Raya's POV
Recovery felt like pretending.
The house smelled the same. The walls hadn't moved. My bed waited exactly where I left it. And yet, everything felt unfamiliar — like I had returned to a version of my life that no longer fit me.
Everyone smiled like everything was fine now. The neighbors asked after my health with careful voices. My classmates sent messages filled with hearts and prayers. Even Ammi smiled more than usual, as if joy could be forced into existence by repetition.
But beneath those smiles, I felt their fear.
They watched me closely. Too closely. Like glass held up to the light, waiting for the smallest crack.
Maybe I would shatter again.
Abba was stricter after the hospital. He asked where I was going, who I'd spoken to, what time I planned to return — questions wrapped in concern but sharpened by control. Yet somehow, he insisted on one thing I didn't want.
Talking to Aaqib.
"He's a good boy," Abba said one evening, folding his newspaper. "You should at least be civil. He worries about you. If you both weren't still young…" He paused, then added lightly, "I might have suggested marriage."
Civil.
As if civility hadn't already cost me pieces of myself.
I nodded just to end the conversation.
The next day, Aaqib came by to drop off files for Abba. We barely looked at each other. When he said, "Hi, Raya," the word cracked the air between us — thin and fragile.
"Hi," I replied, softly and distantly, before walking away.
He talked too much, filling the house with harmless words — school, work, weather — as if noise could erase history. I nodded when necessary. Smiled when expected.
When he left, I felt lighter.
Not because I was healed.
But because he was gone.
That afternoon, the house fell quiet.
Ammi went to the market. Abba returned to the workshop. I sat by the window, watching dust float through sunlight, trying to feel something — anything — other than this dull ache beneath my ribs.
Then came a knock.
Soft. Polite. Insistent.
When I opened the door, my breath caught.
The principal stood there, posture formal but kind. Beside her was Mr. Saif.
For a moment, the world tilted.
"Good afternoon, Raya," the principal said warmly. "We wanted to check on you."
Mr. Saif looked different outside school — no tie, sleeves rolled up, expression gentler but still careful. Professional.
"We hope this isn't an intrusion," he said. "Your father mentioned you were recovering."
I stepped aside automatically. "Please… come in."
They sat in the living room, asking about my health, my sleep, my medication. I answered with practiced brevity: Fine. Trying. Yes.
But I could feel his attention — not invasive, not personal — just… aware. Like he was listening to what I wasn't saying.
When Ammi returned, surprised and grateful, the room filled with polite chatter. Juice was poured. Gratitude repeated.
Then the principal stepped outside to speak with Ammi.
Leaving me alone with him.
The silence was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just full.
"You don't look well," Mr. Saif said gently. "And I don't mean physically."
I shrugged. "I'm managing."
"Managing isn't the same as healing," he replied. "And you don't have to convince me."
My hands trembled in my lap.
"Everyone keeps saying I'll get better," I whispered. "But I don't think they understand what better means anymore."
He didn't rush to respond.
"Sometimes," he said carefully, "healing doesn't mean returning to who you were. It means learning how to exist differently."
I wanted to ask him how.
But the principal returned, cheerful and decisive. They stood to leave.
At the door, Mr. Saif paused — just long enough to say quietly, "Take care of yourself, Raya. Truly."
That night, sleep refused me.
The house breathed around me — fan humming, clock ticking, walls listening. My thoughts tangled endlessly: Aaqib. Abba. The hospital. The way people spoke around me instead of to me.
I needed air.
I slipped outside, wrapped in a hoodie, the night cool against my skin. I walked without direction until I reached the street near the school gate.
A car idled nearby.
Fear sparked — then faded.
The window lowered.
"Raya?"
Mr. Saif.
Concern crossed his face immediately. "You shouldn't be out alone. Are you safe?"
"I just needed to think," I said.
He stepped out of the car, keeping distance. "I'm calling your parents."
The words stung — but grounded me.
"I'll walk you home," he added. "That's all."
As we walked, silence stretched between us — not intimate, not awkward. Just present.
"You don't need to carry everything," he said finally. "But you also shouldn't look for answers in people who can't give them."
I swallowed.
"I don't know where to look," I admitted.
"That's okay," he said. "Not knowing is part of growing."
At my gate, he stopped.
"Get some rest," he said firmly. "And if things feel heavy again, speak to someone who can help properly."
I nodded.
Back in my room, dawn crept in quietly.
I sat by the window, realizing something painful but necessary:
I wasn't longing for him.
I was longing to be seen.
To be understood.
To feel less alone.
And that hunger — if left unchecked — could lead me anywhere.
As light filled the room, I whispered, "Peace. Just peace."
The silence listened.