Take off your Hijab (Rewriting)

Get out of my business✅

Third person's POV

"It's often in the heart of confusion that we discover the courage to carve out a new path."

While Amal was focused on getting through school on her own, Zach found himself drowning in a different kind of battle. His mind was a battlefield, constantly searching for answers to questions that made no sense, questions he didn't even remember asking. The space between them had grown, not out of choice, but necessity. Zach hadn't been able to meet her eye in a long time—not because he didn't want to, but because he didn't know how anymore.

The depressive episodes came in waves, pulling him under when he least expected it. At first, he'd try to fight them, but after a while, it felt easier to let them wash over him. One day, it became too much—the noise, the faces, the pressure to be normal. School became a battlefield he couldn't face, so he stopped going.

Zach's teachers and the school administration knew about his diagnosis. They didn't push him, though that wasn't out of compassion alone. His father—a wealthy, well-respected man, known for his generous donations to the school—had made sure of that. Though Zach's father wasn't around much, he ensured everyone knew just how not normal his son was. This led to the school bending the rules, offering strange breaks that no other student would have received. He was allowed to write his exams after hours, when the halls were empty, and the air felt heavy with silence. It was a favor—one that came less from empathy and more from influence.

On those days, Zach would force himself out of bed, each movement taking every ounce of energy he had left. By the time he sat down to take the exam, his thoughts were scattered, as though the weight of his mind was too much to carry. His hand moved mechanically, going through the motions, while his mind was somewhere else entirely—lost in the fog that had become his constant companion.

There was an irony in it all: his father, the absent figure in his life, still somehow controlled the narrative. Zach felt trapped under the shadow of his father's wealth and reputation, receiving favors he hadn't asked for, but which now seemed like chains, binding him to the version of himself his father had labeled: broken, unfit, not normal.

At home, the silence stretched on, unbroken except by the relentless thoughts that filled his head. He'd lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling a strange emptiness gnaw at him, but too exhausted to fill it. And always, in the background, a small, persistent thought lingered.

Once the exam was done, he'd slip out, just as quietly as he'd come in, hoping no one noticed him. The relief of being alone was fleeting. At home, the walls closed in, and the silence grew louder. He'd lie in bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling for hours, while his mind spiraled into dark places he didn't know how to escape from. It was like sinking into quicksand—no matter how hard he tried to pull himself out, he only got deeper. The isolation was suffocating, yet the thought of being around others felt unbearable.

Every now and then, thoughts of Amal would break through the haze. He wondered if she still thought about him, if she could understand why he'd pulled away. But more than that, he wondered if he could even explain it to her. How do you tell someone that your mind betrays you, that some days you feel nothing at all, and other days, you feel everything all at once?

He hoped—no, needed—to believe that one day, when he finally felt strong enough to reach out, she'd still be there. Because despite everything, he missed her. The version of him that existed before all this missed her. And somewhere deep down, Zach hoped that one day, when he finally felt strong enough to return, he hoped that she'd still be there. But that day felt far away, buried under the weight of expectations, his father's influence, and his own spiraling mind.