Days passed.
But I couldn't stop thinking about him.
Zahid Ali—my professor. The man in the shadows. The man who carried me home, who killed someone, yet didn't kill me.
The man who looked at me like he recognized my pain… and not many people ever did.
He scared me.
But he didn't hurt me.
And I didn't know what to do with that.
That morning, I tried to keep my distance. I stayed quiet in class. I didn't look at him. I avoided eye contact like it would burn me.
But he noticed.
He always did.
"Rida," his voice called me at the end of the class, just when I thought I could escape.
I froze.
He walked over slowly, watching me closely. "You're afraid of me again."
"I never stopped being afraid," I whispered.
He nodded, like he understood. "Good. Fear keeps you safe."
"Then why don't you fear me?" I asked suddenly.
His lips twitched—almost like a smile, but colder.
"Because nothing scares a man who's already dead inside."
His words punched the air out of my chest.
And then he added, even quieter, "But sometimes… someone walks into your life and makes you feel something again."
I didn't know what to say.
Was he talking about me?
How could a man like him feel anything for a girl like me?
A girl who still trembled at blood, who couldn't sleep in the dark, who locked herself in the bathroom to cry in silence.
I wasn't strong.
But maybe… neither was he.
The next evening, I stayed behind again.
I didn't even know why.
Maybe I just needed answers.
Or maybe I just needed to see if his cold voice could melt—just a little—for me.
He sat at his desk, scribbling something in a notebook.
"What are you writing?" I asked softly.
He closed the notebook slowly. "Memories I wish I could forget."
I sat across from him, nervous. "Does writing help?"
"No," he said. "But it stops the memories from eating me alive."
I looked at him for a long time. "Zahid... why do you wear the mask?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he slowly removed his glove from one hand.
And then… he unbuttoned the collar of his shirt slightly, revealing part of a long, deep scar that disappeared under the fabric.
I gasped.
He looked at me then—not like a professor, not like a criminal, but like a wounded human.
"People once saw my face," he said, voice low. "And they lied, used, betrayed, and left me to die."
A silence fell between us like thick fog.
"I started wearing the mask not to hide from others… but to hide from myself."
"Do you hate yourself?" I whispered.
He didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
His silence was loud enough.
"Have you ever trusted someone again?" I asked.
His eyes met mine—dark, sharp, unreadable.
"I thought I never would."
"And now?"
He looked down.
"I don't know," he whispered. "But you haven't run away yet."
I didn't.
Even though I was scared.
Even though every instinct told me to leave.
I stayed.
And for the first time, I saw something in his eyes.
A crack.In the mask.In the wall.In the heart he buried so deep.
Suddenly, my phone rang. I quickly silenced it.
He stood up and looked away, uncomfortable. "You should go. It's late."
I nodded slowly.
But just as I reached the door, his voice stopped me.
"Rida."
I turned.
"Don't be afraid of the dark," he said quietly. "Sometimes, the most broken hearts glow brightest in it."