A walk on thorns

Chapter 4| It's Not My Fault

Sabrina's POV

Something is undeniably wrong with Anisha. It’s not just a fleeting feeling or an instinctual hunch, it’s a cold certainty that settles deep in my chest, heavy and unmoving. I've always known that our relationship was far from the warm, sisterly bond that people read about in novels or watch in movies. We’ve never been the type to braid each other's hair or exchange whispered secrets under soft lamp light. But today… today was different. The air between us felt volatile, charged with an anger so sharp it could slice through steel.

It’s not just that we clashed, that’s nothing new. It’s the venom in her voice, the way her words coiled tightly around me, suffocating any chance of a calm response. The accusation she threw at me… lesbian. The word still echoes in my ears, dripping with disdain. It wasn’t the word itself that hurt me, it was the intention behind it. The way she flung it like a dagger meant to wound, to reduce me to something she could dismiss, diminish. And it worked. It stung in a place deep inside me, a place I didn't even know was exposed.

But I didn’t react. I couldn’t. Rubina was there, watching me with those wide, innocent eyes, clutching her fork like it was an anchor. I couldn’t let her see me shatter into pieces, no matter how badly I wanted to scream, to let the hurt pour out of me in shaking breaths and trembling hands. No, I had to swallow it, choke it down, and mask it with a smile that felt like glass shards pressing against my gums.

It’s been three years since I last saw Anisha, and whatever thread tethered us together seems to have frayed beyond repair. She’s different now, hollowed out, jagged-edged, and burning with something unnameable. From the moment I stepped into this house, I could feel it radiating off her in waves, this heavy bitterness that clung to her every word, every glance. Her eyes… they aren’t the same. They used to be softer, even in their quiet judgment. Now, they’re sharp, guarded, like she’s perpetually bracing herself for an attack.

What happened to her? What changed in these years apart? Was it something Mama said? Was it something he said? The mention of Ya Mukhtar flickers in my mind like a dying candle. There’s something there, a connection, a weight that she carries when she speaks of him or avoids speaking of him. I can’t place it, but it’s heavy enough to bend her shoulders, to make her voice crack just slightly when his name slips out.

Mama always used to compare us. Her composed, perfect Anisha, the unshakable one, the wise one. And then me the fiery, impulsive Sabrina, the one who spoke before thinking, who dared to dream in colors too bright for Mama’s grayscale world. But today, those roles twisted themselves inside out. I was the one who walked away, who stepped back from the brink of something dangerous while she stood there, shaking with anger, her voice sharp enough to draw blood.

Is she pregnant? I’ve heard that hormones can wreak havoc on a person’s emotions, but no… this doesn’t feel like hormones. This feels like grief. Like exhaustion. Like she’s carrying something so heavy it’s crushing her from the inside out. And the worst part? I don’t think she’ll ever let me see it.

Whatever it is, I’m not ready to face it, not yet.

I finished my lunch at my study table, the quiet sound of my fork scraping against the plate filling the empty space around me. My chest still feels tight, like I’ve been holding my breath since the moment she lashed out. I’m not leaving this room. Not until she comes to me. Not until she realizes how deeply she’s wounded me. Call it pride, call it stubbornness, but I can’t face her again, not while the words she spat at me still sting like fresh cuts on my skin.

After praying Asr, I let the silence wrap around me like a fragile cocoon. I tried to distract myself by unpacking, hanging my clothes neatly in the wardrobe, arranging my novels in rows on the bookshelf, lining up my shoes perfectly on the rack. I set my perfumes on the dressing table, their delicate glass bottles glinting under the light. Slowly, piece by piece, the room began to look like mine. Like the quiet corner I once had back in Kaduna.