Chapter four – Saal
The pain was no longer sharp. It wasnt loud or dramatic the way it had been in the beginning — when it roared through me like a wildfire, unrelenting and brutal. No. Now it was something else entirely. Quieter. Meaner. A steady companion, always there, always watching. Less a scream, more a whisper. A whisper that lived in the marrow of my bones, threading itself through every nerve like it belonged there.
It hurt to breathe. But I was breathing.
I had to .
I blinked slowly, trying to get my eyes to adjust to the sterile light spilling from the ceiling. Everything above me blurred, swaying for a moment as though it would fall atop me or the room itself hadn't realized I'd come back to it. I waited for the dizziness to settle, for the ceiling tiles to stop swimming. When they finally did, I knew — this wasn't a dream.
I was alive.
Barely.
There was a quiet hum in the room — the machines, the soft rhythm of something mechanical keeping time with my heartbeat. Everything felt distant, like I was listening through water, or a damaged ear piece. My limbs ached, heavy and useless. Moving felt like trying to drag myself out of a memory that didn't want to let go.
I turned my head, slowly, cautiously, every movement deliberate. My neck protested with a muted throb, but I kept going, and when I finally managed it, my eyes landed on the chair beside me.
Empty.
But not untouched.
The cushion was still slightly indented — the faintest curve, like someone had been there recently. The faint trace of warmth and still lingered in the air. And the scent…
Musk. Spice. Smoke. Something floral tangled with something fierce.
Ibtisam.
She had been here.
I closed my eyes for a moment, letting that simple truth sink in. She'd come. She sat here. She waited.
That alone made breathing easier.
Guaranteeing that she could still be mine
A nurse entered, her footsteps gentle, as though afraid to disturb me. She paused when she saw my eyes open and gave a small, surprised smile — the kind of expression people wear when they see something they weren't expecting to survive. She walked to the machines, tapped a few buttons, checked a clipboard.
I didn't care what she was doing. I barely heard the words she mumbled about "letting the doctor know." She could've recited a poem. It wouldn't have mattered.
I only had one question.
"Is she still here?" I croaked, my throat dry and sandpapered. The sound of my voice startled even me.
The nurse stopped at the door and turned slightly. "The tall girl?" she asked. I nodded, or tried to. She offered a soft smile. "She left a while ago. Said she'd be back."
I let out a breath.
Not gone.
Just… breathing space.
The hours that followed bled together, one into the next, like someone had spilled time and forgot to mop it up. Everything came in flashes.
Doctors with tired eyes and clipped voices.
Charts full of numbers I couldn't read.
Cold hands pressing against my skin.
The sting of needles.
Plastic tubes.
Questions I was too tired to answer.
Salma appeared once.
Of course, she did. Always on cue. Her entrance was theatrical — as expected. Her mascara trailed down her cheeks, perfectly timed tears sliding over foundation like she'd rehearsed the breakdown in a mirror. She pressed her hand to my forehead as if that was her place. As if I belonged to her. As if she hadn't turned my entire life into a chessboard.
I didn't speak.
She didn't stay.
The senator never came.
Not that I expected him to. I stopped expecting things except political position from him a long time ago.
But something did surprise me.
It was the second visit from the nurse — this time holding a small black drawstring bag.
"Here," she said softly, placing it on the tray beside me. "She brought these earlier."
Inside was my hoodie — the worn black one with acid wash sleeves — folded neatly. My phone. My charger. And a paper-wrapped sandwich with one corner slightly squished.
"She told me to make sure you ate something," the nurse added, with a small shrug. "Said you're stubborn."
I stared at the sandwich like it held some secret only I could understand.
It wasn't just food.
It was a message.
Ibtisam didn't apologize — not with words. She didn't do soft things. She didn't cry in doorways or write long letters. That wasn't her language.
But this? This was her. This was how she said, I still care.
She didn't leave a note. Didn't ask if I was okay.
She just made sure I had what I needed.
And somehow, that meant more than any apology ever could.
That night, after the hallway quieted and the machines settled into their usual rhythm, I finally found the strength to scroll through my phone.
Six missed calls.
Three from unknown numbers.
Three from her.
No messages. Just calls.
Her way of demanding to know I was still alive — even if she didn't want to admit that's what she was doing.
The fourth time she called, I answered.
There was no breathless concern, no dramatic greeting. Just her voice, sharp and low.
"Still breathing?"
"Unfortunately," I rasped.
A beat.
"Good," she said. "I was planning to end you myself if you weren't."
I smiled — not because it was funny, but because it was her. That was how we spoke. That was our rhythm.
Mockery layered over meaning. Sarcasm laced with sincerity.
We couldn't say the truth directly. So we threw it, brick by brick, hoping it landed softly.
"Thanks for the sandwich," I said.
"Don't mention it." Her tone was flat. Then, almost playfully: "Literally. Don't. I have a reputation."
We fell quiet. Not awkwardly. Just… still.
The line buzzed softly between us.
I waited. Then I asked — quietly, cautiously — the one thing I had wanted to ask since I first opened my eyes.
"Why did you come, Ibti?"
Silence.
Long.
Weighted.
And then, softer than anything I'd ever heard from her:
"Because you're the only one who sees me and doesn't flinch."
I closed my eyes.
Her voice sank into me, as if my bones had been waiting to hear that exact sentence.
We didn't say goodbye.
We never did
We never needed to.
But something shifted in that silence — in that phone call laced with sarcasm and unspoken truths.
We were two people walking along a ledge, pretending not to notice how close the fall was. Pretending we weren't both toeing the edge of something neither of us had words for.
But theledge was crumbling now.
And if she jumped...
I'd follow.
No questions. No regrets. Just the certainty that wherever she was falling — I belonged there too.