Amira’s POV

We walk out together, Zayn beside me, Halim behind us like a shadow that sees everything and speaks nothing.

My skin still burns where he stood too close in the kitchen.

I shouldn’t feel it, but I do.

His breath. His nearness. His voice said "Halimah" as if it meant nothing.

I walk faster than I should, like distance could disinfect memory.

It doesn’t.

I shake off the memory, forcing my legs to match my calm facade, stepping into sunlight that smells faintly of mangoes and freshly cut grass.

We step into the garden together, the soft chatter of family ahead of us.

My heart is still beating too loudly, not because of what happened, but because of that stupid question he asked.

Halimah?

He wanted to know if he’d look good with her.

Why, of all things, did he even bring that up?

It wasn’t just the question; it was the way he said it, as if my presence didn’t matter, as if I could be erased with a name.

But I try to push it aside.

I breathe out in a slow and controlled rhythm.

I’m not letting him ruin today.

Not when my future might finally open up.

My phone is in my hand, the screen lighting every minute without notification.

I’m waiting for my admission results.

Just praying the future is kinder than the past. The silence before that storm feels like it will stretch forever.

We join the family in the garden, under the sunlight filtered through mango trees.

Grandma begins recounting stories, as she always does, weaving history, love, and subtle reprimands into her tales, recounting stories of when the world was younger, slower, and gentler.

I should be listening, yes, because I love her stories, but today her voice is only background to the buzzing under my ribs.

Time moves slowly, tension coiling tighter with every passing minute.

"You know, back in our days, I was only called in by my father and told I was married off to some guy in the family, not knowing what he even looked like."

Grandma is saying something about how she met Grandpa when...

I stare at my silent phone for the fifth time.

One result could change my life.

One heartbeat could rewrite everything Zayn ever complicated.

Hope hurts almost as much as remembering him.

Ding.

My heart stops.

Just one notification.

Just one line that could change everything.

My thumb trembles.

I open it, and the world explodes into gold.

"ACCEPTED - MBBS."

A scream tears from me before I even think.

I stand up, laughing and spinning.

"Amira! What’s wrong?" my mother asks, startled but amused.

"My admission!" I announce. "I got in! MBBS!"

Cheers erupt among the others as well, with Grandma crying a little and Mom giving me a hug, as everyone glows with pride, and without thinking, without stopping myself, I throw my arms around Zayn on default.

His arms settle around my waist, hesitant at first, then undeniably firm.

My breath catches.

Too familiar.

Too forbidden.

And still… I don’t pull away fast enough.

His shirt smells faintly of that unmistakable sterile-warm scent I’ve always associated with him. My pulse hits a new tempo, and I feel the small tremor of his hands against me, hesitant but deliberate.

I don’t mean to breathe him in, but I do.

That same scent from the day that shouldn’t have happened.

Warmth. Memory. Regret.

The hug ignites something, a current we both feel but neither can name.

I pull back slightly, and he whispers against my hair.

"Congratulations."

But there’s something foreign in his eyes, so unreadable and unsettling, and so I glance away, my heart racing.

The discussion shifts to my schooling. My parents insist I stay at home, and Zayn speaks calmly:

"Hostel might help her focus better."

"She is a lady, Zayn. She must be protected." My father shakes his head, concerned.

My father treats me like fragile glass, as if every thought could shatter me.

Zayn’s gaze lingers, flickering with something only we know, a memory I both crave and fear.

He defends me, but he’s also the reason I learned to build walls around my heart.

I think bitterly at his comment.

They want to protect me from the outside world, but they didn’t realize I needed protection from the inside.

They’re protecting me from strangers when the person who changed me isn’t a stranger at all.

The conversation keeps flowing from one topic to another, each giving advice based on his experience.

Mom just sits there, beaming with joy with nothing to add, only pride in her eyes.

Grandma, meanwhile, insists I should start preparing for marriage soon; there’s no way I’ll finish all my school at my parents’ house.

Time flies, and before we know it, evening falls and it's getting dark already.

Warm air carries the faint sweetness of mango leaves, mingling with the sharp scent of wet grass.

We adjourned into the living room and prayed with Dad leading us on. After we have finished our prayers, the families start getting ready to leave, and I feel a growing sense of relief, but it’s short-lived.

"Zayn. Amira. Stay behind."

Her voice slices through the room.

Everyone freezes.

My pulse stumbles, then races.

Grandma doesn’t ask twice. She never has.

My heart drops, and I look at Zayn.

He’s already looking at me with the same realization in his eyes.

Same fear. Same curiosity.

What does she know?

What will she ask?

My fingers tense as I see Zayn's throat tighten, every nerve in me screaming that nothing will be ordinary after this.

The rest of the family say their good nights and start to leave.

"You're toast tonight," Halim whispers in my ear as he passes me, making my stomach drop.

The door closes gently behind the others, and the world holds its breath.

With us standing before the jury.

I look at him again, his eyes mirroring my dread.

Whatever she’s discovered or suspected is unsaid, but I know.

Grandma’s gaze moves between us like she’s reading unspoken sins.

There are things only we know, and I fear tonight she might name them.

And I know that whatever she asks, whatever she sees, will demand an answer I’m not sure I can give.

Every secret we share feels like it could explode in this room.

Nothing... Nothing gets past her.