Zainab never understood when it truly began — the moment she crossed the line between respect and desire, between admiration and obsession. After that day, her world slowly changed. School no longer felt like just a school. She started noticing him everywhere — in the hallway, near the staff room, at the gate when he came to school early. He didn't notice her every time, but when he did… God, that look. That steady gaze behind those thin glasses made her forget where she was.
Sometimes he'd nod slightly at her in the corridor — nothing more, nothing less. It was easy for her to have reasons to visit his cabin. Sometimes she said she needed help with assignments. Sometimes she said she wanted to ask about a project. Other times, she didn't even bother making excuses. She would just knock softly, and he would already know it was her.
His cabin was small, filled with books, papers, and the faint smell of coffee. The curtains were always half drawn, and when sunlight slipped through them, it would fall across his face. Sometimes she'd forget to look away. Sometimes he'd notice — and that's when he'd say something that made her even more nervous.
"Careful. You stare too long. People will start to notice."
But no one noticed. No one even imagined.
During school events, when everyone sat in the big hall — teachers on one side, students on the other — he'd always find a way to be near her. Not too close, but close enough that she could feel his presence. If she sat with her friends, he'd stand behind the row where she was sitting. His arm would brush past the back of her chair as he leaned down to talk to another teacher, and that small touch was enough to make her freeze.
Sometimes, during the annual award ceremonies, when the auditorium lights dimmed and the host's voice echoed through the mic, he'd slip in quietly and take the empty seat beside her.
"Sir… this seat is for students," she'd whisper under her breath, eyes darting nervously toward the stage, praying no one saw him.
"Then I'll be one of your students today."
He slipped something small into her palm — a phone. Her eyes widened slightly as she looked down at it, confusion flickering across her face.
"Use this," he murmured, still facing the stage as if he were just another guest. "Don't call me from your own phone again."
Zainab turned her head a little, "Why are you giving me this? What if someone sees?"
He glanced at her, "No one will. Keep it hidden. Not even your friends should know. Especially not him."
Zainab followed his gaze and saw Aqil sitting just two seats away near the window, his head bent over his notebook, hurriedly completing the assignment she had forgotten to finish.
"He's not—"
"I didn't ask for an explanation." Usama's eyes flicked to her, "Hide it in your bag. Now."
Zainab swallowed, sliding the phone into her bag just as applause broke out around them. Her heart was pounding too loud for her to even hear the stage announcements, "You shouldn't have come here."
He didn't answer — just smiled faintly, eyes still fixed on the stage where someone was announcing another name.
"Hide it well, Zainab. I don't want anyone else holding something that belongs to me."
The more she loved him, the more she realized how dangerous it was. He was a teacher. A man much older. A man who knew exactly how to make her stay close without touching her too much. His care was gentle, but his presence was controlling. Sometimes, he would tell her not to talk to certain boys, not to go out with her friends after class.
At home, she hid everything — the extra phone, the messages, the missed calls.
She often wondered if she was doing something terrible. To the world, she was a student. To him, she was a secret.
And to herself — she was lost between the two.
Another day, another meeting.
The classroom smelled faintly of chalk. Usama stood near the board, his sleeves rolled up, a thin layer of white chalk dust coating his hands. He was giving his usual final speech — that short summary he always ended with after every class. It was his technique of teaching.
The class sat silently, eyes following him.
"By the way," he asked casually while wiping the chalk from his palms, "I didn't give you the study materials for this chapter, did I?"
A unified "No Sir" echoed through the room.
He nodded slowly, thinking aloud. "Right, they're in my cabin. I forgot to bring them." His gaze moved through the rows until it landed on her. "Zainab, come with me. Bring them here. You'll distribute them later."
And Zainab followed him out of the classroom.
Nayla leaned toward Yusuf, "Isn't Sir Usama a guest lecturer at KL University? What's he doing here in our school?"
Aqil replied calmly, "Some professors take part-time teaching positions in schools to guide younger students before they enter university. It's like… laying a foundation. Helps them see how students think at this level. Universities are more about research and specialization, but schools remind them why they started teaching in the first place."
Nayla frowned, tapping her pen. "You mean like… revision?"
"More like grounding."
Yusuf nodded in agreement. "Makes sense. Maybe that's why he explains things so differently. It's like he knows how students think."
Nayla chuckled softly. "Or maybe he just likes attention."
"If that's true, then he got plenty of it today — half the class was watching him instead of the board," Yusuf said while standing up, turning his chair directly toward Aqil, "Haven't you noticed something?"
