I'm sure you've heard a lot about unrequited love, but what if I say there exists an unwilling love, hidden somewhere between the echoes of silence and the whispers of the heart's secrets? A love that fights to stay buried, yet yearns to be discover...
A/N: Important chapter ahead, flashbacks in italics. ⚠️ Reader discretion advised.
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The boy woke up surrounded by an abyss of darkness. Seven years old, brave—that’s what his mother always told him, and he believed her every time.
But now, the courage she praised felt like it had seeped out of him, leaving only fear that clawed at his chest.
Where was he? How had he ended up here? Why was it so dark?
"Mama?" he called out, his voice trembling.
The last memory he could piece together was lying in the backseat of the car while his mother sat in the front. His father had stepped out with his two siblings to get ice cream. He hadn’t joined them—his health was fragile, and he didn’t want the hassle of getting out of the car for something he couldn’t even eat.
He must’ve fallen asleep. He assumed he’d wake up at home in his bed, but this... this was not home. The mattress beneath him was coarse and unyielding, and his body ached all over.
"Mama!" he called again, louder this time, panic settling in his chest like a lead weight. But there was no response.
He scrambled off the makeshift bed, his small hands extended in the dark, groping for any sense of direction. "Mama, where are you? Can you hear me? Answer me, please!" Tears began to stream down his cheeks as he stumbled through the unfamiliar space, searching for a door, a light—anything.
And then, a sharp click broke through the silence. A sliver of light cut into the room, widening as the door creaked open. A tall, shadowy figure stepped inside, blocking most of the light.
"Well, hello, son," the man said, his voice calm yet chilling as he stepped closer.
The boy retreated, his small frame trembling in terror. When the man reached the centre of the room, he pulled a cord hanging from the ceiling. A dim orange bulb flickered to life, casting a weak glow over the space.
The room was small and shabby. Dust-coated wooden boxes were piled in the corners, and the cot the boy had been lying on looked as if it might collapse at any moment. A tiny vent near the ceiling allowed a faint trickle of air.
"Call my mother!" the boy cried, his voice breaking as he tried to summon courage.
The man tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing. "Why not your father?"
"Call him, then!" the boy shouted, his small fists clenched. "I want to go home!"
The man’s lips curled into a sinister smile. "Your father is here, Shazal," he said, his tone deceptively gentle. "I’m your father, my brave boy." He reached out to pat the boy’s head.
