I stopped going to school the next day.
Not officially.
I got dressed. Packed my bag. Tied my shoes.
Then I waited until Malik left for school, counted to thirty, and followed him.
I stayed across the street.
Far enough that he wouldn't notice. Close enough that I could see him.
He walked like always — kicking small stones, adjusting his backpack, stopping to wave at Mrs. Faye from the corner shop.
Normal.
Everything was painfully normal.
And I hated it.
Because somewhere inside those seventy-two hours was a moment that would turn into:
It wasn't supposed to happen like this.
At school, I stayed outside the gates.
I watched who he talked to.
A tall boy with braids.
A girl with red ribbons.
His math teacher who smelled like peppermint.
I wrote everything down.
Names. Times. Details.
If fate was a pattern, I would find it.
At lunch break, he ran toward the road to retrieve a football.
My heart slammed so hard I felt dizzy.
A car sped past.
Too fast.
I ran without thinking and grabbed his arm, pulling him back so sharply he fell.
"What is wrong with you?!" he shouted, scraping his palm.
The other kids stared.
I almost told him.
I almost said:
Because in three days you're going to regret something so badly it will sound like grief.
Instead, I said nothing.
He yanked his arm away.
"I hate when you act like this," he muttered.
The words hit harder than they should have.
Because suddenly I wondered —
What if the sentence wasn't about death?
What if it was about me?
That night, I locked all the windows.
Dad frowned when he noticed.
"You're not the parent here, Amara."
You don't know that, I thought.
You don't know what I'm holding back.
Malik avoided me at dinner.
He kept his hands to himself.
Good.
No touching. No new sentences.
But paranoia is a hungry thing.
It doesn't stop when logic tells it to.
It grows.
I checked the stove twice before bed.
Checked the front door three times.
Checked Malik's breathing while he slept.
His room smelled like dust and laundry soap.
He stirred when I adjusted his blanket.
"Stop watching me," he mumbled.
My stomach twisted.
Was I obvious?
Or did he feel it — the way I hovered like something was already gone?
Day Two.
I followed him again.
This time, he noticed.
When he turned around and saw me standing near the fence, his face changed.
Not fear.
Not confusion.
Disappointment.
"You're being weird," he said quietly.
"I'm protecting you."
"From what?"
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because how do you explain a sentence that hasn't happened yet?
That afternoon, something small shifted.
The kind of thing most people would ignore.
But I don't ignore things anymore.
A white van parked across from our house.
No logo.
No noise.
Just sitting there.
When I looked directly at it, the engine started.
Then it drove away.
Slowly.
My pulse roared in my ears.
Was that it?
Kidnapping?
Accident?
Wrong place, wrong time?
Or was my mind filling in gaps because it needed a shape for fear?
That night, Malik didn't sit near me on the couch.
He stayed on the other end, arms crossed.
"You're ruining my birthday," he said suddenly.
The sentence was small.
But it felt enormous.
Because what if —
What if that was it?
What if the future wasn't a tragedy from outside?
What if it was something I did?
My chest tightened.
For the first time, doubt slipped in.
Maybe the future didn't need to be stopped.
Maybe it needed to be left alone.
But I couldn't risk it.
I couldn't gamble with his life.
Day Three.
Twenty-four hours left.
Malik left for school without saying goodbye.
I let him go.
For exactly six seconds.
Then I followed again.
Halfway down the street, he turned sharply, catching me.
"Stop!" he shouted. "You're scaring me!"
The word hung there.
Scaring.
Not protecting.
Not helping.
Scaring.
And something cold crept into my thoughts.
What if the sentence —
It wasn't supposed to happen like this.
— isn't about something happening to him…
What if it's about who he becomes because of me?
When we got home that evening, I did something I had never done before.
I grabbed his wrist on purpose.
Hard.
I needed clarity.
I needed another sentence.
The world went still.
And then —
"I wish I never knew."
I dropped his hand like it burned.
He stared at me.
"What is wrong with you?" he whispered.
I didn't answer.
Because I wasn't thinking about the van anymore.
Or the road.
Or accidents.
I was thinking about something much worse.
What if he finds out?
What if I tell him?
What if knowing destroys him?
And suddenly the future didn't feel like something coming toward us.
It felt like something I was dragging behind me.
That night, I didn't check the windows.
I didn't check the doors.
I sat in the dark and listened to my own breathing.
And for the first time since I was thirteen…
I was afraid that the villain in Malik's future
wasn't fate.
It was me.