Aqil crossed his arms, "What?"
Yusuf raised his brows. "For the past few months, Zainab's been visiting Sir Usama's cabin a lot. Like… a lot."
Before Aqil could respond, Nayla smacked the back of Yusuf's head with her notebook.
"She's our class monitor, you idiot! Obviously, she has to talk to teachers about assignments, schedules, and events."
"Ouch!" Yusuf rubbed his head, pouting. "You didn't have to hit that hard. Well, still, I've seen her go even when there's no announcement or event."
"You and your stupid imagination." Nayla sighed, flipping her hair.
Aqil closed his notebook slowly, "He's not entirely wrong,"
Nayla and Yusuf looked at him. "What do you mean?"
Aqil hesitated. "I just… noticed she's been distracted lately. She skips group discussions, forgets her notes. And whenever Sir Usama enters class, she straightens up like she's afraid to breathe wrong."
"Bro, that's just respect." Nayla doubted.
Aqil gave her a flat look. "Respect doesn't make someone's hands shake when they hand over a file. But maybe I'm overthinking."
In Usama's cabin, Zainab sat across from his desk. Her uniform collar was slightly loose. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and sighed.
"I feel like I'm trapped," she whispered, her eyes fixed on the pen Usama was holding. "Everyone sees the Rahman family name and thinks it's some kind of blessing. But it's not. It's… heavy."
Usama leaned back in his chair. He didn't interrupt; he rarely did when she spoke like this.
"Sometimes I wish I was just… normal. Just a girl who could walk home after class without a driver waiting at the gate. A girl who could eat roadside food without worrying. A girl who could take a bus. I can't even open the balcony without someone reporting it to Ibi. I'm tired of the guards, the rules. I have everything, yet every day, I feel like I can't breathe. I look at others — the freedom they have, the way they live — and I wonder, what did I do wrong to deserve this kind of life?"
Usama placed the pen down, "You think being born in different family would change who you are?"
"At least then, I wouldn't have to hide. My father never wanted me. He told everyone I didn't exist because having a daughter after two sons made him look weak. I grew up behind closed doors añd I need to pretend to be someone else's child. My existence wrapped in lies just to protect someone else's reputation. My friends don't know that my life is full of secrets. Sometimes I feel like even God forgot me. Also, I hate Ibi for this."
Usama stood slowly and walked toward her side of the desk. His shoes made no sound against the floor. "And yet you still defend him every time I say something about him."
She looked up at him, eyes full of guilt, "Because he's all I have. When my father pretended I didn't exist — when he hid me from the world like I was a mistake — Ibi became my world. I'm not complaining, but I'm human too. I want to feel alive without asking permission. I want to see the world without being followed."
Usama exhaled deeply, leaning one hand on the desk beside her, "If you keep holding all this inside, it's going to eat you alive. You're already overthinking too much. You'll fall into depression soon if you don't let yourself breathe. You need something that makes you feel alive — join a club, go for swimming, painting, anything that lets you be yourself, even for a while. Do you want me to talk to Ibrahim?"
Zainab caught off guard. She looked up at him. For a moment, she forgot he was her teacher — forgot where she was. Every time he leaned closer his voice dropped to that calm whisper, she found herself slipping further into something. It wasn't just admiration anymore.
"I… I'm not sure about Ibi," she said, eyes darting away. "He'll never understand. And if Mom finds out I told you all this, she'll be furious.... But… if you really want to talk, maybe you can with my… fake parents. They always come to school during parents meetings. Afterward, they send whatever they need to say to Ibi. They always do."
Usama straightened a little. "Fake parents," he repeated quietly. "You really do live behind glass, don't you?"
Zainab only lowered her eyes to her lap, "It's easier that way. It's better to stay behind glass. At least no one throws stones. Freedom always comes with a price, Sir. I just don't know if I'm ready to pay it."
He turned away slowly and walked toward the bookshelf. His fingers brushed the spines of neatly arranged books, tracing over titles as if searching for something. "If you're ready to pay that price… I'll be there with you."
Her eyes followed his back. She wanted to ask what he meant, but the words stuck somewhere between her throat and her heart, "Do you… have something in mind?"
He reached for a book, flipping through its pages before looking at her over the rim of his glasses. "Give me two or three hours of your day," he said, snapping the book shut lightly. "And I'll make sure all this depression disappears—" he waved his hand casually in the air, like brushing away dust, "—just like that."
"Two or three hours?"