Amira's POV

I sit up in bed, sweating, breath loud in my ears, the ghost of a dream still clinging to me, too vivid, too raw.

Zayn’s face lingers behind my eyelids, impossibly close, intimate enough to hurt, and the ache returns before I even fully wake.

My body remembers what my mind tries to bury: soreness like a pulse under my skin, shame rising like smoke. I press my face into the pillow and scream, furious that he still follows me even here.

I thought yesterday would silence this hunger.

It only sharpened it.

Dragging myself upright will be a battle.

Every movement reminds me of the day before.

The way my legs keep protesting, my lower body aching in ways that make my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

I drag myself off the bed, limping my way to the bathroom, each step heavy, each breath shallow.

I walk to the mirror. A pale, disheveled version of me stares back, my hair damp, skin flushed, and eyes rimmed in regret.

The mirror gave me nothing back, just a girl trying not to shatter.

I look like I've been hit by a truck; even my body feels that way.

I step away from the mirror, deciding to draw a hot bath for myself; hopefully it will help soothe the ache.

I sink into the hot bath, letting heat unravel the stiffness from my thighs, wishing I could wash away memory as easily as bruised skin.

I try not to imagine him here, but memory is a hand that never asks for permission.

Instead, I was here. Alone.

And today, I would have to face the world, the dinner, the house, and everything inside it that still smelled like him.

I lift my fingers and start tracing the lines of my arms, my shoulders, and my aching thighs, and I whisper a silent apology to myself for wanting, for remembering, for feeling.

By the time I decide to step out of the bath, the ache remains, lower now, muted like an injury wrapped in silk instead of teeth.

Steam keeps curling around me as I wrap a towel around my body and step out of the bathroom.

I walked out with my body dry but drowning on the inside.

My eyes fall on the dress meant for tonight.

Dread pools cold in my stomach. I want to vanish, to fake illness, to lock myself behind this door forever.

But in this family, absence is noticed, and notice is danger.

I will go. And I will break a little more while doing it.

I pull on a dress over my body, feeling the weight of expectation and memory both pressing down on me.

Then I make my way to the door in order to find my mother.

Last night passed in a blur; I heard doors, voices, and footsteps, but I pretended not to exist beneath the blanket.

Mom even peeked into my room but didn't try to wake me up.

Every step toward the living room feels like a countdown I cannot stop.

Instead, I'm greeted with the sight of my father, leaning over the morning paper, muttering figures under his breath, the television casting a pale glow over his lined face.

Halim, my brother, is sprawled across the couch, scrolling on his phone, oblivious to the world, or so he appears to be.

"Morning, Dad… Halim…" I manage to voice out in a tight tone.

My eyes keep refusing to meet the large center table, still scarred in my mind, still smelling faintly of yesterday’s chaos.

"You skipped morning prayers today, Amira?" My father asks, not unkindly but with the subtle authority that always reminds me of family rituals.

I lower my gaze, not knowing what to answer him with.

Morning prayers was the last thing on my mind today.

"Your mother is in the kitchen; go and assist her," he says, then going back to what he was doing before I walk in.

"Yes, sir," I mumble under my breath, forcing a small smile, and walk my way to the kitchen.

The warmth hit me first, then the scent of simmering sauces, spices, and incense.

My mother is moving around the counter with a practiced rhythm, humming under her breath, flour dusting her fingers.

"Good morning, Mom," I greet her.

"You’re not wearing a scarf," she remarks, raising an eyebrow.

They answer love with instruction; greetings are rarely just greetings in this house.

I wonder how they do it; it's like a superpower or something they have.

I just stand there, scratching my head.

"Help me, will you?" Her voice is soft but firm, an unspoken command wrapped in maternal pride.

I follow her, like the perfect little daughter they expect me to be, chopping and stirring as she keeps giving me instructions.

I try to move quietly so as not to draw attention to the awkwardness of my gait.

"You are walking funny," she teases lightly.

I freeze, not knowing what to say.

"Did something happen?" She asks, her voice trails casually, too casually, and the pit in my stomach tightens.

Her voice is light, but my heart trips. She knows something. She must.

"I saw drops of blood on the carpet this morning, on the table…" My heart slams against my ribs. She noticed.

I swallow down the dry mucus in my mouth and lift up my hand, with the small cut from shards of glass from Zayn’s picture yesterday.

"I... I kind of cut myself while picking up a glass piece, and I also slipped off the stairs," I lie.

Her eyes linger. Just a second too long. Just enough to make my heart trip.

If she presses further, I crack. If I crack, everything breaks.

I hate how easily the lie leaves my tongue, a half-truth dressed as innocence, the first I have ever given her.

"Be careful, Amira. One day, you’ll be the woman of your house. Learn to clean up after yourself," she says with a mother’s rhythm, blending admonition with lesson, always careful to remind me of duty and responsibility.

The kitchen feels too small, like the walls are listening, like the truth beneath my tongue is pressing for escape.

Then she hands me a small gift bag.

"I think Zayn left this for you. Did you see him yesterday? He told me he would drop by."

My throat tightens, and I quickly shake my head.

Oh! I more than saw him yesterday, Mom; I explored him.

"Come on, open it," she encourages me gently, insisting I open it.

I open the gift bag and pull out a box.

I open the box, and inside lies a delicate pendant, silver and smooth, and a note engraved on it.

'To the girl who’ll always be safe with me.'

Safety. A promise or a cage, depending on where you stand.

My chest tightens, the irony biting deep.

A gift meant to reassure now feels like a lock on a door I can no longer close.

Yesterday’s memory collides with the object in my hand, and I have to drop the pendant to remain composed.

"Isn’t it lovely? He really cares for you," my mother says, her voice buoyant, unaware of the storm inside me.

I just gave her a weak smile, excusing myself to have breakfast and also to hide the tears that were threatening to pool out of my eyes.

The day rolls forward in a mundane yet oppressive manner.

My mother’s constant presence and the chatter of household preparation, the careful arrangement of plates and food, all keep contrasting sharply with the storm of guilt and memory thrumming in my veins.

The family dinner is approaching, and though I tried excuses, Mom dismissed them firmly.

"Unless If you’re dying, there’s no reason to skip. Get ready." She had said.

So, here I am, dusting the final touch-ups of my makeup as the chatter in the living room keeps getting louder.

I get up from the stool and check myself one more time, making sure my eyes don't look all puffy from all the tears I've cried earlier.

"Here goes nothing," I mutter as I walk out of my room.

I wonder if he's also down there at the moment?