Sayonee (Re-writing)

P r o l o g u e

Rain has always made me feel safe.

Maybe it was the sound of it against the courtyard stones or the way the world seemed quieter whenever it rained. Tonight, thunder rolled softly somewhere above the city while I sat curled into the old wooden swing outside my room, my diary balanced carefully on my knees.

The pages smelled faintly of ink and paper dampened by the evening air.

I smiled to myself as I wrote another unfinished thought across the page.

Whenever my mind felt too full, I wrote.

Stories. Dreams. Little fragments of feelings I never quite knew how to explain out loud.

Most people my age were probably planning their futures seriously by now. University. Marriage. Careers.

Meanwhile, I spent my evenings imagining impossible worlds and filling diaries with thoughts no one would ever read.

Maybe Danish was right.

Maybe I did live in my own world.

A soft breeze brushed against my skin, carrying the scent of rain through the veranda. Somewhere inside the house, voices drifted faintly through the hallways, warm and familiar.

For the first time in weeks, the house felt lighter.

Abba was finally coming home.

Just thinking about it made me grin.

My father had spent most of his life serving the army, and lately politics seemed to consume whatever little time the military had left him with. Danish had already started involving himself in those circles too, pretending he enjoyed serious conversations about policies and campaigns while secretly thriving on the attention.

I never understood any of it.

Politics exhausted me.

The constant pressure. The endless expectations. The way people spoke carefully even during dinner sometimes, as if every sentence carried consequences.

I preferred stories.

"Laila, you've been sitting outside for too long," Ammi called from inside. "Come in before you catch a cold."

"Just five more minutes," I replied absentmindedly, not looking up from the page.

If Abba had already been home, he would have taken my side immediately.

He always did.

The thought made me smile again.

I could already picture the next few days so clearly — family dinners that stretched too long, Danish complaining while Abba spoiled me anyway, late-night drives through Lahore after the rain stopped, stopping for chai even though Ammi would lecture us about it later.

It felt strange how easily happiness could settle into ordinary moments.

A car passed slowly beyond the gates outside, headlights briefly cutting through the rain-soaked darkness before disappearing again.

For a second, I looked up.

Lately, unfamiliar people had been visiting the house at odd hours. Politicians. Army officials. Men who spoke in lowered voices with Danish and Abba behind closed doors. Every time I entered a room, conversations seemed to pause for half a second too long before continuing again.

I noticed it.

I just never thought it had anything to do with me.

At eighteen, I still believed the people I loved could protect each other from everything.

Looking back now, I think that was the last evening my life still belonged to me.

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