𝙰 𝙹𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚐𝚢𝚊𝚕 (𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚋𝚒𝚊𝚗) 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢.
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𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐀𝐳𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞, a confident and bold young athlete with a sharp wit and a fearless attitude. She's kn...
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I don't even know what happened.
One minute I'm in the elevator, the next I'm rushing to find the quickest way to leave the building without bumping back into her.
Why did I feel like that?
What was that sudden rush?
We didn't even say a word to each other but enough was said. It was like we were having a whole ass conversation with our eyes.
I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. Fast, frantic. My breath caught in my throat as I stared at her—Domanique Azile Blake. After all these years, after all the time lost, she was right in front of me, looking at me like she wasn't sure if I was real.
I failed.
"Amira..." Her voice was soft but urgent, like she was afraid I'd disappear if she didn't say my name fast enough.
I took a step back. My chest felt tight, and I wasn't sure if it was my heart or the weight of everything crashing down on me all at once. I had spent so much weeks piecing myself back together, convincing myself that I was ready to know the truth—her, us, the past. But one look, one damn look, and I was right back where I was before.
I turned on my heel and walked away, fast. I needed to breathe. Needed space. Needed distance.
"Amira!"
Her voice cut through the noise in my head, sharp and desperate. Footsteps followed, quick and determined, and before I could think, she was in front of me, blocking my path.
"Move, Dom." I said, my voice steady even though my hands trembled at my sides.
She didn't. "Nah."
I exhaled sharply, looking anywhere but at her. "weh yah falla mi fah?"
girl...yon even know what you want at this point.
She tilted her head slightly, searching my face like she was trying to read something written there. "Cause yaah run an fi wah?"
I swallowed hard. "Maybe mi need fi run."
Dom's jaw clenched. "From who? Me?"
I shut my eyes for a second. "From everything."
There was a beat of silence, then she stepped closer, voice lower but no less intense. "Mi nago act like mi nuh know mi hurt yuh. I did. Mi know dat. But yuh tink mi neva hurt tuh? Yuh tink mi neva miss yuh mama?"
The nickname hit something deep in my chest. I opened my eyes and met hers—dark, filled with something raw and real. My stomach twisted, memories flashing through my mind in pieces, fragments of a past my mind had buried. Her laughter, her touch, the way she used to look at me like I was the only thing that mattered.