Our Worlds

4 | War

[UNDER HEAVY EDIT FROM HERE & ONWARDS]

Hajara 

The evening should have ended with cake and laughs.

We were gathered around the dinner table, wrapped in the soft, golden glow of the kitchen lights, the smell of Mom's freshly baked chocolate cake still clinging to the air. Laughter temporarily bounced between the walls, silverware clinked against plates, and for once, everything felt right. The kind of night that makes you forget the outside world exists at all.

That should've been my first warning.

Now, Dad was a pilot. He was the kind of guy who spent more time in the sky than on solid ground, always flying in and out, his trips sometimes lasting weeks at a time. When he was home, he was usually in "work mode" or trying to catch up on sleep, so when he did take time off, it was a big deal. 

Dad was already sitting at the table when we got back from the mall—calm, quiet, coffee in hand. Too calm. He'd just come off an overnight flight, and usually that meant grumbling, exhaustion, or disappearing straight to bed. But tonight, he didn't complain. Didn't joke like usual. Didn't even ask what we bought.

He watched us with a strained smile—one that reached his mouth but never quite made it to his eyes. I saw his throat bob as he swallowed, like he was steadying himself, before he opened his arms wide.

"Assalamu Alaikum, how are my little girls?"

"Walaikum Assalam," We both chorused, running into his arms the way we always did, colliding with his chest and wrapping our arms around his waist. His jacket smelled unfamiliar, sharp and buttery at the same time—croissants, I realized. Paris. He always brought the scent of wherever he'd been home with him, like souvenirs you couldn't see.

"I missed you, Dad," I said, my voice muffled against him.

"I missed you too, my little girls," he murmured, pressing his lips to the tops of our heads.

His hands were shaking.

Not the tired kind of shaking we were used to after long flights, but something tighter. Controlled. Like he was holding himself together by force. He hugged us harder than usual, too hard, like he was afraid if he loosened his grip even for a second, we'd slip away.

Mom stepped in and wrapped her arms around all of us, and for a moment we were one tangled knot of limbs and warmth. A family. Safe. Whole.

Except neither of them was breathing.

I noticed it then—how Dad's chest barely rose, how Mom's fingers clenched in the back of his shirt. It felt less like a welcome home hug and more like a goodbye someone hadn't found the courage to say out loud yet. The air shifted, heavy and wrong, pressing down on my ribs.

Then, just like that, they let go.

We talked anyway. We always did. Mom asked about the flight like she always asked, my sister chattered excitedly about something she'd seen at the mall, and I told everyone about running into Aunt Mariam at the store. Our words filled the room, but none of them landed. Dad listened without really hearing, his eyes locked on us like he was memorizing every detail—our faces, our voices, the way we moved.

Soon after, the doorbell rang.

My uncle's booming laugh thundered through the house the moment he stepped inside, carrying with it one of his exaggerated stories—something about that one time in Mexico. We smiled and nodded, knowing full well at least half of it was made up. Aunt Mariam followed close behind, balancing a bowl of her famous potato salad, heavy with mayo and love.