Amira's POV

I walk out of the room and descend the stairs into the evening light, the smell of roasting meat and spice filling the air.

The living room is warm and full.

Each face is telling its own story, each movement a note in the household symphony.

Grandma Mariam isn’t here, but her presence rules the room anyway. She is a strict yet loving old woman that shaped customs, hierarchy, and respect. She had five children; three died very young, and my father and Zayn's father only remained.

How I wish she were here now, but I'll be seeing her in two weeks for the monthly family gathering.

This room is full of people I love, yet I’ve never felt more alone.

"Wow, you made such a wonderful curry soup; it's Zayn and Amira's favorite if I remember." Aunty Mariam sits near the head of the table, a widow, who is fierce and always proud.

She raised Zayn alone after his father, Farouk, who was the eldest of Grandma's sons, died when he was ten.

She is also a community health worker, sharp-tongued, and always proud of her son and boasts about him every chance she gets.

His absence makes the curry feel louder, like they're calling him into the room.

Thankfully, he isn't here for the dinner.

I wouldn't come either if I were him.

"Let's start eating, shall we? I'm famished."

Beside her, my father, Bashir, leans back, shoulders square, authority quiet but unmovable.

Now the only one left after his siblings’ early deaths is Grandma's son, a civil engineer and the family’s breadwinner, who carried authority lightly but with pride.

"Let's wait for Amira at least; I'm sure she's on her way down."

My mother, Fatima, hovers near the food like a second pulse of the room. A housewife who hadn’t completed secondary school filled the home with warmth and discipline.

"Oh, you're here. Good, now come and take your seat."

The present intrudes sharply as my mother guides me toward the table, and Zayn’s mother hugs me first, her warmth pulling me into a world that had once felt like mine.

She has always praised my resilience, my education, and my place in the family, a place that had always been intertwined with Zayn’s.

"Dear, what's wrong with your leg? You seem to be limping." Aunt Mariam asks.

"She just fell down the stairs yesterday," my mother chimes in, as if she was there.

"Oh, sorry, you need to be more careful, ok?" Aunt says and pats my back.

In this house, discomfort was folded away like laundry—seen and noted, but never examined.

Knowing that this wasn't the truth, the memory presses against my ribs, heavy and inescapable.

Everyone sees a girl at dinner, but no one sees what my body remembers.

We all take our seats, and conversation starts flowing easily, laughter filling corners of the room, clinking cutlery punctuating the chatter.

"When is Zayn arriving?" My mom asks.

Just as I steady my breathing, the universe betrays me.

As if on cue, Zayn walks into the house.

"Oh! There he is," his mother announces in her radiant and proud voice.

The room doesn’t shrink; I do.

Zayn, the golden boy, young, just 28 years old, and a resident doctor, also my childhood companion—my mother said he practically raised me—is revered and the son everyone looks up to.

As he walks toward us, I notice that he looks all disheveled with yesterday’s clothes clinging to him, and my stomach knots at the sight.

"What's wrong, son? You look all tired and unkempt." My mother asks, full of concern.

"I had a double shift yesterday," he mutters, brushing off all other incoming questions.

I breathe shallowly, heart hammering, angry at how calm he looks, how untouched.

Of course he did have a double shift; that's for sure.

After all the pleasantries and catching up with him, making sure not to look my way, not even once, as dinner continues.

The rest of the table kept eating and joking, the atmosphere flowing quite smoothly like every other day.

He and I are feeling the shrinking edge of the room, like it's about to swallow us whole.

My eyes found the table, the salt shaker, the ceiling, anything that wasn’t him. Cowardice wears many disguises, and in that moment, mine had the face of composure.

Even the air itself is thick with unspoken doom.

And then there's Halim, my biological brother, who is younger than Zayn by five years and studying law abroad, silent but firm, always reminding me I was watched, the only daughter with eyes on her constantly.

"What's wrong? You look awfully quiet." He asks.

"She slipped off the stairs yesterday; she's supposed to be resting now," Zayn's mother chimes in with concern.

Our eyes met at this instant; he looks confused and worried, but in those few seconds that our eyes met, he understood it all. I lied to cover up the truth.

Taking that as a cue, I excuse myself and walk up to my room because any more seconds there, I might combust.

They all wish me a quick recovery, with Aunt Mariam calling out to me that I should drop by her house soon.

After dinner was over and all had left, my mother knocks softly, entering my room.

I am still lying in my bed, my whole body aching, like I've just run a marathon.

"You look sullen," she says, touching my forehead to find it burning.

"You should have said you have a fever; Zayn could have prescribed something." I shake my head, masking guilt with fatigue.

Then she hands me a small parcel.

"Zayn dropped this for you. He had to rush back to the hospital." My chest tightens again.

I accept it silently, imagining their view of him, the golden doctor, unaware of the storm he had helped conjure in me.

"Ok, goodnight, make sure to take some drugs before sleeping," she says as she walks out of the room.

Alone, I open the parcel, my heart hammering like it's about to burst out of my chest.

Inside, I find sachets of painkillers and a folded note reading,

'Take this for the pain. I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you for the rest of my life.'

I let the note slip from my fingers, staring at it, feeling hollow.

A simple apology. A bottle of pills.

This wasn’t closure; it was ignition.

Painkillers quiet flesh, not memory.

The body remembers, and it does not forgive.

Nor the recurring, wretched dreams that haunt my mornings.

I swallow the pills reluctantly, bitterness lingering. I have taken the drugs for the pain, but little did I know that they would have no effect on the consequences already set in motion.

Night lingers. Dreams linger.

Consequences linger, too.

And he will not let me outrun them.