrowed in the same places, his tea cooling untouched beside him. Life continued — steady, predictable — while something inside me fractured quietly.
And Aaqib?
He disappeared.
No texts. No calls. No awkward check-ins or half-hearted apologies. It was as if the fair — the lights, the laughter, the moments that almost felt like hope — had been nothing more than a dream my mind had invented to survive.
I told myself I didn't care.
But at night, I stared at my phone until the screen dimmed, waiting for a name that never appeared. I hated myself for it — for hoping, for expecting anything from someone who had learned so quickly how to vanish.
That Friday afternoon, Abba came home earlier than usual.
I heard his voice before I saw him — deep, commanding, filling the house the way it always did.
"Raya!"
Something in his tone made my stomach tighten.
I stepped out of my room, adjusting my scarf loosely, already bracing myself for whatever came next. And then I saw him.
Standing beside my father.
Aaqib.
I froze mid-step.
He looked different in daylight — neater, sharper. His shirt was tucked in properly, sleeves buttoned at the wrist. A formal file rested under his arm, his posture straight, composed. Calm.
Too calm.
"I've been meaning to tell you," Abba said, his voice carrying an unfamiliar note of pride, "Aaqib has been my apprentice."
The word apprentice hit me like a wave.
Before I could process it, Abba continued, his gaze shifting between us. "I just wanted to clarify something. You two are just friends, right? Nothing more."
"Yes, sir," Aaqib replied smoothly, not missing a beat. "We are merely friends."
Friends?
I blinked.
He lied so easily. His voice didn't shake. His eyes didn't waver. It was as if the truth had never existed at all.
Abba smiled, clearly impressed. "Good. Then you won't have any problem seeing him around. Especially now that you know he works under me."
Under my father.
My stomach twisted. The room felt smaller, the walls inching closer. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, loud and uneven.
Aaqib's eyes flickered toward me — just for a second. Long enough for me to see something there.
Not guilt.
Not regret.
Calculation.
"He's a bright young man," Abba continued, oblivious. "Very useful."
Useful.
I forced a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "That's… great, Abba."
Aaqib nodded politely. "Thank you, sir."
Our eyes met once more before he looked away.
I wanted to scream.
How could he stand there so composed after everything? After the way he had spoken to me, the way he had made me feel seen — almost safe? Now he stood beside my father like he belonged there, like my life hadn't just cracked open beneath my feet.
That night, I couldn't breathe.
I locked myself in my room and tried to pray, but the words tangled in my throat. Every Amin felt hollow, weightless. My chest ached with something I couldn't name.
Just when I had begun to trust him — just when I had thought maybe holding on was worth it — the betrayal settled in, slow and suffocating.
Maybe I had been foolish to believe he ever saw me as anything more than a project. A responsibility. Something broken that needed fixing.
The walls of my room felt closer than usual. The air thicker. I paced until my legs ached, then sank onto the floor, hugging my knees.
"Stop it," I whispered. "You're fine. You're fine."
But the reflection in the mirror told a different story.
Tired eyes. Trembling lips. Hair clinging to my damp forehead. I didn't recognize the girl staring back at me. I wanted to smash the mirror — to shatter the image completely — but instead I turned away, pressing my forehead to the cool tiles.
Images flooded my mind:
Aaqib's smile.
My father's proud expression.
The girls' eyes that day — sharp, knowing.
It all felt like one cruel circle. Like life had lifted me just high enough to remind me how far I could fall.
The next morning, Ammi found me sitting by the window, dawn light spilling softly across the floor.
"Raya?" she asked gently. "Did you sleep?"
"Not really," I murmured.
She frowned, touching my forehead. "You look pale. Are you alright?"
"Yeah."
Another lie.
She sighed, brushing my hair back. "Those headaches again?"
I nodded weakly.
"Please take your pills," she said, pressing them into my palm with a worried smile.
I wanted to tell her no medicine could fix what was wrong. That this ache lived somewhere deeper than bones or blood. But I swallowed them anyway, just to ease the fear in her eyes.
By afternoon, the world began to tilt.
Voices echoed strangely, as if coming from underwater. Colors felt too bright, sounds too sharp. I tried to walk toward the living room, but my legs felt distant — disconnected.
The floor rushed up to meet me.
Then nothing.
When I opened my eyes, the ceiling was white.
Too white.
Machines beeped softly beside me, steady and rhythmic. My arm felt heavy, tethered by a thin tube. A hospital bracelet circled my wrist.
Ammi sat by my bed, her eyes swollen and red. Abba stood near the window, arms folded, his silence heavier than words.
"You fainted, Raya," Ammi said, gripping my hand. "Your body was exhausted. The doctor said it was stress and lack of sleep."
Stress.
Exhaustion.
Gentle words for falling apart quietly.
"You scared us," she whispered. "Please don't do that again."
I nodded, unable to speak.
Abba finally turned. "You need to take better care of yourself," he said, stern but worried. "You're too young to be this weak."
I didn't tell him it wasn't my body that hurt.
The next two days blurred together.
Nurses. Medication. Soft footsteps and hushed conversations. Flowers from classmates who didn't know what to say. Messages that felt rehearsed.
Aaqib came once.
He stood near the door, hands clasped behind his back.
"How are you feeling?" he asked quietly.
"Here," I replied.
He nodded, as if that was enough.
Before he could say more, Abba entered the room — and just like that, the mask slipped back into place. Polite. Professional. Distant.
As he left, I realized how deeply he had woven himself into my confusion.
And how necessary it was to begin pulling him out.
That night, I lay awake listening to the machines hum.
Steady. Patient. Unchanging.
Each beep reminded me that time was still moving, whether I was ready or not. I stared at the ceiling, counting breaths instead of thoughts.
Maybe this was how healing began — not with joy, not with answers, but with stillness.
With learning how to stay present when everything inside you wanted to run.
The monitor beeped.
Once.
Twice.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the sound, letting it anchor me to the moment.
And in the quiet, I whispered a prayer — not for strength, not for miracles.
Just for peace.
Even if it came slowly.