Epiphany

25:

- Mustafa - 

Last night kept replaying in my head, like a song stuck on repeat. The way her lips had felt against mine, the way she'd leaned into me, uncertain but certain at the same time. I wanted to believe we'd crossed some kind of line for the better. But now, as sunlight exposed the reality of a new day, I wasn't sure what came next.

Hadia was still asleep, her breathing steady and soft. I tried to focus on that sound instead of the thoughts racing through my mind. She'd kissed me back, hadn't she? That had to mean something.

But then there was work, her family, everything else. I stood up quietly, grabbed a shirt from the back of a chair, and left the room before I woke her. Some distance seemed like a good idea—for now.

By the time she woke up, the atmosphere between us was... tense. Not bad, just different. She barely looked at me during breakfast, and her responses were short. I didn't press her. I figured she needed space to figure out what last night meant. Hell, I needed space, too.

But as the day went on, I noticed something else. She wasn't just quiet—she was distracted.

Every few minutes, her phone lit up, and she'd snatch it up, her brows furrowing. She paced the living room, biting her lip and glancing toward the window like she was waiting for someone to appear.

I'd had enough. "What's going on?" I asked, leaning against the doorframe of the living room. She looked up from her phone, startled, like she hadn't even noticed me standing there. "What?" "You're stressing. I can see it. Is it Ahmad and Aliza?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she nodded, setting the phone down on the couch beside her. "They're not answering. It's been days now, and I can't shake the feeling that something's wrong."

I crossed the room, dropping onto the couch beside her. "You've texted them?" "Of course." She grabbed the phone and held it up like evidence. "I've called Aliza. I even tried Ahmad—" She stopped, her voice cracking.

I hated seeing her like this—so wound up, so vulnerable. "Alright," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "What's the plan?" She blinked at me, confused. "Plan?" "Yeah, you know, a course of action? Sitting here, worrying isn't going to solve anything. Maybe it's time to check on them in person."

The ride there was quiet, the kind of silence that felt heavy, like it was pushing down on both of us. Hadia stared out the window, her hands gripping the strap of her bag so tight her knuckles turned white.

When we got to the door, she knocked twice, pausing like she expected someone to open it immediately. No one did. She knocked again, harder this time, and then called out, "Ahmad? Aliza?"

Nothing. Her breathing picked up, and I could see the panic setting in. Without hesitation, she pulled out a spare key and unlocked the door. The place was eerily quiet. No TV blaring, no voices arguing. Just... nothing.

Hadia stepped inside first, calling their names again, her voice trembling. I followed close behind, scanning the space. It looked normal—neat, even—but empty. Too empty.

"They're not here," she whispered, her voice breaking. She dropped her bag on the couch and started pacing, pulling out her phone and dialing. I could hear the desperation in her voice as she left voicemails. "Aliza, please call me back. I'm getting worried. Just tell me you're okay."

She abdurptly stood up, walking towards the front door. "Where are you going?" I called out to her." I asked. She briefly turned as she spoke, "Faraz bhai lives next door, and knows us well. Maybe he knows something." she explained. 

I quickly followed behind her as she got to the door next to their apartment. She rang the doorbell, looking nervous, I quickly held her hand, as she didn't even realise.