Laila...
Everyone was staring.
Not in the way children stare at candy. But in the way people stare at smoke — like something dangerous might be coming behind it.
The car engine clicked off, and silence fell like a curtain. Mama whispered a prayer beside me. Baba was already out, lifting boxes from the backseat like he couldn't feel the weight of all the gazes on us.
I sat frozen for a moment, my fingers brushing the edge of my hijab, making sure it was pinned just right. Not too loose. Not too tight. Not too different. As if that could stop them from staring.
It was a small town. People didn't move here — they died here. And they didn't forget faces easily.
We were the outsiders now.
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The house looked like it was holding its breath. Paint peeling at the edges, garden overgrown with stubborn grass. But it had a roof. And doors. And space for my younger brothers to argue without shaking the walls. That was enough.
Inside, Mama smiled like she was trying to convince the house to love us. She moved through each room with quiet prayers, touching doorframes and windows, whispering protection. I did the same in silence, repeating the duas she'd taught me since I was small.
But nothing could protect me from tomorrow.
My first day at a new school. In a town where people already had their friends, their churches, their judgments. Where no one looked like me. Where girls probably didn't wear long skirts or scarves or carry their prayer books tucked between science textbooks.
I looked out the window and caught a glimpse of a girl riding a bike across the street. She stopped, stared at me, and then rode away.
And I realized… I wasn't ready. Not for this town. Not for its eyes. Not for what it might try to take from me.
But it didn't matter.
We were here now.
And God willing, I'd survive it.
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