With Love

chapter 36: fractured hearts

Asad remembered it all.

The phone call, the voice on the other side, the half-moon visible through the window, and the smell of his mother's food, the low hum of the TV in the background.

The sight of his mother's face crumbling as he repeated the words. The sound of her wail, a raw, endless cry that seemed to tear through every wall in the house. His father, usually so composed, standing silent and immobile, his expression empty, eyes vacant as if he'd suddenly forgotten how to feel.

Moiz's face had been pale, his body still, but the faintest trace of a smile rested on his lips, a detail that haunted Asad for years. His brother had looked peaceful, like he was simply asleep.

Asad's knees had given out, his hand clamping over his mouth as he stumbled forward, his heart tearing open, a howl trapped in his chest. He hadn't cried, though, not there, not then. He'd just fallen to the ground next to Moiz, staring at his brother's lifeless face, the unbearable truth sinking in that he would never hear his laugh again, never see him smile.

He could still remember the weight of the earth in his hands.

Asad had felt a strange anger, a bitterness that had no clear direction. Moiz, the one who had always known how to make him feel like he was enough, was gone. The one person who could make him feel like he had a place in this world had slipped through his fingers in an instant.

He had clung to that anger over the years, using it to bury the pain, to shield himself from the overwhelming emptiness Moiz had left behind.

He'd heard people murmur about how strong he was, how composed. They didn't know that all he felt was numbness, the anger settling deep into his bones, fueling a distance from everyone, even his parents.

They hadn't been there, he'd convinced himself back then. They hadn't understood him, hadn't known the bond he'd shared with Moiz. And somehow, as irrational as it was, he had blamed them, even blamed himself. If he'd done more, if he'd been there to pick him up, if he'd stopped Moiz from going out that day...

He'd buried it all, the guilt and the sorrow, convinced he could protect himself from the memories.

But the pain had festered over the years, seeping into every part of his life, influencing decisions he didn't even understand himself. He'd kept his distance from those around him, convinced he was sparing them the inevitable heartache. With Israh, he'd used the same self-protective barriers, thinking that if he could just keep his heart guarded, he wouldn't ever face loss like that again.

But he was beginning to realize that he was losing her too—only this time, it was by choice, by his own withdrawal, his own mistakes.

Just like that night years ago, his entire world seemed to be teetering on the edge of a knife. The thought of losing Israh the way he'd lost Moiz filled him with a fear he hadn't allowed himself to feel in a long time.

He exhaled shakily, closing his eyes, a silent prayer slipping from his lips.

Please. Not again.

Asad's hands were trembling as he rushed down the sterile hallway, the fluorescent lights blurring into streaks of harsh white. His chest felt tight, his breath catching as he tried to pull in air that didn't seem to reach his lungs.

The world was spinning, sounds warping around him, his heart beating loud and fast like it might explode any second. He could hear his own frantic breaths, short and shallow, as if he was underwater, each step feeling heavy, his mind trapped in a loop of fear and regret.

He reached the door to Israh's room and froze. Through the small window, he saw her sitting up in bed, her hair resting against the white pillow. Her parents, Sikander and Sidra, sat beside her, Sidra clutching her hand while Sikander murmured something in a comforting tone. Israh's face looked pale, a bandage over her temple but her eyes were open.